The forest was a nightmare of grasping branches and unseen horrors. I ran with no destination in mind, only a frantic need to put as much distance as possible between me and the monster who wore my mate's face. Every snap of a twig behind me was a guard sent to finish the job. Every shadow held the glint of an assassin's knife.
Hatred was a surprisingly potent fuel. It burned hotter than fear, colder than despair. It sharpened my senses and numbed the screaming ache in my muscles. The thought of Damien's betrayal, of his calm, calculated order to have me killed—make it look clean—was a repeating mantra of rage in my mind. He would not have me. He would not have my child. I would die out here under the open sky, a free wolf, before I let his assassins drag me back to him.
Hours bled into a nightmarish eternity. I lost the path Lyra's map had shown, caring only for speed, for distance. My breath came in ragged, painful sobs. The satchel felt like it was filled with stones, and the brand on my wrist was a constant, searing fire.
Just as the first hints of a bleak, grey dawn threatened to break through the canopy, I stumbled into a small clearing and my blood ran cold. It wasn't Damien's guards that I had run into. It was something worse.
A colossal cave bear, its fur matted with dried blood and its yellow eyes burning with feral madness, was hunched over the carcass of a deer. It was easily twice the size of a normal bear, a monster of muscle and claw. It lifted its massive head, its snout sniffing the air, and its gaze locked onto me. A low, guttural growl rumbled from its chest. It had found its next meal.
I was trapped. Too exhausted to run, too weak to fight.
I scrambled backwards, tripping over my own feet and landing hard on the damp earth. This was it. This was the "accident in the woods" Damien had ordered. Not a clean kill by a pack warrior, but a brutal death in the jaws of a beast. A fittingly pathetic end for a rejected Omega.
I curled into a ball, my arms wrapped protectively around my stomach, and waited for the crushing weight of the bear's paws. It rose onto its hind legs, its shadow eclipsing the faint morning light, and let out a deafening roar that shook the very trees.
But the killing blow never came.
Instead, a blur of silver shot out from the trees to my right. It moved with impossible speed and grace, a living missile of muscle and fur. A massive wolf, larger than any I had ever seen, its coat the color of spun moonlight, slammed into the bear's side.
The two titans crashed together in a maelstrom of claws and teeth. The silver wolf was outmatched in sheer size, but it moved with an intelligent, deadly precision, dodging the bear's clumsy swipes and sinking its fangs into the beast's thick hide. The fight was brutal, primal, and mercifully short. With a final, desperate lunge, the silver wolf tore out the bear's throat. The monster collapsed to the ground with a earth-shaking thud, its lifeblood staining the forest floor a dark, glistening crimson.
The silver wolf stood over its kill, its chest heaving, before turning its attention to me. Its eyes were not the cold silver of Damien's, but a warm, intelligent shade of sapphire blue. There was no menace in its gaze, only a calm, assessing curiosity.
Then, in a smooth, seamless motion that spoke of immense power and control, the wolf's form began to shift. Bones cracked and reformed, fur receded, and where the magnificent beast had stood, there was now a man.
He was tall, with a lean, powerful build and hair the color of spun gold that fell loosely around a face that was devastatingly handsome. He wore simple, dark leathers, but he carried himself with an unmistakable air of authority. An Alpha. But not one of ours. On the shoulder of his tunic was the embroidered crest of a roaring cyclone.
The sigil of the Stormwind Pack. Our oldest and greatest rival.
My heart, which had just started to slow, began to hammer against my ribs for an entirely new reason. I had escaped my own pack only to fall into the hands of our sworn enemy.
He walked towards me, his movements slow and non-threatening. He knelt down, keeping a respectful distance, his sapphire eyes taking in my terrified expression, my torn dress, and the crude bandages on my wrist.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice a calm, melodic baritone that was the complete opposite of Damien's harsh growl.
I couldn't speak. I could only stare, my mind trying to process the impossible situation.
His gaze softened with something that looked like pity. It followed my own horrified stare down to my wrist. He saw the edge of the angry, red, weeping brand peeking out from beneath the bandage.
His expression changed instantly. The calm concern in his eyes hardened into a flash of cold, sharp fury. It was a different anger from Damien's—not the rage of a tyrant, but the righteous anger of a king witnessing an unforgivable injustice.
He knew the mark. He knew what it meant.
"The Brand of Rejection," he said, his voice now a low, dangerous whisper. He looked from the brand back to my face. "The work of Damien Blackwood, no doubt. I have heard tales of his cruelty, but to do this to his own…" He shook his head, a look of profound disgust on his face.
He reached out, not to grab, but with an open palm, a gesture of peace. "Do not be afraid. I am not him."
Slowly, gently, he scooped me up into his arms. I was too weak, too shocked to resist. Being held by him felt surprisingly safe, his strength a comforting wall around me.
He looked down at me, his sapphire eyes filled with a strange mixture of pity and a fierce, protective fire.
"The mark of Damien's cruelty…" he murmured, his gaze once again on my branded wrist. He adjusted his hold, settling me more comfortably against his chest as if I were something precious.
"Don't worry," he said, his voice a soft, reassuring promise that resonated deep in my soul. "You're safe with me now."