Desire mixed genre collection

Cordelia's Pov

You'd think after five years of living as a hermit in the Scottish Highlands, I'd have perfected the art of avoiding awkward situations. Apparently, I was wrong. Dead wrong. Standing in my cozy little pottery studio, clay-covered apron tied around my waist, I stared at the official-looking envelope that had somehow found its way to my deliberately obscure address.

The return address made my stomach drop faster than a poorly thrown pot; Ravenshollow Pack Council.

"Brilliant," I muttered, wiping my hands on a tea towel that had seen better decades. "Just absolutely bloody brilliant."

My name is Cordelia Blackthorne, and I used to be somebody important. Well, important-adjacent. The rejected mate of Alpha Lysander Ashworth, to be precise.

These days, I prefer to think of myself as Delia the Potter, maker of questionably shaped mugs and seller of overpriced ceramic nonsense to tourists who think everything handmade is automatically charming.

The letter sat there like a particularly venomous spider, daring me to open it. I'd been perfectly happy pretending the supernatural world had forgotten about me entirely.

My little cottage, nestled between rolling hills and absolutely nowhere, had become my sanctuary. No pack politics, no hierarchy drama, no devastatingly handsome alphas making speeches about how I wasn't "luna material" in front of everyone I'd ever cared about.

Good times.

I picked up the envelope with the enthusiasm one might reserve for handling week-old fish. The official seal was still intact, all gold foil and pompous ceremony. Trust the pack council to make even their correspondence intimidating.

*Miss Blackthorne,* the letter began, because apparently five years wasn't enough time for them to figure out I preferred Delia now.

***Your immediate presence is requested at Ravenshollow Estate regarding a matter of utmost urgency concerning Alpha Ashworth's wellbeing.***

I snorted. Lysander's wellbeing had stopped being my concern the moment he'd stood up at our mating ceremony and announced to three hundred guests that he'd "reconsidered his choice." In front of my parents. In front of his parents. In front of the visiting dignitaries from seven other packs.

The humiliation had been so complete, so devastating, that I'd actually laughed. Not a pleasant laugh, mind you. The kind of laugh that makes people take a step back and wonder if you've finally snapped. Which, to be fair, I probably had.

The letter continued with typical pack council verbosity, but the important bits were these: Lysander was dying, they needed me specifically, and refusal wasn't really an option.

The last part wasn't stated outright, but five years of pack politics had taught me to read between the lines.

I set the letter down and looked around my studio. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dozens of ceramic pieces in various stages of completion.

A half-finished set of bowls sat on the wheel, abandoned when the postman had arrived with his delivery of unwanted complications.

This was my life now. Simple, peaceful, and blissfully free of dramatic alpha nonsense.

I made things with my