Blood stained Elara's hands again.
The crimson liquid clung to her skin, running down her wrists, soaking into the edges of her worn apron. She rubbed her palms together hard, as if scrubbing away the mark of every life she had failed to save. But the water in the wooden bowl turned pink, then red, no matter how many times she washed.
Her breath came uneven, her arms aching. She hated the smell of blood. Metallic. Bitter. Reminding her of screams, of broken bodies, of helplessness.
Still, this was her duty.
She was the healer of Moonveil Pack. The one they called when warriors stumbled back from battle or hunters returned wounded from the forest. The one they tolerated, though never truly accepted.
Useful. That was what they whispered behind her back. Only useful.
Her jaw tightened. She forced her hands still, shaking off the water. A fresh bundle of herbs lay on the table before her—sage, yarrow, lavender, roots she had dug herself. She crushed them in her mortar, mixing them into a green paste. The familiar rhythm calmed her.
But the silence did not last.
"Who would ever want a rejected Omega?" The cruel words seemed to seep from the walls, from the air itself. They weren't spoken now, but she had heard them too many times to ever forget.
Her chest ached. She pressed her lips together, refusing to let the memory win. She had survived worse. She had survived him.
Her first mate.
His cold eyes still haunted her, the way his voice had cut through her soul like a knife. "You're too weak for me."
And then the bond had snapped. The pain had been worse than claws tearing through flesh. That night, she had lost her mate. She had lost her scent. She had lost the belief that she could ever be wanted again.
So Elara buried her heart and gave herself to healing. She would not hope for love, not again. If she could not be chosen, at least she could save.
"Elara," a voice broke through the quiet, soft but unsettling.
She turned. A tall figure leaned against the doorway, his green eyes sharp even in the fading light.
Corin.
Her childhood friend. Once, he had been her companion in games and laughter, but years had carved something darker into him. He carried himself with pride now, his smile practiced, his gaze too calculating.
"It's late," she said, her voice steady as she set the pestle aside. "Why are you here?"
He stepped inside, his boots tapping against the wooden floor. "Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?"
Elara's fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "You never come here unless you want something."
He chuckled, not denying it. His eyes swept over her small hut, the shelves lined with jars, the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. "You've made a place for yourself here. But you deserve more than this life, Elara. You're meant for something greater."
She blinked, unsure if it was praise or mockery. "Greater?" she repeated.
"Yes," he said, his voice low, almost coaxing. "You heal wounds, you carry burdens no one else could. Why should you waste yourself on those who don't even thank you?"
Her heart twisted. Because even if they didn't thank her, even if they rejected her, she needed to help them. It was the only reason she still stood.
Before she could answer, the air in the hut shifted. Heavy. Thick.
Her wolf stirred inside her, uneasy. The tiny hairs on her arms rose.
Then it came—the scent. Strong, commanding, overwhelming. A mix of raw earth and smoke, sharp as lightning before a storm. Her chest tightened, her pulse racing with a rhythm not her own.
The door creaked wider.
A man stepped in.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His presence filled the room as though the air itself bent to him. His dark hair caught the dim light, but it was his eyes—golden, glowing—that froze her where she stood.
Every wolf would know him, even without introduction.
The Alpha King.
Darius.
Her heart thudded painfully. She had heard the stories. Ruthless. Unyielding. The wolf above all wolves. But never had she thought she would see him here, in her small hut, staring at her as if the world had narrowed to one point—her.
He said nothing at first. Just watched her, his gaze heavy, unshakable.
Then, his voice rolled out, deep and final.
"Mine."
The word struck her harder than claws, harder than rejection.
She staggered back, shaking her head. "No… that's not possible."
It couldn't be. She had no scent. She had been rejected. How could fate twist like this?
"This is wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I cannot be your mate."
Corin moved swiftly, placing himself between them. His voice was steady, but his hands curled into fists. "She's not yours, my King. She belongs to this pack."
Darius turned his head slowly, golden eyes narrowing. The silence stretched, so thick it felt like the room itself might shatter.
"Not mine?" he repeated softly, dangerously.
Corin swallowed hard, but he forced himself to meet that gaze. "She's already bound here. She cannot be claimed."
The growl that followed shook the very walls of the hut. Low, primal, filled with authority that made even Elara's knees weaken.
Darius took one step closer, then another, until his shadow covered them both. He looked at Corin, then back at Elara, and when he spoke, his words were thunder.
"You are mine."
Elara's heart pounded so hard she thought it might break free. Fear tangled with something else—something deep, something dangerous, something she didn't want to name.
Her life had ended once, with rejection.
Now it was beginning again—with a claim she could not escape.