Chapter 6

Cora's POV:

Morning comes quietly in the forest.

No bells. No voices. No pack calling me home.

I wake curled against the base of a massive oak, leaves pressed into my cheek, the earth cold beneath my spine.

For one terrifying second, I forget where I am—then the ache in my chest reminds me. The bond. The absence. The hollow space where a future should have been.

I sit up slowly, listening.

The forest breathes around me. Birds chatter high above, insects hum softly, and somewhere in the distance something large moves through the underbrush. Not threatening. Just alive.

I am alone.

The realization should break me.

Instead… it steadies me.

I reach into my bag and pull out what little I have left—dry, stale bread and my nearly empty water bottle. I eat the remaining bread slowly, forcing myself to chew every bite, then twist the cap open and drink the rest of the water. When it’s empty, I screw the lid back on and tuck it away, the finality of it settling deep in my chest.

No more supplies.

When I finish, I stand and stretch. My body feels different now—lighter, stronger, more responsive. The bruises and scratches from the rogues are gone, skin smooth where there should have been pain. I run my fingers over my arms, a quiet certainty settling in my chest.

A rogue’s life begins with awareness.

No borders. No protection. No Alpha’s patrols. Everything is a threat, and everything is an opportunity.

I close my eyes and let my wolf rise.

The shift is smoother than before—still intense, still powerful, but familiar now.

Fur ripples over skin, bones stretch and settle, and then I am standing on four paws, senses exploding outward. Scents layer the air—damp earth, moss, prey, predator. My heart beats steady and strong.

I move.

Running feels like breathing now. My paws eat up the ground, silent and swift, weaving between trees, leaping fallen logs. Freedom sings through my veins, even as the bond aches dully beneath it.

I catch the scent of deer.

My wolf sharpens, instinct taking over. I slow, lowering my body, tracking carefully. The forest teaches quickly—every snapped twig, every shift of wind matters. I circle downwind, heart pounding, muscles coiled tight.

There.

A young buck grazes in a small clearing.

I don’t hesitate.

I launch.

The impact knocks the breath from both of us. My jaws close around its throat, body moving on instinct alone. The struggle is brief. When it ends, I stand over my kill, chest heaving, blood warm on my muzzle.

I did it.

A strange satisfaction settles over me—not cruelty, not pride, but balance. This is how it works out here. Life for life. Survival without apology.

I drag the carcass deeper into the trees, shifting back once I’m sure I’m alone. My hands tremble—not from fear, but from adrenaline. I gather stones, stack them carefully, and search for dry wood. It takes time, trial and error, but eventually I manage a small fire.

The meat roasts slowly, the scent rich and grounding.

I eat until I’m full, until warmth settles in my stomach and my limbs feel heavy with exhaustion. Then I explore, marking the area in my mind—water sources, dense brush, places that could serve as shelter.

By evening, I begin building.

Branches leaned together. Leaves packed thick for insulation. A shallow hollow in the ground to block the wind.

It’s crude. Imperfect. But it’s mine.

As night falls, the forest changes.

Sounds deepen. Shadows stretch. My wolf stays close to the surface, alert. I lie down inside my makeshift shelter, staring up at the stars through gaps in the leaves.

The bond throbs again—sharp, insistent. Somewhere far away, Cain exists.

Thinking. Breathing. Living without me.

I press my fist to my chest and breathe through the pain.

“I’m still here,” I whisper into the dark. “I survived.”

A sound snaps my attention back to the present.

Low. Rumbling.

Not a wolf.

My body goes still.

The scent reaches me a second later—musky, powerful, unmistakably feline.

Tiger.

My pulse spikes. My wolf snarls softly, fear and determination colliding. I rise slowly, shifting just enough to bare claws, heart pounding so hard I’m sure it can hear it.

The bushes part.

Amber eyes glow in the darkness, locked onto me. Massive shoulders ripple beneath striped fur. The tiger circles, silent, calculating.

I don’t run.

I lower myself, muscles tense, eyes never leaving it. If it attacks, I’ll fight. I refuse to die like prey.

The tiger lunges.

Pain explodes as claws rake my side, sending me tumbling. I roll, shift fully, teeth snapping as I slam into it with everything I have. We collide in a frenzy of fur and blood, growls tearing from my chest.

I slash. I bite. I endure.

The forest roars around us.

This is what it means to be a rogue.

And I will survive it.

We crash into the forest floor in a blur of claws, teeth, and snapping branches.

The tiger is heavier than me—denser, built for brute force—but I’m faster. I twist, roll, dig my claws into the earth to keep from being pinned.

Pain blooms hot and immediate as its teeth clamp down on my shoulder.

I scream.

The sound tears out of me raw and feral, and something snaps inside my chest—not the bond, not the fear, but a limit I didn’t know I still had. My wolf surges forward with a fury that isn’t blind, but focused.

Enough.

I rake my claws across its face. Blood sprays warm against my muzzle. The tiger recoils, snarling, eyes blazing, and lunges again. Its weight slams into me, driving me backward into a tree. Bark splinters against my spine.

Something cracks.

White-hot agony shoots through my ribs.

I barely feel it.

I clamp my jaws around its foreleg and bite down hard—harder than I ever have before. There’s resistance. Then there isn’t. Bone gives way with a sickening crunch.

The tiger roars.

It thrashes, claws tearing into my side, ripping fur and flesh. I feel skin split, feel blood slicking down my flank, but my grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, I twist—using my whole body, my weight, my strength.

The tiger collapses.

We hit the ground again, rolling through leaves and dirt. My vision swims. My ears ring. Every breath burns like fire in my chest. The tiger tries to rise, dragging its broken limb, eyes still locked on me.

Still a threat.

Still dangerous.

I don’t hesitate.

I leap.

My jaws close around its throat, muscles screaming as I clamp down with everything I have. The tiger claws weakly at my sides, breath wheezing, strength draining fast. I feel its pulse flutter beneath my teeth.

Then stop.

Silence crashes down around us.

I release my grip and stagger back, chest heaving, legs trembling so badly I nearly collapse. Blood drips from my muzzle—some of it mine, some not. My side burns. My shoulder hangs uselessly, pain radiating with every heartbeat.

I did that.

The realization hits me almost as hard as the fight did.

I killed a tiger.

Alone.

As a rogue.

My wolf lifts her head inside me, stunned but fierce. There’s awe there. And something else. Something dark and powerful and new.

I am stronger than I thought.

Stronger than I was ever allowed to be.

The adrenaline fades fast, leaving the pain behind like a cruel joke. My legs finally give out, and I collapse onto the forest floor, breath coming in shallow gasps. Every inch of me hurts. My ribs scream when I inhale. My vision blurs at the edges.

I shift back with a whimper, human skin replacing fur, injuries screaming louder without the buffer of my wolf. My hands shake as I press them to my side. Blood coats my fingers—too much, but not fatal. Not yet.

I drag myself away from the body, farther into the shelter of the trees. Every movement is agony. My body feels heavy, useless, drained.

I finally reach a small hollow beneath tangled roots and collapse there, curling inward instinctively. Cold earth presses against my wounds. My breathing slows, shallow and careful.

I’m so tired.

Exhaustion drags at me like a current, pulling me under. My wolf nudges me gently, urging rest. Sleep and healing are the only things that will help me now. There is no fighting left in me. No running. No strength to draw on.

Before my eyes close, the bond flares again—sharp, distant, aching. I don’t fight it. I don’t have the strength.

“I survived,” I whisper hoarsely, more promise than pride.

Then I let the darkness take me.

Because healing is coming.

And when I wake…

I won’t be the same.