Five

Elara’s POV

The forest swallowed me whole.

Branches clawed at my arms, my face, ripping the thin white shift into ribbons that fluttered behind me like surrender flags I refused to wave. My bare feet slammed against roots and stones, each step sending fresh pain shooting up my legs, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. If I stopped, the scream building in my throat since Damon’s voice cut through the night would finally break free, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop screaming once it started.

The rejection mark burned.

Not like a candle flame. Like someone had poured molten iron directly onto my skin and let it eat inward. Every heartbeat pulsed through it—sharp, vicious, reminding me exactly what he’d said.

Weak.

Unworthy.

Forgotten.

I pressed my palm to the mark without thinking. The skin felt raised, hot, angry. My fingers came away slick with blood. I stared at the crimson smear on my hand for one stupid second, then wiped it on my ruined dress and kept running.

How far had I gone? Miles? Minutes? Time blurred when every breath tasted like betrayal.

The moon was still full, mocking me with its cold silver light filtering through the canopy. It should have felt like a blessing tonight—the same moon that was supposed to reveal my mate, my future, my place. Instead it watched me run like a hunted animal.

I stumbled over a fallen log and went down hard. Knee cracked against stone. Palm scraped raw. I stayed there for a moment, chest heaving, tasting copper on my tongue from where I’d bitten my lip to keep from crying out.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

But the tears came anyway—hot, furious, blurring the trees into dark smears. I swiped at them with shaking hands. Crying was weak. Crying was what the pack expected from me. From the stray. From the girl who couldn’t even shift.

I forced myself up.

My legs trembled, threatening to buckle, but I locked my knees and started moving again. Slower now. Stumbling. The forest had grown thicker, wilder. The paths I knew from gathering herbs ended long ago. This was border territory—forbidden. Nightshade land.

Stories whispered in the kitchens late at night came back to me in fragments.

Lucian Draven.

The cursed Alpha.

The wolf who tore through his enemies and left no survivors.

The one whose eyes glowed amber even in human form.

The one who hadn’t taken a mate since his first one died in a raid years ago.

Some said the Moon Goddess cursed him for it. Some said he cursed himself.

I didn’t care about the stories right now.

I just needed to keep moving.

Needed to get far enough that no one from Silver Moon would follow.

Needed to disappear.

My foot caught on something hidden under leaves. I pitched forward again, this time rolling down a shallow incline until I crashed against the base of an ancient oak. The impact knocked the air from my lungs. I lay there gasping, staring up at the fractured moon through branches that looked like skeletal fingers.

The rejection mark throbbed harder now—like it knew I was alone. Like it wanted to remind me I’d always be alone.

I curled into myself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around my ribs as if I could hold the broken pieces together.

He chose her.

He marked her.

He’s probably inside her right now, celebrating the future he just secured.

The image burned worse than the mark on my neck.

I pressed my forehead to my knees and let the sobs come—quiet at first, then louder, raw, ugly. They tore out of me until my throat felt scraped raw.

I didn’t know how long I stayed like that.

Long enough for the sweat on my skin to cool.

Long enough for the moon to climb higher.

Long enough for exhaustion to start pulling at the edges of my vision.

Then I heard it.

A twig snap.

Not close.

Not far.

I froze.

My heartbeat slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might give me away.

Another snap. Closer.

I lifted my head slowly, eyes scanning the darkness.

Nothing.

Just trees. Shadows. Moonlight slicing through gaps like blades.

I pushed myself up on shaking arms. My knee screamed in protest. I ignored it.

Another sound—low, deliberate. A footfall on leaves.

My mouth went dry.

I backed up until my spine hit the oak trunk. The bark scraped my shoulders through the torn shift.

“Who’s there?” My voice cracked. Small. Pathetic.

No answer.

But the air changed.

Thickened.

A scent hit me—pine, smoke, iron, something darker underneath. Something primal.

My skin prickled. Not from cold.

From him.

The growl came next—low, guttural, vibrating through the ground into my bones.

I pressed myself harder against the tree.

A shape moved at the top of the incline—massive, black-furred, eyes glowing amber in the moonlight.

The wolf was enormous. Bigger than any I’d ever seen in Silver Moon. Scars crisscrossed his muzzle, his shoulders, his flanks. He looked like he’d been carved from night and violence.

He descended the slope slowly. Deliberately. Like he knew I had nowhere to run.

I couldn’t breathe.

The wolf stopped ten feet away. Head lowered. Nostrils flaring.

He scented me.

His pupils blew wide.

The growl turned into something else—something deeper, hungrier.

A single word ripped through my mind, raw and possessive, impossible to ignore.

Mine.

My knees buckled.

I slid down the trunk until I was sitting in the dirt, staring up at the monster who had just claimed me without a single touch.

He took one step closer.

Then another.

I should have run. Should have screamed. Should have fought.

But all I could do was whisper, voice trembling so badly it barely made sound:

“Please… don’t.”

The wolf froze.

Amber eyes locked on mine.

For one endless heartbeat, neither of us moved.

Then he shifted.

Fur receded. Bones cracked and reformed. The massive wolf became a man—tall, scarred, broad-shouldered, every line of him radiating danger.

Dark hair fell across his forehead. A jagged scar ran from his left temple down his cheek. His chest was bare, crisscrossed with old wounds. Black pants hung low on his hips.

Lucian Draven.

He stared down at me, expression unreadable.

But his eyes… his eyes burned.

He crouched slowly, bringing his face level with mine.

I flinched.

He didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

But his voice—low, rough, edged with something almost like pain—cut through the night.

“You’re bleeding.”

I looked down. The rejection mark had reopened again, fresh blood trickling down my collarbone.

He reached out—slowly, carefully—and brushed his thumb across the mark.

The contact sent fire through my veins.

I gasped.

He froze again, thumb still pressed to my skin.

Then he leaned in.

Nostrils flaring.

Breathing me in.

His eyes darkened to molten gold.

“Mine,” he growled again—this time out loud.

And the world tilted.

Because even through the pain, even through the terror, even through the fresh wound Damon had carved into my soul…

A tiny, traitorous part of me whispered back:

Maybe.