Chapter 5

The fruit basket dug into her hip as Evelyn stepped into the square.

The morning market buzzed with tension—louder than usual, tighter. People whispered behind cupped hands. Some left their stalls unattended altogether. Others hovered near the fountain, pretending to shop while keeping one eye on the raised platform in the center.

Something was happening.

Something bad.

Evelyn adjusted the scarf over her hair and kept moving, the scent of peaches clinging to her sleeves. Her wolf shifted beneath her skin, uneasy. Restless.

She’d lived in this village for weeks now, and the rhythm had become familiar: bread at dawn, gossip by noon, peace by dusk.

But today the air was different.

Thicker. Charged. Like a storm waiting to strike.

She moved toward the apple cart, nodding once at the vendor, when a horn blared—low and deep—like the sound of bones grinding together.

The crowd fell silent.

Then they parted.

And he stepped into view.

At first, Evelyn saw only the wolf.

Not his shape. Not his clothes.

Just the weight of him and the aura that surrounded him.

It hit her like a wave—ancient, cold, undeniable. Power soaked into the stones with every step he took, bleeding through her boots and into her bones as she watched him.

She turned toward the platform.

And saw him. Really saw him.

Tall. Unnaturally still. His hair was dark, streaked with silver at the temples. A thick scar slashed through his beard. His eyes—moon-pale and merciless—scanned the crowd like he already knew who was guilty. A face that looked both young and old, a face of unexplainable immortality.

His clothes were simple: black shirt, leather straps across his chest, dark trousers tucked into weathered boots. It all looked normal. But nothing about him felt mortal.

Evelyn’s breath caught.

Her wolf stilled.

She didn’t need anyone to tell her his name.

This was Damon.

The Lycan King.

The monster whispered about in frightened voices around the bakery hearth. The one who everyone feared, even Adrian.

The destroyer of villages. The protector of none. The ancient one. The immortal wolf.

Her heart pounded in her throat.

He carried no sword.

Just a large black-handled axe, strapped across his back like it belonged there more than he did.

Two guards dragged a man forward—ragged, bruised, half-naked. He screamed, pleaded, clawed at the dirt.

“Please! I didn’t—she wanted it, she asked me to—!”

A woman stood beside the platform, holding a torn dress to her chest, blood dried on her neck. Dried tears stained her face.

The crowd watched, breathless.

Damon said nothing.

He walked to the edge of the platform, looking down at the accused like he was something far less than vermin.

Then he spoke—and the sound of his voice raked across Evelyn’s skin like claws.

Low. Rough. Full of smoke and old thunder.

“He took her by force.”

Not a question. A sentence.

The man whimpered. “No! No, she said—”

Damon raised one hand.

Silence returned.

Then he turned to the crowd.

“This land has no prisons,” he said, voice quiet but unshakable. “No chains. Only justice.”

He took the axe from his back in one smooth motion. It gleamed—curved and sharp, ancient symbols etched into the blade.

Evelyn couldn’t look away.

Her wolf pressed closer to the surface, tense and silent. Intrigued.

He didn’t hesitate.

Damon stepped forward and brought the axe down.

It hit the man’s neck with a crack that echoed through the square. Blood sprayed the wooden boards. The body slumped.

The head rolled.

A few villagers gasped. Others bowed. Some turned away.

But Evelyn stood frozen.

Her heart was a drum in her chest. Her breath came fast.

Why am I not horrified? She thought to herself.

She should have flinched. Should’ve looked away.

But her eyes stayed locked on him.

The way he moved. Raw, lethal control.

He cleaned the blade in one sharp swipe, then turned to step down.

And as he moved through the stunned crowd, he looked up.

Right at her.

Their eyes met across the square.

Evelyn’s stomach dropped.

His gaze pierced through the scarf, through the soot on her cheeks from the oven, through the cracked shield around her soul.

His eyes narrowed, just slightly.

Then her wolf surged forward—not in aggression, but in recognition.

Evelyn staggered back a step.

Her wolf howled silently inside her, something ancient and half-dead suddenly sitting upright in her chest like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

The wind shifted.

She swore she could smell him—cedar, iron and thunder storms.

Damon blinked once, like acknowledging a fact he’d known all along.

Then he turned and walked away, his guards falling in behind him as if he hadn’t even noticed her.

The square buzzed back to life, a rush of voices and motion.

But Evelyn didn’t hear a word.

Her fingers trembled around the basket. Her legs wouldn’t move.

She stood in the aftermath of a public execution, heart hammering, lips parted.

And all she could think was:

Why did that thrill me?

She made it back to the bakery in a daze.

The apples bruised in her grip. The peaches rolled from the bag and hit the floor.

Tomas glanced at her, frowned.

“Everything alright?”

Evelyn nodded too quickly.

“Just… too many people.”

He grunted. “Heard the King was out today.”

She flinched.

Tomas didn’t notice. He wiped his hands and turned away.

She dropped the fruit on the counter and fled upstairs, slamming the door behind her.

In the attic, she paced.

Hands in her hair. Wolf pacing right beneath her skin.

“Stop,” she hissed. “What the hell was that?”

But her wolf wasn’t listening.

She could still feel the moment his eyes found hers.

She could still hear the crack of the axe.

There was no gentleness in him.

No mercy.

He was everything she should fear.

Everything she’d sworn never to need again.

But something inside her ached.

Not with love. Not yet.

Not even with want.

But with something dangerous.

Need.

She slept peacefully that night.

And in her dreams, the black wolf returned—massive, silent, watching from the cliff’s edge.

But this time… he wasn’t alone.

A second wolf stepped from the shadows.

Larger. Covered in old scars. Eyes like the moon.

They stood side by side, facing her.

And this time, she felt it.

That pulse of something deep and fated and inevitable.

Her wolf sat.

And waited. Patiently.