Chapter 9

Eric's POV

Morning patrols are supposed to be routine.

That’s what I tell myself as Anton and I move along the eastern border, the early sun filtering through the trees in pale gold streaks. But routine doesn’t mean safe—not anymore. Rogues have been getting bolder, pushing closer to pack land, testing boundaries they shouldn’t even be near.

Anton keeps pace beside me, silent and alert, his presence steady through the bond. He’s been my beta for years—chosen not just for his strength, but for his judgment. Where I am sharp edges and command, Anton is calm and observant. The kind of wolf others trust instinctively.

“Something’s off,” he mutters.

I feel it too.

The scent hits us next—blood, fear, and the unmistakable stench of rogues. Beneath it all is something else. A she-wolf. Terrified. Weak. Still fighting.

“Move,” I order.

We break into a run.

Branches snap beneath our feet as we tear through the forest, the sounds reaching us before the clearing comes into view—low laughter, cruel and taunting, mixed with the sound of struggling breaths.

The sight stops me cold.

Five rogues.

One girl.

She’s on the ground, surrounded, her movements sluggish but defiant. She shouldn’t still be conscious. Shouldn’t still be resisting. And yet she snarls, lashes out, refuses to break.

Rage detonates in my chest.

The instinct is instant and violent, ripping through me before reason can catch up. I shift mid-stride, my wolf surging forward with a roar that shakes the clearing to its roots. The rogues freeze for half a second—long enough.

I hit the nearest one and send him flying into a tree. Anton takes another without hesitation, tearing him away with brutal efficiency. Dominance pours off me unchecked, crushing and absolute. The remaining rogues falter, fear choking the air as we finish it quickly and without mercy.

Silence crashes down.

She collapses.

I catch her as she shifts back into human form, her body light and trembling in my arms. Too light. Too young. Blood mats her hair, though the wounds beneath my fingers are already fading in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“She heals fast,” Anton says, scanning the treeline. “Not normal.”

No. It isn’t.

But she’s alive. That’s all that matters.

“We’re taking her in,” I say, already moving.

Anton nods and shifts ahead to clear the path as I carry her across our border and deeper into pack territory. Every step feels heavier than the last, an old ache clawing its way up from a place I thought I’d buried.

The pack hospital springs to life the moment we arrive. Healers rush forward, expressions tightening when they see her condition.

“Rogues,” I tell them flatly. “Five of them.

She’s been attacked more than once.”

They take her from my arms carefully and disappear behind closed doors. I pace the hallway while they work, restless, my wolf pacing with me.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

The word becomes a mantra.

When they finally let me see her, she’s unconscious, wrapped in clean white sheets. Her face is peaceful now, blond lashes dark against pale skin, but the scent of fear still lingers faintly—stubborn and haunting.

I sit beside the bed, hands clasped tight.

I’ve seen this room before.

Not this bed. Not this girl.

But memory doesn’t care about details.

My mate flashes behind my eyes—broken, bleeding, rogues long gone by the time I found her. Too late. Always too late.

“I won’t let that happen again,” I murmur, unsure whether I’m speaking to the girl in front of me or the ghosts that never quite leave.

An hour later, Anton finds me.

He leans against the doorframe instead of announcing himself, arms crossed loosely, gaze flicking from me to the girl in the bed.

“She’s stable,” he says quietly. “Healers say she’ll wake by tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

I nod, eyes never leaving her. “Good.”

“You didn’t leave,” Anton adds.

It isn’t a question.

“I wasn’t going to.”

He steps closer, pulling up a chair across from me. “She fought hard. Most wouldn’t have survived that. Especially not alone.”

“She shouldn’t have had to,” I mutter.

Anton hums in agreement. He’s always been like this—steady, thoughtful, saying the things others avoid.

“She smells like she’s been running,” he says after a moment. “Living out there.”

“She’s not from our pack.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she’s trained. Or she was. And no one chooses the forest unless the alternative is worse.”

That lands too close to home.

Anton studies me for a beat, then says gently, “You’re not responsible for what happened to your mate.”

“I was her alpha,” I reply quietly. “That makes it my responsibility.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he offers something steadier.

“And today,” he says, “you saved someone who needed it. That counts.”

I glance back at the girl. Her fingers twitch in her sleep, curling slightly, like she’s holding onto something unseen.

“Handle the rogues,” I say. “Double patrols near the border.”

Anton nods, already standing. “I’ll take care of it.”

He pauses at the door. “You’re not as cold as you think you are, Eric.”

Then he’s gone.

I stay where I am, listening to her breathing, the weight of the past heavy—but not heavy enough to smother the quiet resolve settling into my bones.

I don’t know who she is.

But while she’s under my roof, nothing else will touch her.