Chapter 23: The Deeper Wound

"Take her," the green-eyed man said. "Quietly. The ice wolf can't know."

 

I froze, my heart pounding so hard I was certain they could hear it. Through slitted eyes, I watched the Bozkurt wolves creep toward us—silent as shadows, their dark forms blending with the cave's darkness.

 

Stellan slept on, exhausted from our ordeal, unaware of the danger creeping closer.

 

I had seconds to decide. Pretend to be asleep and let them take me? Or fight, risking both our lives against unknown numbers?

 

The lead wolf reached for me—

 

I moved.

 

My eyes snapped open, and I grabbed the small knife hidden in my furs, slashing at his reaching hand. He jerked back with a hiss, blood dripping from his fingers.

 

"Stellan!" I screamed. "Stellan, wake up!"

 

The cave erupted into chaos.

 

Stellan was on his feet in an instant, his body shifting even as he rose—claws extending, teeth lengthening, eyes blazing that terrible blue. He positioned himself between me and the intruders, a wall of fury and protection.

 

The Bozkurt wolves spread out, surrounding us. There were five of them—no, six—all in human form, all armed, all watching us with cold, calculating eyes.

 

The green-eyed man stepped forward. In the firelight, I could see him clearly now—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair streaked with gray at the temples. His face was weathered, handsome in a brutal way. And his eyes... his eyes were my eyes.

 

My exact eyes.

 

"Peace," he said, raising his bloodied hand. "We didn't come to fight."

 

"Then why come in darkness?" Stellan's voice was a growl, barely human. "Why try to take her while I slept?"

 

The man's gaze moved to me, and something flickered in those familiar green depths. "Because I needed to see her. To be sure."

 

"Sure of what?"

 

"Sure that she's really my daughter."

 

The words hit me like a physical blow. I staggered, and Stellan's arm wrapped around me, holding me steady.

 

"That's impossible," I whispered. "My father is dead. He died when I was sixteen."

 

The man's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes—pain? Regret?—flickered briefly before being suppressed.

 

"Your mother believed I was dead," he said quietly. "I let her believe it. It was safer that way."

 

"Safer?" The word came out sharp, angry. "You let her raise me alone? You let her die thinking you were gone? You let me spend six years alone, rejected, begging for a place to belong—and you're telling me you were alive the whole time?"

 

"I'm telling you that I had no choice." His voice hardened. "There are things you don't understand. Things about your blood, about what you are, about the danger you've been in since the day you were born."

 

"Then explain." I stepped forward, out of Stellan's protective embrace. "Explain why you abandoned us. Explain why you're here now. Explain everything."

 

The man—my father—looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.

 

"Not here. Not now. But soon." He glanced at Stellan, who hadn't relaxed an inch. "Your mate is wounded. I can see it—the old wounds reopening, the fever building. Let us help him, and then we'll talk."

 

I looked at Stellan. In the firelight, I could see what I'd missed in the chaos—the flush on his cheeks, the slight tremor in his muscles, the way he favored one side. The fight had aggravated his injuries.

 

"Stellan," I said softly.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"You're not." I moved to his side, pressing my hand to his forehead. It was hot—too hot. "You have a fever."

 

His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He knew I was right.

 

I turned back to my father—my alive, present, inexplicable father. "Help him. Then we talk. And if you try anything—"

 

"You'll kill me yourself." He almost smiled. "You have your mother's fire. And my stubbornness." He gestured to his wolves. "Bring supplies. We'll make camp here tonight."

 

The Bozkurt wolves moved efficiently, setting up a small camp within the cave. Bedrolls appeared, along with food and medical supplies. One of them—a woman with kind eyes and graying hair—approached Stellan with bandages and herbs.

 

"I'm a healer," she said softly. "Let me help."

 

Stellan looked at me. I nodded.

 

He allowed her to lead him to a bedroll, where she began cleaning and rebandaging his wounds. Within minutes, his eyes were closing, exhaustion finally claiming him.

 

But even in sleep, he didn't rest easy.

 

"Geri döneceğim," he murmured, the words foreign on his tongue. "Söz veriyorum... onu koruyacağım."

 

Turkish. He was speaking Turkish.

 

I looked at my father, who was watching Stellan with sharp interest. "What's he saying?"

 

"He's making a promise." My father's voice was thoughtful. "He says he'll return. He'll protect her. He's speaking to someone—a woman, from the way he says it. Someone he made a vow to long ago."

 

I thought of the fragments of memory Stellan had shared—fjords and ships, a woman singing, a man with one eye. Was he dreaming of his mother? Of someone else?

 

The healer finished her work and stood, moving to my father's side. "He'll live. But he needs rest—real rest. The wounds are deeper than they look."

 

My father nodded, then turned to me. "Walk with me."

 

It wasn't a request.

 

I followed him to the cave entrance, where we stood looking out at the snow-covered mountains. The moon was setting, painting the world in shades of gray and silver.

 

"I owe you an explanation," he said quietly.

 

"You owe me eighteen years of explanations."

 

He flinched—actually flinched—and I felt a small, vicious satisfaction.

 

"My name is Cengiz," he began. "I was Alpha of the Bozkurt Pack when I met your mother. She was passing through our territory with her family—small pack, American, nothing special. But she was special. To me, she was everything."

 

"Then why did you leave her?"

 

"Because I had to." He turned to face me. "There's a prophecy, Lyra. An ancient one, older than any of the packs. It speaks of a child born of two bloods—a child who will either unite the three great packs or destroy them all."

 

I stared at him. "The creature in the temple—it mentioned a prophecy."

 

"Creature?" His eyes sharpened. "What creature?"

 

I told him about the red eyes, the disappearing temple, the being that had spoken of watching and waiting. With every word, my father's expression grew darker.

 

"The Watcher," he breathed. "It's real. I thought it was just legend."

 

"What is it?"

 

"An ancient being. Older than wolves, older than packs, older than these mountains. It watches. It waits. And when the time is right, it acts." He gripped my shoulders. "Lyra, listen to me. The prophecy is real. And you're at the center of it. Your blood—Turkish, American, and now bonded to an Ice Wolf—carries the power to unite the packs. But that power can also destroy."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"You will." He released me. "But first, we need to get you and your mate to safety. Rourke's army is days away, and the Watcher's interest means others will come. We need to reach the North Star lands before—"

 

He stopped.

 

Behind us, Stellan screamed.

 

I ran.

 

Back into the cave, past the startled Bozkurt wolves, to where Stellan thrashed on his bedroll. His eyes were open but unseeing, his body wracked with convulsions. His lips moved, forming words I couldn't understand—Turkish, old language, maybe something older.

 

"Stellan!" I grabbed his shoulders, trying to hold him still. "Stellan, wake up! It's me—Lyra!"

 

His eyes focused suddenly, finding mine. But what I saw in them made my blood run cold.

 

Fear. Not the fear of a warrior facing battle, but something deeper. Older.

 

"I remember," he whispered. "I remember everything."

 

And then his eyes rolled back, and he went still.