Chapter 2: The Attack

Wren stood barefoot on the cold forest floor, shivering. She couldn’t even remember losing her shoes—everything after crossing the pack border blurred together. The roots, the needle in her arm, the pounding pain—none of it felt separate anymore. The worst pain stuck in her chest. Her heart used to be there. Now it just ached worse with every step.

She kept walking anyway. What else was there to do? One foot, then another. That was all.

The moon had climbed higher, pale light threaded through the black branches. Somewhere behind her—miles back—Ashgrove Pack was probably still celebrating. She wondered if Kane had already found his way to Serena’s bed. She wondered why she cared.

Stop. He made his choice. Make yours. Just keep moving.

She didn’t have any destination. She had no pack, no territory, no one on earth waiting for her anywhere. She grew up an orphan; it looked like she’d die one, too, somewhere out here. And honestly, a small corner of her almost wouldn’t mind. It’d be easier than this: easier than dragging around all the hurt from that hall.

A twig snapped in the dark to her left.

She went still.

She wasn’t alone. Every last human sense she had roared at her to be scared. She turned carefully, her eyes straining—nothing but darkness and scattered moon.

Then she caught the eyes.

Four pairs—low to the ground, yellow and bright, glinting like coins. Rogues. The kind of wolves that packs like Ashgrove kept away from people. Nobody to enforce rules or stop them from hunting. She’d known it even before they crept forward. Thin, hungry looking—ash-grey fur, ears back.

She had nobody now. No wolf partner. Just herself—bare feet, shaking legs, and a body already used up and sore, haunted by too much fear and too many needles. Standing there, she felt about as helpless as it got.

Then a man came out from the trees—a rough, grinning face. “Well, look what we’ve got,” he said, eyes sticking to her. “No pack marks. No scent. What’s your story, stray?” He stepped closer, teeth almost too big for his grin.

Wren forced out, “Just leave me alone.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. Honestly, what did she even have that a rogue would want?

“You’re wrong,” said another one—this time a sharp-eyed woman at the man’s side, hair all tangled. “A woman alone at night, no wolf, no pack to come searching? That’s exactly what we want. No one’ll even notice if you vanish.”

Wren backed up. Then once more. Her knees shook. Running wasn’t an option. Not like this—not starved and with half her blood drained. She could barely keep upright.

She raised her voice, shaky but firmer, “I said go away!” Another step back.

A root snagged her foot. She went down—hard. Stones scraped her palms. Pain shot up both arms and the rogues only laughed, their voices low and mean, as they started closing in.

“Please,” she whispered, hating how weak she sounded. “I don’t have anything you want.” She tried to sound a little stronger but heard how small her own words came out.

The scarred man crouched close enough for her to smell him—old sweat, sour and sharp. “Everyone’s got something,” he said. “Even a stray like you.”

He grabbed for her.

Wren scrambled backward, clawing at the dirt. She felt her collar tear, his hand yanking cloth instead of skin. The wild-haired woman hissed—the birthmark above Wren’s collarbone flashed in the light.

“What the Goddess is that?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The scarred man’s voice turned harsh. “Just grab her.”

Wren couldn’t scream. All the tears she’d bitten back at Ashgrove had left her throat raw and useless. Panic hit, and she kicked—her foot landed hard on someone’s shin. One of them cursed. But relief didn’t last—a hand caught her ankle and yanked her through the dirt, scraping her skin, leaving her shaking.

This is how it ends, she thought. She felt oddly calm—like sometimes you do right before everything hits you. No more fighting, just waiting for it.

And then the whole night ripped open with snarling and blood.

For a second, she couldn’t even tell what was happening—something huge yanked her attackers away, with a growl that made her bones rattle. Silver-grey fur flashed by—fast, massive, jaws bared. Not a normal wolf. Twice the size, teeth flashing in the moonlight. It tore through the rogues like they were nothing.

More wolves crashed out of the trees—five of them, running as a pack, working together with deadly timing. The rogues barely had time to run. The scarred man tried but got dragged down, yelling. The wild-haired one shouted—something about mercy, maybe—but the fight swallowed her words.

Wren didn’t move. Couldn’t. She just lay there, too stunned to even think, watching these enormous wolves—like horses, almost—take down the rogues who’d been about to kill her. She should have been terrified too. But when the biggest wolf finally turned its eyes on her, something old stirred inside. For some reason, she didn’t feel afraid. The look wasn’t hungry. Wasn’t threatening. It felt more like…familiarity. Or recognition.

Not that she could think about it anymore. Everything tilted and spun. She felt herself falling, as if she were watching from somewhere else. All that pain, all the tiredness—her body just gave out, finally. She slumped to the earth, head spinning.

