The night felt too quiet after Lucien's cryptic warning. Elena stood frozen on the stone terrace, the weight of his gaze pressing against her more heavily than the mountain air. She searched his face for a hint of a joke, but there was none. Just calm seriousness.
"What does that mean?" she asked with her voice tight. "What hunts the wolves?"
Lucien didn't answer. His silver eyes drifted beyond her, into the trees, like he could hear something she couldn't. Then he moved—quickly and without a sound and closed the space between them.
"Come inside," he said, low and commanding.
Elena hesitated for only a second. Something in the forest snapped. A sharp, unnatural crack, like a branch broken under a heavy foot. Lucien's hand found hers and pulled her inside just as the wind picked up and the air turned electric, back in the safety of the manor, the door shut with a deep thud, and Lucien exhaled like he'd been holding something in. He turned to her.
"There are things in these woods that don't fear man or beast," he said, voice laced with something primal. "You don't want to see them."
"But you've seen them?"
"I've lived among them."
Elena's pulse quickened. "You're speaking in riddles."
"I'm speaking in truth. You just haven't caught up to it yet."
He walked away before she could ask more, vanishing down the corridor like a shadow folding into itself.
Sleep didn't come easily. Elena lay in the grand four-poster bed, covers drawn to her chest, eyes glued to the ceiling. She couldn't stop replaying the moment on the terrace Lucien's sudden protectiveness, the sharp noise in the forest, the intensity in his gaze. Everything about him unsettled her, not because he was dangerous but because he didn't try to hide that he was. Somewhere deep in the night, she finally drifted into dreams. In her dream, she wandered through the woods, moonlight spilling across her skin like silver paint. She heard a voice calling her name soft, distant, familiar.
"Elena…"
She turned, searching, but found no one.
Then something emerged from the shadows a wolf, massive and glowing with unnatural energy. Its fur was jet-black, its eyes molten silver.
It moved closer, unafraid. Not threatening. Almost… reverent.
She reached for it.
"Elena," it said again—not with a mouth, but with thought. Its voice echoed in her bones.
She gasped awake.
The morning sun pierced the heavy drapes. Elena sat up, heart pounding. The dream clung to her skin like dew.
Coincidence, she told herself.
But it didn't feel like one.
She dressed quickly, choosing a simple white blouse and jeans. When she emerged from her room, the house was already stirring. Staff moved quietly through the halls, all dressed in black. None of them looked her in the eye.
She wandered until she found the library a vast chamber of leather, old books, and velvet chairs.
A figure stood near the shelves.
Lucien.
He was reading a heavy tome, one hand braced on the shelf, his profile cut in shadow.
"You're up early," Elena said, stepping inside.
He didn't look up. "I don't sleep much."
She tilted her head. "Bad dreams?"
"Bad memories."
That silenced her.
After a beat, he turned to her, expression unreadable. "You dreamt something last night, didn't you?"
Her breath caught. "How did you—?"
"You look like someone who saw the truth and didn't know how to name it."
She swallowed hard. "It was just a dream."
Lucien stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "Or a warning."
He handed her the book he'd been holding. It was old—frayed leather, cracked binding. The cover read:
"Lycanthropy: Bloodlines and Burdens"
She looked at him. "This is a joke, right?"
He didn't smile.
Elena opened the book. Hand-drawn diagrams of wolves, full moons, and human figures mid-shift. Her skepticism wavered.
"You're not telling me werewolves are real."
"I'm telling you we were here long before your kind believed we were myths."
"And you're one of them?"
He said nothing.
"You don't expect me to believe that."
"I don't expect anything from you," Lucien said, voice cool. "Only that you survive the week."
He walked past her and disappeared into the corridor once more.
Later that afternoon, unable to shake the lingering dream or the chilling weight of Lucien's words, Elena decided to explore the estate grounds.
The path behind the manor led down a sloping hill, through a grove of ash trees. A light fog rolled low along the ground, and the sun hung weakly in the sky, already fading. She found a garden at the edge of the woods, wild, beautiful, untamed. Overgrown roses. Marble statues partially swallowed by ivy. At the center, a stone bench circled a dry fountain shaped like a wolf with wings.
She sat.
Breathed.
And that's when she heard it—again.
Footsteps behind her.
She turned.
No one.
But then—
A figure stepped out of the woods.
Not Lucien.
This man was broader, rugged, with a scar running down one side of his face. His eyes were golden, not silver.
"Who are you?" Elena asked, standing.
"I could ask you the same," the man said, voice sharp like gravel. "You don't belong here."
"I'm a guest of Lucien Blackthorne."
The man snorted. "He brings you here, then lets you wander the territory? Foolish."
Before she could speak, another voice rang out behind her—low, commanding.
"She's under my protection."
Lucien.
He stepped out of the shadows and came to stand beside her, eyes locked with the strangers.
The tension was thick like the air before a thunderstorm.
The golden-eyed man growled low. "She smells like prey."
Lucien didn't blink. "Leave, Kael."
Kael bared his teeth but turned and vanished into the trees without another word.
Elena stared after him. "Who was that?"
Lucien's jaw tightened. "A rival alpha. He shouldn't be this close."
She looked up at him, the weight of his protectiveness sinking in. "What am I walking into, Lucien?"
His eyes softened—but only slightly.
"A world you can't unknow."