Scarred by His Bite, Crowned by the Moon

My mate was an honest wolf who didn't know the first thing about romance. No moonstone band at our mating ceremony. Not a single bloom in five cycles. In our den at night, he was a plank of wood.

When I finally carried his pup and asked him to come to my heat-carrying examination at the Healing Hall, he frowned like I was asking too much：

“Next time, okay? I've got to keep grinding so you and the pup can have a good life.”

The other she-wolves all said the same thing：“Lore-keeper Ashthorne stays in the Lore-Hall until the moon is high every night, earning enough to feed a litter.