"How many mounts do you think they have?" a gravelly voice asked, low and deliberate as he and his companion dropped soundlessly from the window ledge where they'd been spying.
The second man dusted off his palms, eyes narrowed in calculation.
"Judging by the feed stockpile?" he muttered. "At least twenty thousand. Probably more."
Silence settled between them like a held breath.
There was no need to ask the next question—they already knew the answer.
Drumbeats from the Crimson Veil's ritual grounds pounded faintly in the distance. Firelight licked the sky above the main square where the ceremony for the Alpha's daughter had begun. But far from the music and masks, tucked within the compound's shadowed heart, two strangers moved like ghosts.
One was tall, broad-shouldered, the crimson soldier's uniform clinging perfectly to his frame. But his thick beard and quiet steel-gray eyes marked him as someone who didn't belong. His companion moved with a swordsman's edge, eyes sharp, fingers always brushing his hilt.
They had slipped inside the Crimson Veil Pack just as the crowds gathered. Perfect timing. The pack's attention was focused on the mate selection—an ideal cover to study defenses and vanish unnoticed.
The taller man knelt beside a hidden weapon rack behind the guard quarters, inspecting the blades stacked with militarized precision.
"They're armed heavier than expected," he murmured.
His voice betrayed no emotion. No surprise. No fear.
Only calculation.
His companion stepped closer. "We already know what we need now. Let's leave before the ceremony ends.I heard it's a selection for their Alpha's daughter. She'd soon be claimed and they'd tighten the patrol."
The man nodded, acknowledging the truth in what he had said but didn't move. He wanted to but he couldn't.
Instead, his hand clenched over his chest. His balance faltered.
"Alpha Denzel?" the second man whispered urgently, catching his arm. "What's wrong?"
"Don't say that here," Denzel snapped, brushing him off.
"We're mere soldiers" His care might give them off.
He was still angry as his gamma has forgotten they were undercover here when something suddenly changed in the air.
A scent. Subtle—barely there—but it slammed into him like lightning. He staggered a step, eyes wide as his wolf surged within him, claws scraping the inside of his skin.
Mate.
..It wasn't strong but more like a whisper, faint and elusive. But the moment it touched his senses, his entire body had gone still and he had lost control for a minute.
He inhaled again. That faint trace—like silver smoke and rain-washed pine—wrapped around his senses, dragging him toward it.
His wolf snarled, awake and pacing. Hungry. Alert. Possessive.
"What is it?" his companion whispered, confused.
Denzel didn't answer.
He shook his head. There was no answer he could give that made sense. His chest was tight. And his wolf wanted to surface, and in the enemies pack house of all places. This would not just expose him to danger but his companion as well.
His legs were already moving.
Drawn by instinct he couldn't explain—couldn't fight.
"We have to go," his companion pressed again.
But the man wasn't listening.
He stalked down a narrow hall lit by torches and carved stone. The walls blurred. His heartbeat thundered louder than the drums outside.
And then—
Her.
She stood at the far end of the corridor, in furious argument with a man he didn't recognize—her robe flowing around her like smoke, her presence crackling like a storm.
He didn't hear the words, only the venom in her tone and the flick of her chin as she turned away.
Moments later, she walked down the corridor alone.
Toward them. Toward him.
He and his companion exchanged a silent look, then flanked the doorway, posing as guards. Masks of neutrality slid over their features.
She drew closer.
His heart thundered and his wolf fell eerily quiet.
She stopped. Looked at him. Right at him and scanning him.
And in a blur, her hand shot to the blade on his belt.
Steel flashed.
Before he could react, the cold edge was at his throat.
Cold steel pressed against his throat.
"Identify yourself," she demanded, voice like frost and fire. Her voice was stronger than he'd imagined. As if it were a voice used to being obeyed.
He locked eyes with her.
"Soldier of Crimson Veil."
Her brows arched.
"Liar."
She didn't blink. "I've known every man in my father's army since I could walk. Even the silent ones. None of them wear a beard like yours."
He said nothing, hesitating. His hand stayed still refusing to touch his hidden weapon. He couldn't harm her. He wouldn't dare do so when he was in her father's territory.
He couldn't. And wouldn't.
Not with her this close.
Not with his wolf watching her like she was the only thing that mattered in this gods-damned world.
Her eyes—moonlight and fury—bore into him like she could see through the lie.
And maybe she could.
All the rumors came rushing back.
They said she was breathtaking.
They were right and he couldn't deny it.
The Crimson Princess. Proud. Arrogant. Above everyone.
Spoiled and sharp-tongued.
But standing here, he realized how partly wrong those whispers had been.
She wasn't spoiled.
She was aware. Sharp enough to sniff out a stranger with a single glance.
His breath hitched. His wolf surged again, needing—aching—to mark.
His companion moved behind him, shifting toward his blade.
"Don't," Denzel growled under his breath.
He wasn't sure who he meant—his companion, or himself.
Then—
The breeze shifted.
A door beside them creaked open.
Her gaze flicked toward the sound.
She turned to look—
And froze.
Her entire body froze. And as her hand trembled, the sword in her hand slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor with a metallic clatter.
She stared into the room beyond like she'd seen a ghost.
No—something worse.
Denzel watched her. Not the door.
Not what lay beyond it.
Only her.
Even now.
Even here.
In enemy territory.
His wolf didn't care.