Chapter 1

Pain.

It's all I feel.

Everything hurts. Breathing hurts. Moving hurts. Thinking hurts.

Existing... hurts.

I taste blood.

It coats the back of my tongue, metallic and thick, sliding down my throat every time I swallow. I try not to. It hurts too much.

The forest floor is cold beneath me. Damp. The scent of wet earth fills my lungs, heavy and suffocating. My fingers twitch against leaves matted with mud and something much darker, stickier. More blood.

I don't remember falling.

I do remember running. Running like my life depended on it. It had.

Boots crashing behind me.

Gunfire splitting the air.

The sound of my own breathing breaking apart.

Hunters.

The word drifts through my head like smoke.

I try to move. My body doesn't respond the way it should. My ribs scream in protest. Something sharp digs into my side every time I draw breath.

I should shift.

That's the instinct. The answer. The survival mechanism carved into my bones.

But nothing happens.

The wolf inside me is silent.

Not dead.

Just... quiet. A scary quiet. Not a peaceful quiet but an empty, lonely and lethal sort of quiet.

"Come on," I whisper to myself, though my voice barely exists. "Come on."

If I can shift, I can heal faster. If I can shift, I can run.

But the silence inside me stretches wider.

A branch snaps somewhere in the distance.

My heart stutters.

They found me.

Panic slams into my chest and I try to will my body to get up. To move. To run away from its impending end. I force my body to roll onto my side. Pain explodes white-hot across my ribs and I choke on it, teeth grinding hard enough to crack.

I won't die like this.

Not on my back.

Not begging like a little bitch.

Another sound.

Then another.

Closer.

Soft.

Not human.

The air changes.

The forest goes still in a way that feels... wrong.

The hunters never move like that.

This is quieter.

More deliberate.

A new scent cuts through the damp earth and blood. It's not anything special. Sharp. Clean. Dominant.

My pulse spikes in confusion. That isn't a hunter.

That's—

The underbrush parts. And he steps into view. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still as stone. The darkness doesn't swallow him — it bends around him.

His eyes find me instantly. Gray. Assessing. Not surprised. Not alarmed. Certain. As if they already knew what they were going to find.

For one suspended second, neither of us moves.

His gaze drags over me — the blood, the broken posture, the weakness I can't hide.

And something shifts in his expression.

Not pity. Something sharper.

Anger.

I bare my teeth on instinct, even as my vision blurs. "Stay back." The command comes out fractured.

He doesn't listen. He takes one slow step forward. The ground feels like it tilts toward him. I try to push up again, but my arms give out. My body betrays me, collapsing back into the dirt. Rage flares hotter than the pain.

I hate this. I hate him seeing me like this. His nostrils flare subtly. He can smell it. My blood. My weakness. And something else.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"Who did this?" he asks.

His voice is low. Controlled. It vibrates through the air instead of cutting it.

Alpha.

The realization hits even through the fog. Every instinct inside me should lower its head. It doesn't.

"None of your business," I force out.

His gaze sharpens. For a flicker of a second, something feral flashes behind his eyes — not loss of control, but something fighting to surface. Then he kneels. The movement is slow. Intentional. As if approaching something dangerous.

Me.

His hand hovers near my side, not touching yet. Heat radiates from him, close enough now that I can feel it through the cold. I flinch anyway. His hand stills. And that's when I feel it.

A pulse.

Not from him. From inside me. The wolf that wouldn't answer before stirs. Weakly. But it stirs.

My breath catches.

He notices. Of course he notices.

His eyes darken.

"Easy," he murmurs.

Not to command me. To calm me. And somehow... that's worse.

"I'm not your—" I start, but my words fracture into a cough.

Blood splatters the leaves between us. His expression changes completely. The restraint doesn't disappear. It tightens. He moves closer without asking. One arm slides behind my shoulders, careful but firm. The other braces at my waist. His touch is warm.

Solid.

Unyielding.

Every nerve in my body reacts at once — pain, adrenaline, something hotter beneath it.

I shove weakly against his chest.

