Chapter 3

My days at Ashford Pack were quiet.

Every morning, the pack warriors ran patrol in wolf form, streaming through the territory in formation.

I sat on the stone wall at the edge of the training ground and watched them pass.

I'd sit there for the entire morning.

I was the only young member of the pack who never shifted.

Especially since Diane had announced to everyone on her very first day that I'd "shifted at fifteen with excellent combat talent."

The whispers spread fast.

"The Alpha's new chosen mate brought a daughter—think she never awakened?"

"She might be an Omega."

"Her mother said she had great fighting talent. Why won't she even train?"

The warriors lowered their voices when they passed me, but werewolf hearing made that effort pointless. I caught every word.

I didn't explain anything.

Diane heard the talk too. Every time she walked by the training ground and saw me sitting on the wall, she shot me a look that could kill.

That look was nothing new—disappointment laced with regret for bringing me here.

And Alaric—I noticed him watching me from the far end of the training ground sometimes.

Not a casual glance. A quiet, deliberate study.

An Alpha doesn't watch someone who won't fight without a reason. Unless he'd sensed something wrong.

A she-wolf with Alpha bloodline who wouldn't shift—not because she couldn't, but because she wasn't able to.

He'd probably already figured it out.

That evening after the pack dinner, my phone screen lit up.

A formal notice.

From the underground wolf-fighting alliance near Colton's old territory.

I opened it and read every line. My fingers went cold.

The message was simple: Gareth had signed a Blood Debt guarantee in my name. The document stated—"Elder daughter Ember, currently residing at Ashford Pack, possesses shift capability and can fight to repay the debt."

The amount was what Gareth had lost in his final high-stakes bet at the wolf pits. He'd strapped my name to the gambling table as collateral.

If I didn't report to the pits for a fight within ten days, the alliance had the right to send collectors to Ashford territory.

I stared at the screen, my throat tightening.

I'd thought leaving Southern Ridge would sever all ties with that place. I'd thought this life would never take me back inside a wolf pit.

But Gareth would use anyone to fill the hole he'd dug. In my past life, I'd walked into the silver cage willingly. In this one, he'd simply signed my name without asking.

My phone buzzed again.

A message from Ivy, righteous as ever:

"Sis, just take care of it. Dad says that money is what you owe him."

A second message followed immediately:

"You've got an Alpha backing you over there. This is pocket change for you, right? Unless you'd rather actually get into the pit and let those rogues rip you apart."

I looked at the screen. Didn't reply.

Memories of the wolf pits came flooding back, frame by frame. Silver cage bars. The frenzied howling from the stands. The stench of blood carried on the wind as red-eyed fighters lunged at me.

My wolf convulsed deep inside me.

She remembered too.

Every time her flesh was torn. Every bone that snapped. Every fight where she was beaten to the edge of consciousness and still had to drag herself back up.

I locked the screen and set the phone face-down on the floor.

The pain came without warning.

The inside of my arm erupted in searing heat, like something beneath the skin was forcing a new crack open.

I looked down—a fresh claw mark was surfacing, creeping slowly upward from above the elbow.

Getting closer to the heart.

Blood seeped from the split skin, thin and watery, running down my arm and dripping onto my sleeve. A small dark stain bloomed across the fabric.

I needed to clean this up.

I ran for the nearest place—the equipment shed beside the training ground.

The door was unlocked. I slipped inside and shut it behind me.

Training pads and weapon racks filled the shed. There was a water jug in the corner. I twisted off the cap and poured water over the wound. Diluted blood ran down my forearm and dripped onto the floor.

But I'd forgotten to bring bandages.

The wound was still seeping. I pressed my other hand over it, scanning the room for anything I could use.

The shed door swung open.

I looked up.

Alaric stood in the doorway.

His gaze dropped to my arm. To the claw marks laid bare. To the fresh crack still leaking blood.

He didn't speak.

A few seconds of silence.

Then he said: "I'll have the top Healer come treat you."

I pulled my arm behind my back instinctively. "No need. Just a scratch."

I paused, then added: "Thank you, Alpha Ashford."

He looked at me. Not appraising, not pitying. I couldn't name the expression, but his eyes made me feel like he saw right through me—and was simply choosing not to say so.

He was quiet for a moment. He didn't press.

Then he walked to the equipment rack, pulled a roll of bandages from the second shelf, and held it out to me.

"If it hurts, say so."

I froze.

Before I could respond, he set the bandages on the shelf beside me, turned, and walked out.

The door closed. The shed fell quiet again.

I picked up the bandage roll and wound it around my arm, layer by layer. As the cloth met my skin, I caught a scent.

Faint, but unmistakable.

Wolfsbane.