As everything faded, a man’s voice broke through, deep and urgent, right next to her ear: “She’s losing blood, fast. Someone get Beta Callum. Now.”

---

Once the rogues went down, Ronan Thorne shifted back to a man, grabbing clothes from one of his patrol. He headed straight for the woman crumpled in the dirt.

He’d smelled her from meters away: blood, and something complicated, old. Not Ashgrove, not a rogue. Something he couldn’t describe, but it set off every instinct he had. The scent only got stronger as he knelt down. His nerves fizzed, curiosity and anxiety tangled together.

She looked young—mid-twenties, maybe. Clothes shredded, Luna’s fine fabric ruined. Her collar was torn, shoulder bare. And right there, on her collarbone, a birthmark he would’ve recognized anywhere. A mark he’d seen in his own family, like some secret kept under the skin.

A patrol member jogged up. “Ronan… is that—?”

“I don’t know.” Lies. His heart wouldn’t slow down. “We have to get her to the pack house. She’s losing blood.”

He scooped Wren up, shocked at how light she felt. Her head lolled against his shoulder—hair tangled, skin pale as death itself. Dark circles under her eyes. But her features caught something in him. The line of her jaw, the shape of her brow. All too familiar. It made his throat close up, a feeling he hated, especially now when he needed all his focus.

No. No way. He ran anyway, through the woods, cradling her. Twenty years, and she just stumbles onto their land, all but dying on his doorstep?

Hope chewed at him. He remembered the ache from the day his mother vanished. He’d seen his father weep in the dark. He wanted this to be her—wanted a happy ending. But he couldn’t let himself believe until Beta Callum said it out loud. He needed certainty.

He whispered to the unconscious woman in his arms, not sure if she could hear him. “Hold on. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Still she lay silent, breath shallow, pulse barely there. Instinct had Ronan checking—years of losing friends had made him make sure, always.

He wasn’t letting go. Not this time.

They burst into the pack house. The household was up, Beta Callum already rolling up his sleeves.

“Blood loss,” Ronan said, lowering Wren onto the table Callum prepped. “Exhaustion, for sure. Maybe more. Found her just over the border with rogues on her.”

Callum set straight to work—checking her vitals, measuring her breaths. Then his hands paused, hovering over her collarbone, where the torn shirt gaped open. Light from the lamp hit that birthmark.

Callum stiffened.

“Ronan,” he said quietly, voice rough with something Ronan couldn’t read. “Go get your father. Now.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Ronan met Callum’s eyes—a glimmer of something there, hope or fear, he couldn’t tell. The old Beta just nodded toward Wren’s collarbone.

“Just get him. You need to see this yourself.”

---

Back in Ashgrove, Kane Ashgrove sat upright, heart hammering, right in the middle of his own celebration. The music, the laughter, the toasts for Serena as new Luna all faded around him. He clutched his chest; a cold, burning pain swept through him—fear, loneliness, something tearing at flesh. His wolf howled, a raw sound he hadn’t heard since he was a kid. It was like every ache Wren had ever pushed down hit him all at once.

Serena touched his arm, gentle but… off. “Kane, you alright?” she asked. Concern in her voice. Just not in her eyes.

He struggled for words, rubbing at his chest. “Just tired,” he managed, trying to play it off. “It’s been a damn long day.”

But he knew what had happened. Didn’t need to say it out loud. You can’t just tear two people apart with a speech from a leader. Not if they were truly meant. Some part of him always knew the bond was real. But feeling it now—a punch in the gut—was nothing he’d expected, especially on this night, right after he sent her away.

What if she’s in trouble? The thought nearly sent him flying out the door. He gripped the edge of the table, trying not to give himself away. He’d made his choice; he had no right to chase after her. But still—his mind kept circling the same desperate worry—was she safe? Did she need him?

His own guilt whispered, You made this mess. Let them draw her blood, watched her bleed. Then sent her out there alone.

“Kane…” Serena’s fingers dug in slightly now, smile holding steady but far too bright. “You’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.”

He really looked at her for once—this woman carrying his child. No spark. No pull. Just a heavy dread inside. And the realization, cold and clear, that he’d probably made the worst mistake of his life.

The pain in his chest faded, eventually. Not completely—a dull ache stayed behind. He kept telling himself it just meant Wren was safe now. That nothing had happened. But all through the feast—his own feast, his new Luna at his side—he felt hollow. Like he’d carved something out of himself and couldn’t remember how to fit it back in.

He gave up on sleep. That feeling just wouldn’t leave.