After My Mate Sheltered His First Love, I Left

I smelled her before I saw the luggage.

That sickly-sweet floral scent—like rotting gardenias left too long in standing water—hit me the moment I pushed open the front door of the pack house. My pack house. The one I'd spent six months renovating with my own money, my own vision, my own hands when the contractors couldn't get the trim work right.

Vera snarled inside my mind, a sound like tearing metal.

*Wrong. Wrong. Get out.*

I forced myself to breathe through my mouth as I stepped into the foyer. The cheap vinyl luggage—three mismatched pieces, scuffed and stained—sat in a careless pile exactly where I normally left my running shoes. One of the suitcases had tipped over, spilling a tangle of synthetic lace and discount lingerie across my carefully restored hardwood floor.

The floor I'd refinished on my hands and knees.

I heard Collin's voice from upstairs. Low, soothing, using that particular Beta tone he deployed when he wanted someone to feel safe and protected. The tone he used to use with me, back when I still believed it meant something.

"—completely understand, Jules. You've been through so much. This is your home now. You're safe here."

Jules.

Vera went absolutely still inside me, the way a wolf goes still right before it strikes.

I climbed the stairs with deliberate, measured steps. I did not run. I did not call out. I simply walked up to the master bedroom—my bedroom, the one with the custom built-ins I'd designed and the blackout curtains I'd ordered from three states away because Collin was a light sleeper—and opened the door.

Collin stood beside the bed, carefully hanging a cheap sequined dress in my closet. In my closet. Where my clothes had been that morning.

A woman sat on the edge of my bed—the bed I'd chosen, the mattress I'd researched for weeks—with her head bowed and her shoulders curved in that particular posture of practiced fragility. Honey-blonde hair fell across her face in artful disarray. She was beautiful in the way that requires constant maintenance: spray tan, hair extensions, the kind of manicure that costs more than it should.

Juliana Armstrong.

I knew her face from the single photograph Collin kept in his wallet, the one he thought I didn't know about. The first love. The one who got away. The tragic, wounded she-wolf who'd broken his heart.

She looked up at me with wide, tear-bright eyes, and I watched her assess me in the half-second before her expression shifted to apologetic distress.

"Oh," she breathed, pressing one hand to her collarbone. "You must be Samantha. I'm so sorry—Collin said you wouldn't mind—"

"Samantha." Collin turned to me with that easy, confident smile that had once made my stomach flip. Now it just made me cold. "Hey. I was going to call you, but everything happened so fast. Juliana needed—"

"Get out," I said.

My voice came out flat and precise. Not loud. I didn't need loud.

Collin blinked. "What?"

"Not you."