Ayla staggered through the trees, clutching at her arms as her body convulsed. Her senses exploded—every rustle of leaves thundered in her ears, every scent burned sharp in her nose. She could smell damp moss, rotting bark, the warm blood of something small scurrying under roots.
She didn't want to follow the scent. Her feet moved anyway.
The forest ended in a clearing, a thin ribbon of water glinting in moonlight. She dropped to her knees beside it, desperate to wash the fever from her skin.
But the reflection waiting for her was not her own.
Yellow eyes glowed back at her. Her cheekbones sharper, her mouth wrong—teeth too long, fangs pressing against her lips. Her ears twitched to a sound she couldn't hear with human ears, and her hair fell in wild tangles around her face.
"No," she whispered again, voice breaking. She touched the water with trembling fingers. The reflection rippled, shifting between girl and beast.
Behind her, a branch snapped.
Ayla whipped around, lips curling back before she even realized the growl had escaped her throat.
Two men stood at the edge of the trees, bows drawn, eyes wide with fear.
"It's her," one hissed. "The cursed girl."
Before she could speak, an arrow hissed through the air. She moved faster than she thought possible, leaping aside. The growl that followed was primal, terrifying, and it came from her.
She should have run. She should have begged. Instead, something inside her—the beast—wanted to lunge.
The men hesitated, but their fear turned to resolve as they readied another arrow.
And then the air changed.
A shadow slid through the trees, silent as smoke. A man stepped into the clearing, tall and broad-shouldered, the moonlight catching the silver in his eyes.
The hunters froze. Their bows trembled.
"Alpha," one whispered.
The man ignored them. His gaze locked on Ayla, sharp, unrelenting, as though she were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"You," he said, his voice low, rough as gravel. "You're mine."
Ayla's blood ran cold.