Chapter 3

Silence was no longer peace. It was suspense.

Days blurred into nights at Veyne Estate. Lena learned to move like a shadow through its halls, her footsteps swallowed by velvet carpets, her thoughts hidden behind polite notes and professional gestures. Damien rarely appeared before noon, and when he did, his eyes were distant—as if part of him stayed elsewhere, watching from the woods.

Each dawn, she’d find traces: muddy prints by the east door, torn fabric caught on the gate, the faint scent of pine and smoke clinging to the air.

The staff said nothing.

But Lena noticed how they flinched when wolves howled beyond the forest line.

One evening, Damien summoned her to the library. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing amber light across the shelves. On the table lay several old books weathered leather, symbols embossed in silver.

I need you to catalog these, he wrote, sliding them toward her. Do not open the red one.

Her eyes flicked to the crimson-bound volume at the center. Its cover bore a sigil she recognized from his ring a crescent moon entwined with a wolf’s head.

She nodded obediently, but curiosity clawed at her like an itch under the skin.

When he left the room, she stared at the red book until the shadows grew long. Then, unable to resist, she touched the cover.

The leather pulsed beneath her fingers alive.

The latch came undone with a soft click.

Inside, the pages were filled with hand-drawn diagrams of moons, human anatomy, and wolves mid-shift bones cracking, bodies half-transformed. Beneath one sketch was a name scrawled in ink:

Damien Veyne  1843.

Lena’s breath caught. 1843? That was impossible.

She turned another page and froze. It was a portrait of her.

Same face, same eyes, same crescent pendant at her throat. Beneath it, the caption read:

The Mute Oracle Bonded Mate.

The book slipped from her fingers.

The air around her thickened, pressing against her lungs. She stumbled back just as the library door slammed open.

Damien stood in the doorway, chest rising with restrained fury. For the first time, his composure fractured.

The red book lay open between them, exposing every secret he’d tried to bury.

He crossed the room in three strides, slammed the cover shut, and gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood groaned. His eyes silver again—burned with light that didn’t belong to a man.

Lena trembled, heart hammering. She grabbed her notebook and wrote, her hand shaking:

What are you?

Damien’s throat flexed, his jaw tightening as if words clawed at his silence. Then he wrote, each letter pressed deep into the paper:

Bound. Cursed. Half-man, half-wolf.

And you 

He hesitated.

You were never supposed to return.

Lena stared, disbelief warring with fear. Return? She’d never been here before.

She scribbled:

You know me?

His gaze softened for a heartbeat sorrow flickering beneath the storm.

Once, you were the only one who could hear me when I changed. The only one who didn’t run.

He looked away. The fire cast his shadow against the wall a silhouette that wasn’t entirely human.

But you died, he wrote. A century ago. The night the curse was sealed.

The room tilted. Her breath came short, ragged. A century ago…

Before she could respond, a low sound rippled through the mansion a guttural growl from somewhere deep below. The windows trembled, the lights flickered.

Damien’s head snapped up.

Stay here, he wrote. Do not follow.

He was gone before she could stop him.

But Lena couldn’t obey. Something inside her—something older than fear pulled her forward.

She followed the sound through winding corridors until she reached the basement door. It hung ajar, the smell of iron and rain drifting up from the dark.

Stairs spiraled down into an underground chamber. The air pulsed with raw energy. Chains rattled.

When she reached the final step, she froze.

Damien stood at the center of the room, shirt torn, skin gleaming with sweat. His body convulsed, muscles shifting beneath the surface like waves. The mark on his wrist blazed silver, spreading like fire through his veins.

He looked up, eyes no longer human.

“Lena…”

It was the first sound she’d ever heard from him.

His voice low, rough, trembling broke her heart and terrified her at once.

Then came the sound of bones snapping. His back arched, hands clawing the ground. Fur burst through his skin, teeth lengthening, eyes burning like liquid mercury.

Before her stood not the man who had hired her, but the beast from the forest.

A wolf larger than any natural creature, its fur streaked with silver, its gaze both feral and heartbreakingly familiar.

Lena stumbled back, tears stinging her eyes. He growled a warning, or a plea, she couldn’t tell.

But when she lifted her hand, palm trembling, the wolf stilled. Its ears twitched, its chest rising sharply as if it recognized her.

She stepped closer. “Damien…” she mouthed soundlessly.

The beast bowed its head.

In the reflection of its silver eyes, she saw herself—and behind her, faintly, the same pendant glowing with light.

For a moment, they were bound by something older than words. The same silence, the same pulse.

Then the wolf lunged—not at her, but toward the chains bolted to the floor. They snapped free, scattering sparks. The ground shook, dust falling from the ceiling.

Lena stumbled backward as the creature vanished into the tunnel leading to the woods.

When she finally dared to breathe, the chamber was empty except for the scent of pine, smoke, and the echo of his voice saying her name.

By morning, the mansion was quiet again.

A note waited on her bedside table. The ink was smudged, hurried.

You were not meant to see that.

If you value your life, leave before nightfall.

She read it twice, her pulse steady now. Then she took the pen, pressed it against the paper, and wrote beneath his warning:

I didn’t come here to run.

She folded the note and slipped it beneath his door.

Outside, wolves howled as dawn burned the mist away.