The Intruder Part 1

Kieran -

The scent hit me like a physical blow—human, male, reeking of desperation and cheap whiskey. But it was the location that made my vision go red around the edges. The rose garden. The one place on my entire estate that I'd marked as sacred, untouchable, mine in a way that went deeper than mere ownership.

I was moving before conscious thought caught up with instinct, my body shifting from wolf to human form as I ran through the corridors of the castle. Stone floors that should have been cold against my bare feet felt warm, almost burning, as if the very foundations of my home were responding to the violation taking place in its heart.

Twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years I'd protected this place from human intrusion, kept it hidden behind walls of mist and legend and carefully cultivated fear. And now some drunken fool had stumbled through my defenses like they were cobwebs, drawn by whatever madness compelled mortals to take what wasn't theirs.

The wolf in me howled for blood. The man in me wanted answers.

I paused at the great doors that led to the garden courtyard, my hand resting on ancient oak that had been carved by craftsmen dead for centuries. Through the glass panels, I could see him—a figure hunched over the rose beds like a scavenger picking at carrion. The sight made something primal and possessive surge in my chest, hot enough to burn.

Mine, the wolf snarled. Sacred. Protected. MINE.

The roses weren't just flowers. They were memory made manifest, beauty preserved in defiance of time and death and the curse that had stolen everything else from me. Each bloom was perfect because perfection was the only way I could honor what I'd lost. Each petal held fragments of a past I could never reclaim but refused to forget.

And this thing—this human with his trembling hands and guilty conscience—dared to touch them.

I stepped through the doors with the kind of controlled violence that came from decades of practice. My footsteps were silent on the flagstones, but I made no effort to mask my approach. Let him hear death coming. Let him understand what it meant to violate sacred ground.

He was kneeling beside the center bed, his fingers wrapped around the stem of my most prized rose—a bloom so perfect it seemed to capture moonlight even in the gathering dusk. The flower's crimson petals reflected what little light remained, and for a moment I was transported back to another time, another garden, another woman who'd loved roses with the passion of someone who understood their fleeting beauty.

Lydia.

Her name whispered through my mind like a ghost, and with it came the familiar ache of loss that no amount of time seemed able to heal. She'd planted these roses, tended them with her own hands, whispered to them like they were children who might grow strong on love alone.

And now this stranger was stealing pieces of her legacy like they meant nothing at all.

"Magnificent, aren't they?" I said, my voice carrying just enough menace to make him freeze. "Particularly considering the season."

The man—middle-aged, soft around the edges in the way of men who'd never known real hardship—jerked upright so quickly he nearly lost his balance. The rose remained clutched in his fist, thorns drawing blood from his palm that he seemed too shocked to notice.

"I... that is..." He turned toward me, and I got my first clear look at his face. Weak chin, eyes that had probably been kind once but now held the hollow desperation of a man who'd gambled everything and lost. The sort of human who made poor decisions and expected others to pay the price.

I knew the type. I'd been that type, once upon a time.

"You seem to have found something that belongs to me," I continued, stepping closer. The evening air carried his scent more clearly now—fear, guilt, and underneath it all, the bitter tang of a man who'd been drinking to avoid thinking.

"I... I'm terribly sorry," he stammered, though he didn't immediately release the rose. "I seem to have gotten lost in the storm, and when I saw your beautiful garden... I meant no harm."

No harm. As if intention mattered more than action. As if ignorance was absolution for theft.

"Lost," I repeated, tasting the lie on the night air. Men didn't get lost in my territory by accident. The mists that protected this place from curious eyes were more than mere weather—they were barriers between worlds, meant to turn away anyone who didn't belong here.

Which meant either this man was something more than he appeared, or fate had decided to play another of its cruel games with my existence.

"The roads," he continued, his voice gaining strength as he warmed to his fabrication. "They're not well marked, and the storm made visibility impossible. I was hoping to find shelter, perhaps someone who could provide directions back to the main road."

I let silence stretch between us like a blade, watching him squirm under the weight of my attention. His story wasn't entirely untrue—I could smell the rain on his clothes, see the mud that caked his boots. But truth and honesty weren't the same thing, and this man wore his deceptions like a second skin.