"The Wolf That Waited"(Riven's POV)
He'd come to Brimridge to kill a rogue. That was it.
One clean kill. One less threat. One night and he was gone.
Instead, he'd walked straight into a fire—and found her in the middle of it. A girl with silver eyes, flame-lit skin, and a scent that made his blood ache.
It hit him the second he saw her.That snap in the chest. The electric pull. The unraveling.
Imprint.
No.
No, no, no.
It wasn't possible. He'd already had a mate.
And she was dead.
Wolves didn't imprint twice.
Yet here he was, staring at a girl who looked more goddess than girl, and every part of him—wolf and man—was howling: Mine.
He should've walked away.
Should've turned around and vanished into the shadows like he always did.
But the moment her eyes locked on his—wide, curious, unknowingly powerful—he was done.
The bond laced around him like chains. And worse?
She felt it too. He could see it in the way her breath hitched. In the way her pulse pounded beneath the delicate skin of her neck.
Gods, he could hear her heartbeat.
Could smell her arousal blooming on her skin like a secret garden.
Riven clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.
He'd spent a decade controlling his instincts. Killing them. Burying the part of himself that longed. Desired. Needed.
And now the bond was dragging all of it back to the surface like a storm.
He stepped in closer, unable to help himself.
The space between them was a breath, a whisper. Her scent was dizzying—wildflowers, fire, rain.
She had no idea what she was.
No idea what he was.
But her body knew. Her skin flushed, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Her nipples peaked under her thin tank top, and she didn't even realize she was leaning into him.
He nearly groaned.
Focus, he told himself.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low and strained.
Neither should you.
The voice in his head wouldn't shut up.
She looked up at him, defiant even in her confusion. "Neither should you."
Something dangerous flickered in his chest. Not rage. Not amusement.
Want.
Pure. Dark. Animalistic.
He leaned in.
Not to kiss. Not to touch.
Just to breathe her in. Feel her tremble. Mark her with his scent in the smallest way.
Her body shivered.
His voice barely made it past his lips. "You're mine."
The second the words left him, he hated himself for it.
Because they weren't a declaration. They were a claim. An instinct.
A part of him—the cold, logical part—knew what this meant.
Imprinting wasn't supposed to happen again.
Not after the first bond.
Not after the first death.
Yet here he was, blood pounding, cock hard in his jeans, fighting the need to drag her into the forest, press her into the dirt, and make her his.
He stepped back like he'd touched fire.
She blinked, confused. Hurt. She didn't understand what was happening.
Good.
Because the moment she did… she'd hate him.