"Don't."

He looks down at me. There is nothing soft in his face. Nothing gentle. Just certainty.

"So I should just leave you out here to die?" he asks, gaze hard.

It isn't a question that requires an answer. It's a decision. And before I can argue, before I can fight, before I can even decide if I want to—

The world tilts.

He lifts me. Like I weigh nothing. The forest shifts around us as he turns, moving deeper into territory that suddenly feels claimed. My vision blurs again, darkness creeping at the edges. But just before everything fades, I hear it. Not his voice. Not the forest. Something inside me.

Faint.

Whispered.

Everything will be okay.

————

Warmth is the first thing I notice.

Not numbness. Not pain. Not cold damp earth or matted leaves.

Warmth.

It wraps around me like heavy wool, pressing against my skin, seeping into each and every one of my bones. My body feels weightless and impossibly heavy at the same time.

Then the pain returns.

Duller now. Blunted. But entirely still there. The more my mind cleared the fog the more I began to realize just how bad of a shape my body was in. Deep, dark bruises littered my pale skin from my shoulders to my ankles. Scratches and a couple gashes sprinkled my feet as I had lost my shoes not long into my escape. My head had a dull throbbing ache in the back , probably from hitting my head on a rock when I fell.

I inhale sharply — and instead of wet earth and blood, I smell herbs. Crushed leaves. Something bitter and medicinal layered over wood smoke.

I'm not in the forest anymore. And looking around it was clear this wasn't Kansas. Sorry Toto.

My eyes snap open.

The ceiling above me is wooden, beams exposed and worn smooth with age. Light filters in through gauzy curtains, pale and early-morning soft. The air is thick with unfamiliar scents — wolves. Many of them.

Territory.

I try to sit up. A mistake.

Pain lances through my ribs and I hiss, falling back against pillows that smell faintly of lavender and antiseptic.

"Don't," a voice says gently.

Not his.

I turn my head, ignoring the twinge of pain it caused.

A girl — no, a young woman — sits beside the bed. Dark hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Storm-grey eyes studying me with open curiosity instead of fear.

She doesn't look Alpha.

But she doesn't look weak either.

"You're safe," she adds.

Safe.

The word feels foreign. I almost scoff.

"Where am I?" My voice comes out rough, scraped raw.

"Healer's cottage," she says. "On Ash—" She pauses, correcting herself smoothly. "On our territory."

Our.

I tense immediately.

She notices.

Everyone here notices everything.

"You were found," she continues carefully. "Badly injured."

Found.

By him.

My throat tightens.

"I didn't ask to be brought here," I mutter.

"No," she agrees calmly. "You didn't, but you would've died if he hadn't."

Something about the way she says it makes me study her more closely.

"You're related to him," I say.

It's not a question.

A flicker of amusement crosses her face. "Everyone says we have the same eyes."

Gray.

Storm-colored.

Dangerous.

"I'm Fiorella," she says. "But most people call me Fio."

Her scent is lighter than the others in the room. Still wolf — but steadier. Warmer. Less sharp. It smelled of vanilla and cotton, not earthy like the wolves I was used to.

"You shouldn't try to shift yet," she adds. "Your wolf tried earlier. It nearly reopened the wound."

My pulse stutters.

It tried?

"You were unconscious," she explains gently. "But you reacted when he came in."

Heat crawls up my spine before I can stop it.

"He was here?" I ask, hating how quickly the question leaves me.

Fio's eyes sharpen slightly.

"Yes."

Just that.

No elaboration.

Before I can press further, The door creaks open.

Another scent enters the room.

Stronger. Colder. Controlled.

My muscles tense automatically.

She steps inside like she belongs to power — tall, composed, dark hair swept back in a way that looks effortless but isn't. Her posture is perfect. Her expression unreadable.

Assessing.

Isabella.

I don't know how I know her name.

But I do.

Her gaze drags over me once, precise and surgical.

"So," she says softly, "this is him."

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Measuring.

Fiorella shifts slightly in her chair — not defensive, but aware.

