Chapter 7

Griffen's Point of View

The forest is quiet this far out, no pack patrols, no roads, no lights. Just the shadows of trees rushing past in the rearview mirror and the distant sound of wind brushing against the truck’s windows like a ghost with something to say.

I glance at her again.

Aria lies across the passenger seat, her head turned towards the window, lips parted just slightly. She looks peaceful, almost like she’s asleep. But I know better. Her pulse is steady, her breathing soft, the sedutive I used on her is wearing off, slowly.

We’re almost there.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

This wasn’t the plan.

This was never supposed to happen like this. I was going to find the right moment. Strike clean. But then she started sneaking out, slipping into the human world like she was running from herself. Like she didn’t fit the crown either.

And now… she’s here.

With me.

I pull the truck off the dirt road, tires crunching over gravel and dried leaves. The old cabin is just ahead, hidden in a crescent of pine trees. It looks like it hasn’t changed in years, the porch still sagging on one side, the shutters hanging slightly crooked, but the walls are sturdy and the roof held through too many winters to count.

I kill the engine and step out, the cold air biting into my skin. The night is clear. Stars watch from above, distant and silent.

I move around to the passenger side, open the door, and reach in to gather her into my arms.

She’s warm. Too light. Her cloak slips slightly, revealing a silver bracelet, a charm of a crescent moon catches the moonlight. I grit my teeth and adjust my grip, cradling her close against my chest.

The scent of her, wild forest and soft lavender, lingers under my skin in a way I don’t want to admit.

The porch creaks under my weight as I carry her inside. The place smells like dust and pine, but it’s clean. I made sure of that the last time I came out here. The bed still stands against the far wall, same rough plaid blanket, same carved headboard Thorne made with his own hands.

I lay her down carefully, slower than I need to. Her hair spills across the pillow, tangled from the night, and her brows twitch just slightly as if she’s dreaming something she’s trying to wake up from.

I brush her hood back, fingers barely grazing her temple.

No bruises. No injuries. Good.

I step back, my breath catching.

How did it come to this?

This girl, this werewolf, the daughter of the king I swore I’d destroy, unconscious in the one place I once called safe. The cabin where my mother used to read by candlelight, where Thorne taught me how to catch fish, where the world was still whole.

And now she’s here.

I sink into the old chair by the wall, eyes never leaving her.

Whatever this is… it’s already too far gone to stop.

The cabin is silent, too silent.

Outside, the wind moves through the trees like a restless whisper, but in here, it’s just me and the weight pressing down on my chest. It’s not cold. It’s not even dark. The moonlight leaks in through the cracked shutters, bathing the worn wood floors in silver.

But I still move towards the fireplace.

I kneel, grabbing the old logs stacked beside the hearth, the ones I chopped the last time I came out here, when I needed space, clarity, control. Same as now. I set the logs in place, muscle memory taking over. Dry pine needles and old newspaper tucked beneath, kindling arranged like ribs ready to catch.

Then I strike the match.

The hiss and flare of sulfur is small, but it commands my focus. I hold the flame to the paper and watch it catch, slow at first, then faster, climbing up the wood in greedy curls. The fire crackles to life, a deep orange glow painting the cabin walls, wrapping the room in warmth I don’t feel.

I sit back on my heels and just stare at it.

The flames move like they’re alive. Wild, untamed, but somehow rhythmic. Like a heartbeat I can sync mine to. There’s no judgment in fire. No questions. It just burns.

That’s why I always come back to it.

Not for the heat. Not for the light.

But because it’s the one thing that quiets everything else.

When my thoughts get too loud, when the faces from the past crawl out from the corners of my mind, when I see Thorne’s blood, or hear my father’s voice like he’s still in the room, the fire is the only thing that drowns it all out.

I let my eyes unfocus, watching the flames twist and snap.

I don’t think about Aria asleep in the next room. Or how her scent still lingers on my shirt. Or how every fiber of my being wants to stay close to her when I know I shouldn’t.

The flames snap and hiss in the old hearth, throwing shadows across the cabin walls, jagged silhouettes that flicker like ghosts. My whole body’s tense, too many thoughts grinding in my skull like stone wheels that won’t stop turning.

She’s asleep in the back room, breathing soft and even, completely unaware of the storm unraveling just outside her door.

Aria.

My mate.

My mate.

I drag a hand through my hair and lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, heart pounding like a drum that won’t settle.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

I wasn’t supposed to care. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. I was supposed to get close, wait for the perfect moment, and bury a blade so deep in Jensen’s world that he’d never recover. That was the plan. Every step I’ve taken since I was old enough to understand what vengeance tasted like was to get me here.

But then the scent hit me.

And tonight, when I toiched her, I felt it those damn mate sparks. The bond. The pull. The undeniable, cosmic truth that I had been chosen.

And not just by fate.

By the Moon Goddess herself.

She bound me to a werewolf.

I grind my teeth and close my eyes, letting my head drop forward. It’s like a joke. A cruel twist in the script of a life already soaked in betrayal and loss.

I can still hear my father’s voice like he’s standing behind me, Thorne, proud and sharp and merciless. “Werewolves are weak, Griffen. They’re obedient. Lesser. You don’t bow to weakness, you rise above it.”

He meant it. Every word.

He raised me on it. Fed me those truths with the same hands that taught me how to fight, how to wear control like armor.

And Maddox? He still breathes that same poison. He talks like my father did, with conviction and disdain. He wants a world where Lycans rule alone, where wolves either serve or vanish. He thinks I still believe it too.

Part of me does.

Or… did.

I don’t know anymore.

Because when I look at Aria, I don’t see weakness.

I see fire. I see defiance. I see someone who’s never had a place, who walks alone even when she’s surrounded by people who claim to love her. I see the part of me I buried years ago just to survive.

I see my mate.

And I hate it.

I hate that it feels right. That her scent calms the storm, even as it ignites everything I’ve worked to suppress. That one look from her undoes a lifetime of rage like it was just dust waiting to be blown away.

My fists clench on my knees.

If the Moon Goddess really chose her for me… what does that say about everything I’ve believed? About my father? About me?

I breathe out slowly, jaw aching from the tension. The fire crackles louder now, like it’s mocking me.

This bond, it’s not just inconvenient. It’s dangerous. It threatens everything. My plan. My purpose.

And yet, even now, even with the taste of resentment still raw on my tongue...

I can’t walk away from her.

And that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.