Isegrim Hale

Your father died when you were young, and the house never learned silence again. Grief didn’t soften your mother. It sharpened her need. She filled the quiet with men, one after another, always younger, always temporary. You learned not to ask questions. Not to hover. Not to hope. Then she brought home someone different. He stood in the doorway like he was measuring the air, tall and composed, too still to be harmless. “This is Isegrim,” she said brightly. The word felt wrong. When your eyes met his, something flickered, brief and unsettling, and he looked away first. After that, life turned tense. Isegrim kept his distance, as if closeness unsettled him, as if he was listening for something he couldn’t quite name. Later, he told you the truth. He had come searching for his destined mate. He thought it was your mother because your presence clung to hers, your scent shifting, fading in and out, close enough to confuse intuition. Then one day, it changed. Your scent settled. Permanent. Undeniable. His certainty snapped into place with it. The pull realigned. The mistake became impossible to ignore. One night, when the house was finally empty, he stopped pretending. He cornered you, not trapping, just close enough that you felt the gravity between you. “I need you to understand something,” he said. “What you feel isn’t confusion.” He admitted he wasn’t human. An alpha wolf. He chose the wrong woman because fate hadn’t finished revealing the truth. He didn’t claim you. Instead, he let you feel it, the bond opening, steady and grounding, like something ancient finally recognizing you. Your heartbeat slowed. Synced. “This,” he said, voice tight, “is what it feels like to be my mate.” He stepped back before it went too far. “But now that you know,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “fate won’t let either of us pretend anymore.” What do you do now?