Chapter 6

The scent still lingered.

Even days later, it clung to the market like smoke—sharp, clean, metallic. Cedar. Ash. Steel.

Evelyn caught it in the breeze behind a stack of apples, at the edge of her sleeve, drifting beneath the bakery’s chimney smoke. Every time it brushed past her, something inside her shifted.

Not her heart. Not her breath.

Her wolf.

Not with desire. Not quite. With something older. Something more primal. Deeper than anything else.

Something scarily similar to fate..

The villagers still talked about the execution. Whispers passed like smoke between stalls and rooftops, curling into corners Evelyn tried to avoid.

“He didn’t say anything, he didn’t give the guy a chance to speak either.”

“I heard he never blinks.”

“I heard he’s not even a man. Just a wolf in a cursed body.”

Evelyn moved through the noise like a ghost, collecting sacks of flour and bruised fruits, her expression calm, her hands steady. But inside her chest, her thoughts were unraveling.

She hadn’t spoken to him. She hadn’t touched him. But he had looked at her.

And not like others did with curiosity or judgment or lust. He had looked at her like he already knew. Knew her grief. Knew the fire she buried deep inside. Knew the blood that permanently stained her hands.

That was what shook her. Not the execution. Not the axe. Not the silence he carried like a second skin.

What unsettled her was that he hadn’t looked away. He had focused on her. His eyes had recognised her.

Back at the bakery, she worked through the afternoon with mechanical focus. The oven roared. The dough rose. Customers came and went.

But in her mind, she could still hear the crack of bone as the axe split flesh. Still see the way he cleaned the blade—calm, precise, practiced.

There had been no flare of anger. No performance for the crowd.

Only control. Only power.

And her wolf hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t growled or retreated. Hadn’t done anything at all—except watch.

That night, sleep came late, tangled in half-memories and grief that refused to settle.

When it did come, it pulled her into a fog thick as velvet. Silver. Endless. Soundless.

She moved through it without purpose, her bare feet leaving no mark on the ground. A gentle echo of her feet stepping across the floor.

A shape stirred in the distance. Too tall to be a wolf, too quiet to be a man. It’s aura too ancient to be mortal.

It didn’t chase her. Didn’t speak. It was simply there. Moving the way rivers move. The way storms gather. How smoke travels amongst the wind.

The black wolf stepped out of the mist. Massive. Still. With a dominating presence.

Red eyes burned low and all-knowing beneath fur the color of nightfall.

Evelyn froze.

Her wolf did not.

The moment he appeared, it was as though something inside her leaned forward, ears pricked. Not eager. Not lustful. Just… aware. Ready. Alert.

And not for war. Not for love either.

Just for him.

She didn’t run. Didn’t breathe.

Because some buried part of her, something half-feral, half-forgotten, recognised him. Not as a mate. Not as a man.

As a force. As an equal.

Like the avalanche that buried her cousin’s village in winter. Like the fire that had scorched the southern border years ago, killing thirty wolves in one night.

He was that kind of power. The kind that does not ask. The kind that simply is.

The black wolf didn’t speak. But Evelyn heard something. Felt something. A pulse. A pull. A presence heavy enough to anchor her in place.

And then—quiet, as if spoken from behind her weary bones:

I see you Evelyn.

She woke with a strangled breath.

Sweat soaked the back of her neck. Her chest heaved.

Not fear. Not arousal.

But impact. An intense unexplainable feeling welled up inside of her. Like she’d stood too close to lightning. And now she wasn’t sure if she’d been burned or changed.

In the morning, Aleta brought her a bowl of freshly picked blackberries for her pies and didn’t speak until Evelyn did.

“I saw him again,” she said softly, fingers stained with flour.

Aleta raised an eyebrow. “In your sleep?”

Evelyn nodded. “He didn’t speak. But I felt… something. Not lust. Not fear. Just—like I was supposed to be there.”

Aleta studied her. “Your wolf?”

“She’s quiet. Almost too quiet. But not afraid.”

The old woman leaned against the counter. “Some wolves speak only in presence. Not words.”

“And presence is worse?” Evelyn asked.

Aleta’s eyes softened. “Presence stays with you when words fade.”

Later that day, the bakery ran out of eggs.

Tomas offered to go, but Evelyn needed the air. She slipped through the trees behind the village, drawn toward the smaller farms near the river bend.

The air was cooler near the water. Sunlight slanted gold through the branches.

And then—the scent hit her again.

Not distant this time. Not drifting.

Direct. Immediate. Alive.

It led her down a slope and through a thicket. Her wolf stirring inside of her leaving her feeling restless.

And when she pushed past the last branch, she saw him.

Damon.

Sitting on a flat boulder beside the river.

Alone.

A small easel rested in front of him. He held a paintbrush in one hand, dragging slow, deliberate strokes across the canvas.

Evelyn froze.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak.

But the moment her boot crushed a dried branch—he turned.

Their eyes locked.

No crowd. No execution platform. No roar of fear or command.

Just him. And her. And the space between.

His eyes didn’t burn with fire like they did earlier. They glowed with something quieter. Something colder.

Memory.

He looked at her like he’d seen her before.

Not recently.

Always.

There was no hunger in his gaze. No smirk. No growl.

Just stillness. Just focus.

And Evelyn’s wolf stirred low in her chest.

Not a growl. Not a lurch of desire.

Just an alert, quiet rise. Like a tide pulling in.

Then—just barely—he smiled. Not warmth. Not charm. Just the faintest twitch of his mouth. And Evelyn’s stomach tightened. Not with want. With questions. That look wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t an invitation either.

It was something worse.

Recognition.

And Evelyn didn’t know whether it came from him… or from something buried inside herself.

She walked home without turning around.

But the back of her neck burned the whole way.

And somewhere deep inside her, her wolf curled its tail tighter and waited.