Chapter 1 The Bloody Prophecy

The scent of metallic copper and cold, wet fur was the first thing that clawed its way into Scarlett’s consciousness. It was a thick, cloying smell, altogether wrong for a girl who had fallen asleep in her cramped, lavender-scented apartment in the heart of the modern city. This wasn't the sterile air of a skyscraper; it was the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of something ancient, primal, and dangerously alive.

Her eyes snapped open, but instead of her familiar peeling ceiling, she found herself staring at a vaulted bathroom of white marble and intricate gold leaf. A dull, rhythmic ache throbbed behind her temples—the unmistakable telltale sign of a soul that had been forcibly shoved into a body that didn't belong to it. Every nerve ending in her new frame felt like it was being scorched by invisible fire, a side effect of the dimensional displacement.

Scarlett sat up with a sharp gasp, the sudden movement sending a dizzying wave through her as her silk robe rustled softly against the freezing tiles of the floor.

And then, she saw the monster in the tub.

He was sprawled in the clawfoot bathtub, the pristine white porcelain stained a gruesome, dark crimson. His shirt was shredded to ribbons, revealing lean, corded muscle beneath, but it was the wounds that made her blood run cold. They were jagged, deep lacerations that looked like they had been made by claws sharp as razors. Even unconscious and bleeding out, he radiated a raw, untamed power that made the very air in the room feel heavy and charged with static electricity.

Scarlett’s breath hitched in her throat. This wasn't just any man. This was him.

The memories of a life that wasn't hers slammed into her mind like a high-speed train, bringing with them a wave of physical nausea. She wasn't Scarlett the occultist anymore. She was now Scarlett Thorne, the pampered, arrogant villainess of the dark romance novel Crimson Moon. And the man currently dying in her bathtub? That was Caleb Blackwood, the legendary Lycan King of the North.

She knew exactly what was supposed to happen next according to the original plot. The "real" Scarlett would find him here, realize he had amnesia, and trick him into a soul-binding contract to claim him as her fiancé. She would use his forgotten power to crush her social rivals and secure her own greedy throne. But the price of that greed was written in blood. In exactly ninety days, when the Blood Moon rose, Caleb would regain every single one of his memories.

He would remember every lie, every manipulation, and every cold-blooded humiliation Scarlett had put him through while he was vulnerable. And then, he would tear her throat out with his bare hands.

"Ninety days," Scarlett whispered, her voice trembling as the weight of her fate settled over her like a shroud. "I have exactly ninety days before I’m a dead woman."

Her gaze fell to her hand, which was clenched instinctively. Tucked into her palm was a small, crumpled slip of yellow paper—a spirit-calming talisman she had brought with her from her previous life. It hummed with a faint, familiar energy, a stark contrast to the dark, oily aura swirling around Caleb’s wounds. The curse eating at him wasn't just physical; it was a soul-shattering hex placed by the Thorne family, designed to lobotomize the King’s inner wolf and keep him in a state of perpetual amnesia.

As a practitioner of the Eastern occult, Scarlett could see the black threads of the curse weaving through his golden life-force, choking his very essence. In the book, Scarlett Thorne would have tightened those threads. But the woman standing here now felt the ancient call of her craft. Her master’s voice echoed in her head: “A healer who ignores a dying soul forfeits their own.”

Her first instinct was pure survival: run. She could pack a bag of jewels and be on a plane across the ocean before he even groaned. But as she watched the curse fester, she realized the Lycan packs would hunt her to the ends of the earth if their King died in her home. There was no escape in flight—only in the truth.

With a hesitant breath, she edged closer to the tub, her bare feet padding softly on the bloody marble. Her fingers reached out, hovering just inches above his heart, where the curse pulsed with an unnatural chill. "I am not going to bind you," she murmured, her voice a low vow to the shadows. "I’m going to fix you, and then I’m going to disappear so thoroughly you won't even remember my scent."

The moment her skin brushed the burning heat of his chest, an electric jolt of pure, blinding fire surged through her. A flash of images—a silver moon hanging over a primeval forest, a roar of primal agony that shook the stars, and a pair of golden eyes burning with an unnamable, centuries-old hunger—flooded her vision.

Suddenly, the water in the tub swirled, and Caleb’s eyes flew open.

They weren't the eyes of a man. They were two pools of molten, lethal gold, reflecting a predator that had been backed into a corner. Before she could scream or draw back, his hand shot out of the water like a striking viper. His fingers crushed Scarlett’s wrist with a strength that threatened to shatter her bones instantly.

"Who..." his voice was a low, guttural rasp, the sound of a beast forgotten how to speak the language of men. "Who are you to touch the King?"

Scarlett froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird desperate for flight. The ninety-day clock hadn't just started ticking—it had just begun to roar.

"I’m nobody," she whispered, her voice surprisingly steady despite the bone-crushing grip and the terror in her soul. "I’m just the person who’s going to save your life whether you like it or not."