Brooks' POV
Brooks had never believed in fairy tales.
Not really.
Sure, he'd heard the stories growing up—about destiny and fated mates, about the moment two souls collided and the universe shifted. They all said it was instant. Inescapable. Like breathing for the first time after drowning.
He always figured he'd handle it with swagger.
Throw out some cocky line. Flash that easy grin. Keep control.
But fate didn't care about his plans.
It hit him like a damn freight train.
The library was still—air thick with dust, leather, and candle smoke. Brooks had been pacing, one hand running along the spines of books older than the pack itself, searching for anything—anything—that might help Opal.
And then—
Everything stopped.
A tug. No—an anchor.
The kind of pull that hit your chest first and echoed in your bones. His breath caught. His wolf froze.
Then surged.
Mine.
He turned.
And there she was.
