23

The witch did not answer.

She returned to crushing the leaves, slower now, deliberate, then tipped water into the bowl. It hissed softly when she set it over the fire. Steam rose, carrying a sharp, clean scent that cut through the dampness of the cave.

“The King bought Melany,” I pressed. “Will he kill her? Is she a witch too?”

Still nothing.

She stood, crossing the small space with quiet steps, rummaged through a worn satchel, and drew out a strip of bark... cinnamon, I thought. She snapped it in half and dropped it into the bowl. The scent deepened, warm and bitter. 

Maybe it really was tea.

Victoria’s voice surfaced in my mind: What if he marries her?

“Will the King marry her?” I asked, and the witch finally looked at me.

“Now you’ve asked the right question, Alpha.” She lifted the bowl from the fire and came closer. The steam brushed my face, hot and fragrant. “Drink.”

I pushed it away with the back of my hand. “I am not sick.”

Her mouth curved. “Drink,” she said, holding it steady, “if you want to see the truth.”

I hesitated.

Steam rose between us, thick and sharp, carrying the bitterness of crushed herbs and something metallic beneath it. My fingers hovered before closing around the bowl. The clay burned my skin, but I lifted it and drank.

The taste was fucking vile! Scorched leaves, spice, earth. It tore down my throat.

The cave vanished.

The ground fell away and I stood in a vast open expanse beneath a sky split by pale moonlight. A crowd stretched endlessly before me: wolves, humans, beings I did not recognize. Armor clinked softly. Banners sagged in still air. No one spoke.

Then they moved. One by one, then all at once, they dropped to their knees, and at the center stood Melany.

She was clean. Untouched. No chains. No dirt. Her red hair spilled freely down her back, catching the moonlight like fire. Her spine was straight, her chin lifted, her expression calm.

A crown rested on her head. It sat on her brow as if it had always belonged there, as if it had been waiting for her. 

But not a queen’s crown.

It was the King’s.

The sight drove the air from my lungs. 

The crowd bowed deeper, foreheads pressed to the ground, hands raised in submission. The weight of it crushed my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Then she looked at me, not with recognition. With judgment!

The vision shattered.

I staggered back into the cave, the bowl slipping from my hands and breaking against the stone. Liquid splashed across the floor, hissing as it died in the firelight. My heart slammed violently against my ribs.

The witch watched me without surprise. “Now,” she said quietly, “you see.”

**

Melany's POV

Click!

The lock gave in with a muted click, the last bit of resistance in the pin breaking as I twisted my wrist. My fingers shook, slick with sweat, and for a second the metal scraped against the inside of the lock before coming loose. 

I did not stop to think. 

I pulled the hairpin free, its thin edge biting into my skin, and shoved it into my pocket.

The door groaned as I forced it open. The wood was heavier than I expected, rough beneath my palms, and the hinges complained in a low, dry creak that seemed far too loud. A strand of hair slipped loose and brushed my cheek as the door swung wide.

Cold marble met my bare feet. The shock ran straight up my legs, stealing my breath. I pushed off without looking back, the slap of skin against stone echoing in the silence. 

My steps were uneven, hurried, the sound of my own breathing loud in my ears. I bolted into a corridor I did not recognize, walls closing in on either side as I ran, the floor hard and unforgiving beneath me.

I rounded a corner too fast, nearly slipped, caught myself on the railing of a staircase, but it cracked beneath my grip, rotten at the base, and snapped clean off. 

"Godde..." I fell, hard, the stone steps digging into my knees and forearms as I crashed down the short flight. Pain blossomed in sharp, instant pulses, but I forced myself to keep moving. 

No time for pain. 

A side door loomed ahead, left ajar by some careless hand. I threw the door wide and burst outside, the sudden shift from warm stone to raw wilderness made my skin flinch, but adrenaline drove me forward.

The forest swallowed me whole.

Branches whipped against my face and arms as I pushed through the undergrowth. The ground was uneven, littered with roots and rocks that bit at my feet, but I did not stop. 

Leaves clung to my skin, sticking where sweat hadn’t had time to dry. Thin branches snapped back as I passed, scratching my arms, catching in my hair until I tore free with sharp, breathless movements. My lungs burned. 

Somewhere between one step and the next, a warm trickle slid down my forearm, and I understood, without slowing, that I was bleeding. Nothing deep. Just shallow cuts, the kind that stung more than they hurt, skin torn open along my legs, fire spreading with every stride. I ignored it.

What mattered was the shift.

It came quietly, almost politely. The rhythm of the forest broke. My breathing sounded too loud, my footsteps too exposed. I ran another few meters before the thought finished forming, heavy and undeniable.

I wasn’t alone.

The realization crawled up my spine. I couldn’t hear him... no branches cracking, no steps behind mine, but the absence itself was wrong. The birds had gone silent. The air pressed in, thick, unmoving. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

He was there.

Not closing the distance. Not forcing speed. Just moving with purpose, unhurried, certain of the path I was taking.

Not chasing.

Hunting.

The farther I ran, the more the forest seemed to close in, as if the trees themselves leaned inward to watch. The canopy above blocked the moonlight in patches, making the path ahead blur. 

I stumbled more than once.

Then, a clearing.

A narrow opening in the trees, bathed in cold silver light, a brief reprieve from the darkness. I darted across it, knowing full well I was exposed, but hoping the other side would offer better cover. 

"There!" I could feel sweat rolling down my spine, my muscles aching, lungs searing with each breath.

In the Black Moon pack, I was never truly safe, but I did not live in fear. I wasn’t afraid of Dominic’s power or his family’s influence. I wasn’t afraid of Victoria, no matter how cruel she could be. Deep down, I knew they enjoyed humiliating me, but they couldn’t make me feel worse than I already did. But King Ravok… with every passing second, the fear grew.

And… he was there.

The energy in the air shifted. The forest felt suddenly smaller, colder. I slowed, my instincts screaming, but it was already too late.

“Run, little rebel.” His voice came from behind, low and smooth, dripping with dark amusement.

Every muscle in my body locked, the hairs on my arms rising in alarm. I turned my head slowly, pulse hammering in my throat.

God!

He stood at the edge of the clearing, half-drenched in shadow, moonlight catching in his tousled black hair. His eyes weren’t blue anymore, they glowed.

Silver. Pale. Inhuman.

I bolted.

Branches whipped at my face as I pushed through them, the underbrush tearing at my legs. My lungs burned, and my feet were raw, but I did not stop. I couldn’t. There were other sounds now... the faint crack of branches behind me. 

He wasn’t running. The bastard knew he’d catch me.

I forced myself faster, but the forest was thick and cruel, and my body was already screaming. I tried to leap over a fallen branch, but my foot caught on something, stone or root, I did not know, and I stumbled forward.

Pow!

I hit the ground with a grunt, dirt grinding into my palms, my knees scraping raw. I barely had time to push up before I felt fabric tear at my back.

He’d grabbed me.