Chapter 7

Meanwhile…

EDRIC – POV

Somewhere in the northern forest, he felt it.

A flicker of moon-tethered magic.

A call.

A heartbeat in the dark that didn’t belong to anyone else but her.

“She’s awakened,” he whispered.

And the golden wolf inside him snarled like it had been waiting a thousand years for this moment.

KYLA – POV

So, here’s the thing no one tells you about summoning a disco chicken from a miscast spell:

They. Poop. Everywhere.

Glitter.

Feathers.

Confetti eggs.

It’s a mess. I mean literal sparkly poultry chaos.

I’d just finished wiping glitter off my eyebrow with a piece of old parchment (probably cursed, but whatever), when I turned around to grab a mop.

Except—I accidentally bumped the tall mirror behind me.

The mirror I’ve been pointedly ignoring since I got here.

Because it hummed with power.

It pulsed with forbidden energy.

And earlier? It blinked at me.

Blinking furniture is a big ol’ nope.

But now?

It lit up like a damn cinema screen, and honey—I forgot how to breathe.

Because staring back at me wasn’t my reflection.

It was him.

KING. ALPHA. EDRIC. FREAKING. MOON.

Ruler of all werewolves.

Feared warlord.

Unmated Alpha King of Scotland.

And currently—gloriously shirtless.

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Okay.”

What I was expecting: scary council meetings. Blood and thunder. Maybe a growl.

What I got?

6-pack abs. Shoulder muscles sculpted by ancient gods. A v-line so sharp it cut through the static in my brain.

His hair?

Wet. Long. Glorious.

He ran a hand through it with the kind of cinematic grace that should be illegal.

Like he was in a shampoo commercial for supernatural shampoo called "Alpha Essence: For When You Need To Ruin Someone's Soul With Just One Glance."

And the cheekbones?

CRIMINAL.

“I—uh—hello?! Mirror? This feels illegal.”

I stumbled back, cheeks redder than a cursed beetroot.

“You’re drooling,” Mr. Yellow said from the shadows.

“Shut up, he’s art.”

And then he moved.

Like a panther. Like danger wrapped in caramel thunder. He paced, the gold tattoo on his spine glowing faintly, his aura burning so hot the mirror itself steamed.

“Who is she,” he growled, voice low, echoing.

I yelped.

Because he was talking. And I heard him.

Like in the room.

I slapped a hand over my mouth. The mirror must be doing some sort of two-way spell.

“I felt the surge. That mark. That call.” He turned, chest heaving. “She’s alive. My mate is alive.”

My brain: ERROR.

My mouth: “Excuse me? WHAT?!”

The mirror glitched.

For one blessed second, I thought it shut off.

But nope.

Because next?

He turned directly toward me.

His eyes—burning gold.

His face—FACING ME.

His voice—straight through my soul.

“I’m coming for you.”

The mirror went black.

I just… stood there.

Shaking. Covered in sparkly chicken feathers. Holding a mop. And 110% not emotionally prepared for whatever that shirtless Zeus-wolf situation was.

“WHY ARE HOT MEN A THREAT TO NATIONAL SECURITY?!” I screamed at the ceiling.

“Girl, you need help,” muttered a sassy cucumber.

So… that just happened.

I was still holding a mop like it was a battle axe, standing in a pile of glitter-chicken poop and emotionally scorched by the image of His Royal Shirtlessness, King Alpha Edric Moon.

And no, I wasn’t okay.

Because the mirror talked.

He talked.

To me.

And what did he say?

"My mate is alive."

I choked on my own oxygen.

“Oh no. No, sir. Absolutely not.”

I backed away from the mirror like it owed me rent. My legs hit a stool and I collapsed onto it, mumbling into my elbow, “I am not qualified for this storyline.”

I mean—

Let’s review, shall we?

Rejected by my mate? ✅

Cursed by the Moon Goddess? ✅

Abandoned, disowned, and dumped in the haunted woods with a feral glam chicken and a sass-rabbit named Mr. Yellow? ✅✅

Currently having conversations with a mildly aggressive potato named Gregory? ✅

Practicing illegal forest magic in an exiled traitor witch’s spellroom? ✅

And now being called a “mate” by the Alpha King of all bloody Scotland, aka Tall, Dark, and Has-Wings?

“Oh my goddess, I’m living in a fever dream with abs.”

“Technically, you’re living in Amaya’s abandoned murder-cabin,” said a snarky apple from the fruit bowl. “And you're out of deodorant.”

“Thank you, Gala. Very helpful.”

I stared at the mirror again.

It remained dark. Silent. Mocking.

But my neck was still tingling. That mark—it pulsed like a heartbeat. His heartbeat.

Ugh.

Those eyes.

Golden. Furious. Searching. Like he saw straight through my sass, my shame, my glitter-chicken-covered self, and said:

“Yeah, that one. That disaster in the cursed hoodie. Mine.”

I threw the mop across the room.

“No. Nope. Nooooope. I am not a Luna. I am barely surviving enchanted carrots and a demon rabbit. My skincare routine is nonexistent. My social life is a chair that groans when I sit on it. I AM NOT MATE MATERIAL.”

“You are dramatic, though,” muttered the talking mirror from the corner.

I glared at it. “You stay out of this, N*****x 2.0.”

“You liked it,” Mr. Yellow said smugly, hopping onto a stool. “You saw him. You practically melted into your own mop. Girl, that man could howl into a romance cover.”

“I did not—!”

“You paused. You stared. You sighed.”

“I—!! Okay yes! But those abs are unfair! It’s like someone photoshopped a warrior angel and dropped him into a Highland shampoo commercial! He glowed!”

“You glowed,” said the ant leader. “Your ears steamed.”

I slapped both hands to my face. “I hate everyone in this cabin.”