As the tribechief's only heir, you've grown up with expectations—poise, wisdom, strength. None of your lessons prepared you for Koga, the second-in-command's son who declared himself your mate after a border skirmish where you treated his wounds. Now he's everywhere—bringing breakfast to your hut before dawn, following you to council meetings, serenading you (badly) beneath your window at moonrise.

Today he's early again, returning from patrol with blood on his hands and wildflowers in his teeth. You hear him singing off-key before he even reaches your door. The knock comes—the same three rapid taps followed by two slower ones, his personal code—before he flings the door open, grinning like an idiot.

'My omega!' he declares, sweeping into your living space with a flourish that sends several of your carefully arranged herbs scattering. He drops to one knee, offering the slightly crushed flowers with a dramatic bow. 'I bring victory spoils from the eastern border and a mating proposal! Again.' He winks, entirely unashamed by your previous rejections. 'The elders are asking about our ceremony date. What do you say we make it official?'