They told me to run. But the moment Cassian Thorne’s eyes locked on mine, the bond snapped into place—and there was no turning back. Cassian isn’t just any wolf. He’s the brutal, feared Alpha of Thornebrook. The monster who rules the night. And I’m just… human. I was never supposed to be in his world. Now I feel him everywhere: under my skin, in my blood, in every forbidden dream. The full moon is coming. The Alpha is done waiting. And he always takes what’s his.
View MoreCASSIAN POV: The forest is silent.Not peaceful.The kind of silence that means something is wrong.I stalk through the trees, boots silent on damp earth. The rogue’s trail is fresh—muddy pawprints, tufts of fur, a scent that reeks of rot and desperation. Broken branches hang like bones; bark stripped where he’s marked his path. His fear lingers in the air like smoke.He’s close. Or was.But that’s not what makes me stop.It’s something else.A scent I’ve never smelled before.Human.But not just human.Something underneath it—iron, heat, something ancient that makes my teeth ache and vision sharpen. My wolf rises instantly, restless and curious.The scent hits again, stronger. Like smoke and sugar, wild honey over blood. It drifts through the trees, seeping into my lungs until I can taste it. Sweet, sharp, utterly foreign—and somehow familiar. Like a memory I’ve never had.I suck in air through my teeth—a mistake.Now it’s in me. Wrapped around every nerve. Pulling.Colors sharpen.
I don’t know when I actually fall asleep. But when I wake, the light outside is pale and gray—the kind of morning where the sun never really bothers to show up.I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. My body feels tense, like I’ve been clenching my jaw all night.The room is quiet. Too quiet.I reach for my phone out of reflex.Still no signal. Battery at 14%.Perfect. Trapped in fog town, starring in a live-action forest horror movie—and no way to text for help. Not that anyone would care. My group chat probably thinks I ghosted them.I sigh and drag myself to the window.I push the curtain aside—and freeze.He’s there.At the tree line.Not a man. A wolf.But not any wolf I’ve ever seen. Massive, twice the size of normal, fur so black it catches blue in the weak light. He isn’t pacing, or sniffing. Just standing. Still as stone.And those eyes.Gold. Burning. The same eyes from my dream.They’re locked on me, and I swear—he knows I’m watching back.I don’t move.Neither does he.For a mo
The smell hits me before I even make it downstairs.Earthy and bitter, with something faintly sweet underneath—like moss and licorice boiled together. I follow it barefoot, careful over the groaning wood floors. The whole house creaks like it’s stretching after a long sleep.Elsie is already in the kitchen, hunched over a chipped kettle on the stove. She doesn’t look up when I enter.“You sleep?” she asks, voice low and scratchy.“I think so,” I say, hovering in the doorway.She doesn’t respond—just pours something dark into two mismatched mugs. No cream, no sugar. No asking how I like it.I take the mug she holds out and sit at the little wooden table by the window. Outside, the fog presses heavy against the glass, swallowing the yard, the trees, everything.Elsie sits across from me, sips slowly, like she’s done this a thousand mornings.I taste mine.It’s awful. Bitter, sharp, like dirt and wilted flowers and something metallic I can’t place. I try not to make a face.She notices a
The signal dies the second I hit send.“Halfway there. Still alive. No cult in sight yet.”I stare at the little red X over my bars, willing it to fix itself. Nothing. I drop the phone onto my lap and watch the road ahead: narrow, cracked, and swallowed by trees so thick they look like they’re leaning in to listen.The guy driving me—some friend of my aunt’s, I think his name is Warren—hasn’t spoken in over an hour. Just chewing on something, knuckles white around the wheel like he’s angry at the road itself.Fog hangs low across the asphalt, curling around the tires like it’s alive. Out here, the mountains don’t look like postcards. They’re darker. Sharper. The air feels heavy, pressed tight against my ribs.Something about these woods feels old. Hungry.“I’m not being dramatic,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “This is literally where people get murdered in horror movies.”Warren grunts. Not a laugh. Not an answer. Just a grunt.Cool.We pass a hand-painted sign, nailed to a crooked pos
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