"You should be resting," Isabella continues, eyes returning to mine. "Recovery requires cooperation."

"I didn't agree to stay," I reply.

A faint smile curves her lips. It never touches her eyes.

"No," she says smoothly. "But you will."

The air shifts.

Not dominance like Aaron's.

Something subtler.

Political.

Calculated.

She steps closer to the bed, close enough that I can feel the control radiating off her — not brute force, but influence.

"You've caused quite a stir," she says lightly. "Our Alpha rarely carries anyone through the forest."

The statement sounds casual.

It isn't.

"That wasn't my choice," I snap.

"Of course not."

Her gaze lingers a beat too long.

"Be careful," she adds quietly. "This pack does not tolerate weakness for long."

Warning.

Or promise.

Then she turns and leaves as gracefully as she entered.

I blink once. Twice. A chuckle sounds to my right and I turn my gaze back to Fio.

"She's a sweetheart." Sarcasm dripped through her voice.

A smile creeps onto my face before I even realize it. As Fio sobers, a new presence appears behind the door and the faint scent of pine, bourbon, and something darker underneath hits my nose right before the door opens without a single knock.

The door doesn't slam. It doesn't need to. It opens slowly, deliberately — and the air changes.

Not warmer. Heavier.

My pulse stumbles before I can stop it. Fiorella straightens automatically. And Isabella—who had only just reached the doorway—pauses.

He steps inside. Aaron doesn't fill the room with noise. He fills it with presence.

Broad shoulders. Dark shirt pulled tight across muscle. Controlled expression carved into something unreadable.

But his eyes—

They go straight to me. Not to his sister. Not to Isabella.

To me.

A slow, assessing sweep. Checking for injury. For weakness. For movement.

Something tightens in his jaw.

"He woke," Fiorella says gently.

"I can see that," Aaron replies. "Thanks for informing me."

His voice is calm. Even with a hint of edge. Fiorella almost looks guilty. But there's something underneath it all.

A low vibration. Contained.

My body reacts before I can stop it — shoulders tensing, breath shortening, heat crawling along my spine like anticipation I refuse to name.

I push myself up slightly against the pillows.

"I didn't ask to be brought here," I say again.

His gaze sharpens.

"You weren't in a position to ask."

Not cruel.

Not apologetic.

A fact.

"You crossed into my territory bleeding," he continues evenly. "Hunters were still tracking your scent."

My throat tightens.

He steps closer.

Not rushed.

Measured.

Each step deliberate, as if giving me the chance to protest.

I don't.

He stops beside the bed.

Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him again.

Close enough that my wolf—silent for so long—stirs faintly.

"You're alive," he says quietly.

The words shouldn't feel intimate.

They do.

"I would've survived," I mutter.

His eyes darken. "Not another hour."

Silence.

Isabella watches from the doorway. Not speaking. Observing. Aaron's hand lifts slightly, hovering near my shoulder the way it did in the forest. He doesn't touch. But the restraint is visible. His fingers curl once.

Then still.

"You'll stay until you're healed," he says.

Not a suggestion. A decree.

I stiffen.

"I don't belong here."

Something flashes in his eyes. Possession. Gone in an instant.

"You're here," he replies. "That's enough."

The room feels too small. Too charged.

Fiorella rises slowly. "He needs rest."

Aaron doesn't look at her. His gaze never leaves mine.

"Yes," he agrees.

But he doesn't move. And for one suspended second, the world narrows to the space between us. His scent thickens. Mine reacts. My pulse stammers.

And deep inside my chest, quiet but undeniable—

Arrow.

His eyes flicker. Like he heard it too. Then, finally, he steps back.

The pressure in the room lessens slightly.

"Get stronger," he says.

It sounds like a command. It sounds like a promise. It sounds like something else entirely. Then he turns and walks out. Isabella follows him but not before glancing back at me. Calculating. The door closes. Silence settles. My heart is still racing. I shakily released a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

And I don't know which part unsettles me more—

The hunters who nearly killed me.

Or the Alpha who decided I wouldn't die.