Rejected Mate Bond and Claimed Power

The scream tore from my throat as claws ripped through my chest, hot blood flooding my lungs. Jackson's face swam above me, his mouth moving in words I couldn't hear over the roar of flames consuming our pack house. Then his lips formed that final, devastating word: "Sorry."

Sorry he never loved me. Sorry our bond was nothing but obligation. Sorry he'd rather die protecting me than give me the love I'd spent thirty years begging for.

I jolted awake, my hand flying to my chest where phantom pain still burned. My fingers found only smooth skin beneath silk pajamas, not the gaping wounds that had killed me. The familiar scent of jasmine and cedar filled my nostrils—my childhood bedroom in the Silverclaw manor, not the smoke and death of that terrible night.

Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden squares across the Persian rug. I knew this light. I knew this exact angle of morning sun.

My twenty-fifth birthday. The day that had started my descent into hell.

Trembling, I stumbled to the vanity mirror. The reflection staring back made my breath catch. Young skin, unmarked by the scars that rogues had carved into my flesh. Dark hair that still held its lustrous shine, not the brittle gray it had become in my final years. Eyes that hadn't yet learned the weight of betrayal.

I was beautiful again. Whole again. And I remembered everything.

The memories crashed over me in waves. Jackson's cold politeness on our wedding night. Years of empty beds while he "guarded the borders." The crushing loneliness of being married to a ghost. And then that final, brutal discovery—Sarah, his true mate, heavy with his child while I withered away in ignorance.

"Miss Freya?" A soft knock interrupted my spiral. "Your father requests your presence for breakfast. Today's preparations—"

"I'll be down shortly," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.

Today's preparations. The mate selection ceremony. In just a few hours, I would stand before the entire pack and choose from three warriors: Jackson, the stoic tactician who would become my loveless mate; James, the arrogant vanguard who saw me as a pretty prize; and Noah, the calculating advisor who viewed our potential union as a political chess move.

In my first life, I'd chosen Jackson without hesitation. His strength, his reputation, his cold beauty—I'd mistaken it all for the makings of a perfect mate. I'd been such a fool.

This time would be different.

I dressed carefully, selecting a simple black dress instead of the elaborate gown my attendants had laid out. In the mirror, I practiced the expression I would need—calm, determined, unbreakable. The frightened girl who had once stood in this room was gone. In her place stood someone who had learned the hardest lesson of all: power was the only protection that mattered.

The dining hall buzzed with activity when I arrived. Servants polished silver and arranged flowers while pack members whispered excitedly about the evening's ceremony. At the head of