Chapter 3

Matthew's Pov

I had spent the last three days trying to scrub the scent of her off my skin, but it was like trying to wash away a scar. Irene was a glitch in my system.

She was a variable I did not account for, and every time I saw her, my wolf started pacing behind my ribs like a caged animal.

The council’s new law was supposed to be a deterrent. It was meant to be a cold splash of water to wake me up.

Instead, it just made the fire feel more like a rebellion.

It was nearly two in the morning, and the Sovereign Wing was thick with the kind of silence that made you hear your own blood rushing.

I was in the library, the only room in this house that did not feel like it was closing in on me. I did not bother with a shirt; the air was cold, but my skin was burning.

I had half a dozen maps spread out across the oak table, ancient vellum that smelled like dust and old secrets.

My father thought he was a genius. He thought this marriage was about unity. But these maps told a different story.

He was not looking for a wife; he was looking for the key lines buried under her family’s old territory. He was looking for power that did not belong to him.

He was using my new stepmother as the key to the vault. And Irene? She was just collateral damage in his head.

I heard the floorboard creak before she even reached the door. I did not look up.

I could smell the vanilla and rain scent of her, even through the heavy scent of the old paper.

“You should be asleep,” I said. My voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.

I heard her stop. “I could say the same to you. It is three in the morning, Matthew.”

I finally looked up, and the breath hitched in my throat. She was standing there in a thin sleep shirt.

Her hair was a mess, and she looked way too soft for a house full of killers. My eyes wandered, despite my best efforts, over the curve of her collarbone before snapping back to her face.

I saw her eyes drop to my chest, tracking the silver-white scars that crisscrossed my torso—souvenirs from a decade of being my father’s blunt instrument.

“Like what you see?” I asked, my tone dripping with a sarcasm I did not actually feel.

She did not flinch. She did not even look away. She just walked closer, her eyes scanning the maps.

“Is that the border of the Southern Range? Why is it marked in red?”

“It is none of your business,” I snapped, moving to fold the map, but she planted a hand on the table, stopping me.

“Stop doing that,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Stop treating me like a nuisance or a guest who might break if you talk to her. I know my mother’s history, and I know your father didn’t marry her for her personality. Tell me what you are looking for.”

I stood up straight, looming over her. I wanted to intimidate her. I wanted her to run back to her room so I could breathe again.

“You want to be treated as an equal? Fine. The reality is that your presence here is a distraction I cannot afford. There are packs on our borders that see this merger as a weakness, not a strength. They are circling, Irene."

I continued, "And while I am supposed to be planning a defense, I am spending my time wondering why my wolf won’t stop trying to jump through my skin every time you walk into a room.”

The air in the library suddenly felt like it had been sucked out by a vacuum. She did not move.

She stepped into my space instead, her chest nearly brushing mine.

“Then let it jump,” she whispered, her eyes defiant. “I am not some fragile human you have to protect from yourself. I am a wolf of the Crescent line. If you want me out of your head, stop trying to push me into the shadows and start looking at me.”

I was vibrating with the effort not to touch her. The proximity was suffocating.

I could feel the heat coming off her, and I could see the way her pulse was jumping in the hollow of her throat. I wanted to ruin her. I wanted to protect her.

I wanted to drag her onto this table and forget that my father and the Council even existed. The forbidden nature of it was a physical weight, a tether pulling tighter and tighter until I thought it might snap my spine.

I leaned down, my face inches from hers, my shadow swallowing her whole. “You have no idea what you are asking for,” I growled. “You think you want to be seen? If I really look at you, Irene, I won’t be able to stop. And then we both lose everything.”

Her hand rose, her fingers hovering just an inch from the largest scar on my ribs. I was paralyzed, caught between the urge to roar and the urge to beg.

Then, the world shattered.

A long, jagged howl ripped through the night, coming from the north perimeter. Then another, and a third.

It was not a patrol greeting. It was a war cry.

The hunger in my gut was instantly replaced by the cold, sharp clarity of the hunt. I snapped my head toward the window.

My pupils shifted, and my vision bled into the monochrome of a wolf’s sight.

“Siver-claws,” I muttered, the scent of smoke and strange wolves hitting my senses even from here.

I looked back at Irene. I expected to see fear.

Instead, I saw her jaw set, her eyes already glowing with a faint amber light. She did not ask for permission. She did not wait for a command.

“North woods?” she asked.

“North woods,” I confirmed.

I did not think about the rules. I did not think about the Council. I just thought about the fact that someone was on my land, threatening what was mine.

For the first time, my wolf and I were in total agreement about one thing: Irene belonged on my flank.

I shifted mid-stride, the bone-snapping heat of the transformation taking over as I leaped through the open terrace door.

My paws hit the grass, and a split second later, a sleek, tawny-grey wolf was running right beside me.

We hit the tree line as one, a blur of fur and teeth. The hunt finally began.