Chapter 7

The Enchanted Forest — King Dakota’s Fury

The Enchanted Forest pulsed like a living heart around him—ancient trees groaning under the swell of magic rolling off King Dakota’s body. Every breath he took shook with fury. Every heartbeat thundered with grief.

His daughter.

His only child.

His flesh. His soul. His legacy.

Gone.

Stolen by a wolf.

Hidden by cowards.

Endangered by a treaty never meant to restrain a king like him.

Dakota dropped to his knees, palms sinking into the mossy ground. The earth trembled beneath his touch as raw magic leaked from his fingers—sparks hissing, burning the soil like fire.

He closed his eyes, letting the pain hit him full force.

He saw her.

The daughter he had never held but loved with a depth that frightened even him.

He had felt her heartbeat the moment she was conceived, a thread of magic tying her soul to his. It was the most sacred bond his kind possessed—stronger than any mating bond, older than any prophecy.

And now that thread was fraying.

Dimming.

“Rebel…” he whispered, voice cracking as the name passed through him. “My little star. My light.”

He pressed a fist against his chest as if he could physically hold the bond in place.

“My daughter needs me,” he growled, half-mad with worry. “She is alone. Among wolves who despise her very blood.”

Dakota stood abruptly, magic rippling outward like a shockwave.

He didn’t care about the treaty.

Didn’t care about politics.

Didn’t care about the consequences.

He cared only about her.

He had already lost a mate—to death, to fate, to betrayal.

He would not lose his daughter, too. Not to wolves. Not to fear. Not to anyone.

“Soon,” he whispered into the night, the wind swirling his cloak. “Soon, my star. I will tear the world apart to bring you home.”

His eyes glowed brighter than moonlight; storm clouds gathered in response, twisting violently above the forest.

And somewhere far away, a sleeping infant stirred—reacting to the pulse of her father’s power calling out to her.

Rebel — Age 6 (Somewhere in the Midnight Rose Pack)

Rebel learned to make herself small.

Small enough to hide behind the barrels in the kitchen.

Small enough to slip under tables and avoid the Luna’s gaze.

Small enough to pretend she didn’t exist when Amber walked by—because if she was seen, she paid for it.

She didn’t remember being a baby.

Didn’t remember being held by anyone but Skylar, her Omega mother who smelled like lavender and sadness.

But she remembered being told what she was.

Hybrid.

Unwanted.

Disgrace.

Skylar never said those words.

But Amber did.

The pack children did.

Even the adults whispered it when they thought Rebel wasn’t listening.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” one warrior had muttered once, sneering as she passed.

Rebel didn’t feel lucky.

She felt wrong.

Different.

Broken.

She would lie awake at night listening to Skylar cry softly into her pillow—thinking Rebel was asleep. Skylar never spoke of the pup she lost, but Rebel felt like she was trying to replace someone who mattered more.

Maybe that’s why Rebel tried so hard to be good.

To help.

To heal.

To be quiet.

To not anger Amber.

To not draw the Luna’s attention.

But something strange was happening to her lately.

Voices in the wind.

Sparks in her fingertips.

Dreams filled with a man with glowing eyes calling her “my star.”

Sometimes, she’d feel a tug in her chest—a gentle pull toward the forest. Like someone was reaching for her. Like she belonged somewhere else.

She told Skylar once.

“Momma… there’s someone out there. Someone who wants me.”

Skylar froze, spoon slipping from her hand and clattering onto the table.

“Rebel,” she whispered, voice tight. “Don’t say things like that. It’s… dangerous.”

“But it’s true,” Rebel said softly. “He feels sad.”

Skylar’s face crumpled, fear shining in her eyes.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone else,” she begged. “Please.”

Rebel nodded, confused but obedient.

That night, she dreamt again.

A voice—deep, aching, powerful—spoke through the darkness.

I’m coming for you, little star. Hold on. Hold on for me.

When she woke, she found her pillow damp from tears.

King Dakota — The Obsession Grows

Years only magnified the King’s desperation.

Every night he felt the thread of Rebel’s soul weaken.

Every day he tasted the wrongness—wolves polluting her energy, suppressing her magic, burying her true nature under servitude and fear.

He saw flashes through the tether: A tiny girl scrubbing floors. Flinching from harsh words. Lonely. Silent. Trying so hard not to cry.

And it broke him.

“I will raze their pack to ruins,” he snarled, pacing before the war table. “I will drown their lands in magic. I will—”

“Your Majesty,” a warlock advisor interrupted timidly, “the Council—”

“THE COUNCIL DOES NOTHING!” Dakota exploded, magic crackling around him like lightning. “My daughter is suffering. My blood. My soul.”

He slammed both palms against the table, splitting it straight down the middle with one blast of power.

Every witch and warlock in the room flinched.

Dakota’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper.

“You do not understand. She is my heart outside my body. The world can burn, treaties can crumble, peace can die—I care only for her.”

A soft green shimmer flickered across his chest—the soul thread straining across distance.

Her sadness.

Her fear.

He felt it.

Lived it.

Breathed it.

And his rage became unstoppable.

“I’m coming, little star,” he vowed. “I’m coming. And the wolves who hid you—who lied about you—will wish they had never drawn breath.”

Rebel — Age 10 (Working in the pack kitchens)

Rebel moved silently through the kitchen, carrying a heavy pot twice the size of her head. Her arms shook, but she refused to cry. Crying made things worse.

“You’re too slow, hybrid!” barked one of the kitchen Omegas. “Move faster!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rebel murmured, keeping her eyes down.

Her back ached. Her hands were red from scrubbing floors. Her clothes hung off her like rags. She hadn’t eaten yet today—but that wasn’t unusual.

The other children didn’t talk to her unless it was to insult her.

“Witch-spawn.”

“Wolf reject.”

“Freak.”

She pretended not to hear.

She always pretended.

Until the pot slipped.

It clanged onto the floor, soup splattering across the tiles.

Rebel froze.

Amber stepped into the kitchen exactly at that moment, eyes locking on the spilled soup… then on Rebel.

Rebel’s blood turned to ice.

Amber smiled—the cruel kind. The kind Rebel had grown to fear.

“Well, well,” Amber said softly, stepping closer, heels clicking. “Look at the little mistake.”

Rebel swallowed, trembling.

“I—I’m sorry, Lady Amber. I didn’t mean—”

Amber leaned down until their faces were inches apart.

“You ruined my life the day you were born,” she whispered, venom dripping from every word. “Remember that.”

Rebel did remember.

She remembered every time Amber reminded her.

Which was almost daily.

Amber straightened, flicking invisible dust from her sleeve.

“Clean it up.”

Rebel dropped to her knees, scrubbing while fighting tears.

Amber watched her for a long moment, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

Then she left the kitchen.

Rebel kept scrubbing long after the floor was spotless—because if she stopped, the tears would fall.

And crying hurt more than bruises.

Meanwhile… King Dakota Felt Everything

He felt her fear.

Felt her pain.

Felt her humiliation.

The moment Amber leaned close to Rebel and whispered those hateful words—

Dakota felt it.

And something inside him snapped.

His magic exploded outward, rattling the entire palace.

Guards came running.

“Your Majesty! Are you wounded—?”

“Wounded?” Dakota whispered, shaking with power. “No.”

He turned, eyes glowing dangerously.

“But wolves will be.”