The Snow Wolf's Mate

Howling Guilt, Haunted Silence:

[POV: Hayden]

Sleep never came that night.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the shadows of the room shifting slowly as the hours passed. But inside, everything churned restlessly—my mind, my thoughts, my wolf.

Sirius hadn’t spoken in hours, but I could feel him prowling just beneath my skin, restless with guilt and longing.

All I could see was Aria’s face. Her trembling lips. The fire in her eyes as she broke open in front of me, piece by jagged piece. And the sound of her voice—raw, furious, wounded—still echoed in my ears.

What she’d gone through… the horrors she’d endured before ever stepping foot on my land... They were the kind of truths that left a man hollow. The kind of truths you couldn’t ever erase.

And I—I—had forced her to say them aloud.

I turned onto my side, jaw clenched tight.

I had wanted the truth. Demanded it. But I hadn't been ready for the weight of it. I’d expected lies or misdirection. Not what I got.

Not the broken pieces of a girl who’d spent her life being hunted by the people who were supposed to protect her.

She’d cried in front of me. And then she walked away.

Now I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the way her voice cracked. About the way she straightened her spine like a soldier even with tears still wet on her cheeks.

And more than anything… the way she didn’t want my comfort. Because I’d made myself the last person she could turn to.

I groaned and dragged a hand down my face.

The ache I felt wasn’t just guilt. It was need.

Not the kind I could satisfy with a passing touch or a night’s distraction. This was deeper. It was her. All of her. Her sharpness. Her silence. Her storm. I wanted to protect her, to hold her, to belong to her—and have her belong to me.

But after what I’d done, after the way I’d made her feel… Would she ever want me back?

* * *

The next few days passed like walking a tightrope.

I avoided giving direct orders. I refused to pull rank. If Aria needed space, she’d have it. I’d wait. Patiently. Carefully. Until she allowed me back in—even if it was only an inch at a time.

The chance came during one of our coordinated night hunts—a standard moon patrol through the forest with division leaders and their seconds.

In wolf form, I kept pace at the edge of the group, my senses sharp as we ran beneath the trees. The moonlight painted the world in silver and black, and the wind carried every scent across my tongue.

Including hers.

I stayed within sight of Aria, not wanting to be obvious—but I couldn’t help noticing something strange.

She kept vanishing.

Not just slowing or hanging back. She would disappear entirely, then reappear several meters ahead or in places she shouldn’t have been able to reach that quickly.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. Then I realized: she was hiding.

From me.

But also from the others. Testing her stealth. Playing with shadow and scent. Moving in a way I hadn’t seen from her before.

She was good. Too good.

My wolf growled in quiet admiration. Sirius’s instincts prickled to life, alert and hungry.

“She’s learning to lead,” he murmured.

We were tracking a herd of deer when I lost sight of her again. I veered left, slipping through the trees until I caught movement in a moonlit clearing.

There she was—with Piper. Aria stood tall, white fur gleaming, a freshly killed hare in her jaws. She dropped it proudly at Piper’s feet, tail swishing low, waiting.

I stepped into the clearing just as Piper praised her, her voice low and pleased. But the moment I came close to Aria, her body went stiff.

Then—she growled. A deep, warning growl from deep in her chest, aimed squarely at me.

Piper’s head whipped toward her, shocked. She growled back, louder. “You do not growl at your Alpha!”

But Sirius was already snapping to the surface.

“No one growls at her!”

Before I could stop myself, I snarled back at Piper, sharp and defensive. She froze, taken aback. Sirius’s voice thundered in my head: “No one growls at our mate.”

Piper dropped her gaze. I gave her a brief signal—leave us. She obeyed.

Aria didn’t move as Piper left. She just watched me, silent, guarded.

I stepped closer, slow and careful. Her growl faded.

Sirius whined softly, pacing behind my ribs, urging me forward.

We approached each other cautiously, circling. Tension crackled between us like lightning waiting to strike. I inched closer, lowering my body into a neutral stance.

Then, gently, I nuzzled her. She didn’t move away.

Encouraged, I nipped at her ear, playful and testing. She allowed it.

For one moment, I felt the bond hum between us. Real. Tactile. But when I just went to lick her the side of her muzzle—soft and tender—she bared her teeth in warning. And snapped.

Not enough to hurt. But enough to warn.

She stepped back, eyes hard, tail raised—not in submission, but in challenge. Then, without hesitation, she shifted.

One blink, and there she was—on two legs, breath visible in the cold air, hair tumbling around her shoulders, chest rising and falling.

Still flushed from the chase, still shining from the hunt—but now dressed in that same wall of silence she’d worn since our last argument.

“Don’t push,” she said, voice low. “Not tonight.”

And she turned, walking into the trees, leaving me staring after her.