The walk through the heart of their territory felt like stepping into another world. Sena's pulse matched the steady stride of the three alphas flanking her, but it was Deacon who pulled every eye. He rarely showed himself in daylight, yet here he was—broad-shouldered, bare-chested, his scars etched like a history of battles across his skin. The pack went silent at the sight of him. Some bowed their heads in reverence, others whispered in disbelief, but all stared as if the ground itself had shifted.
Sena felt the weight of their gazes too, though hers clung stubbornly to the man at her side. She had heard the stories—Deacon, the ruthless shadow who commanded fear even in silence. But seeing him revealed like this, the raw strength beneath his scars, left her breathless. It wasn't only awe stirring inside her—it was heat, curling low in her belly with every step they took toward the looming pack house.
The building rose ahead, stone and timber forged together in an unyielding frame. Inside, polished wood gleamed beneath golden sconces. The air hummed with an energy that made Sena's skin prickle. They led her down a private hall—the Alpha Wing—lined with five heavy doors, one for each brother. At the end stood a sixth door, carved with intertwining wolves.
"This one," Deacon said, his voice deep, unreadable.
Sena's breath caught as she stepped inside. The room was vast, designed not for one, but for many. A massive bed dominated the center, draped in dark furs. French doors opened onto a balcony where the blood moon burned red against the sky. Its glow bled into the room, painting everything in shades of crimson.
"Your space," one of the brothers murmured, though his eyes never left her face.
Her pulse jumped. They had built this room before they ever knew her, as if some part of them had been waiting.
The three excused themselves, leaving her to the quiet thrum of her own heartbeat. She showered, trying to steady herself beneath the heat of the water, though the image of Deacon's scarred chest refused to fade. By the time she rejoined them, dressed in borrowed clothes that felt far too intimate, the alphas were gathered in Deacon's office. Through the cracked door she caught low voices—talk of war brewing, whispers of her name, questions about who she might truly be.
Her presence quieted the room, but not the way their eyes lingered on her. One brother's gaze trailed down her throat as though memorizing her, another's jaw tightened when she shifted her weight. Even Deacon, unreadable as stone, let his eyes wander once before speaking of dinner.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the scents of roasted meat and fresh bread. Sena ate little, her appetite lost to the tension that laced the air. Every movement, every brush of fingers when a plate passed too close, felt charged. By the time they showed her to the library, her skin was already on fire.
She curled into a chair, a book open but unread in her lap. She could feel them watching her even after they left to shower. The weight of their attention clung to her, as heavy as the red moon spilling through the high windows.