The hunters dropped to their knees the moment he spoke, heads bowed in submission.
Ayla stumbled back, shaking her head. "I'm not yours. I don't even know who you are."
The man tilted his head, as if amused by her defiance. His hair was black as night, his frame towering, every movement radiating the quiet power of a predator who never had to question his place at the top.
"You smell of fire," he said. "Of prophecy."
"I don't care what I smell like," she snapped. "I don't belong here."
The hunters exchanged nervous glances, but the man didn't so much as blink. He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until Ayla could feel the heat of him.
Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Every instinct screamed at her to run. Yet her body refused to move, caught in the gravity of his presence.
"You're not human anymore," he said softly, though his words cut like steel. "And the moment I saw you, I knew. The bond is there." His silver eyes burned. "You're my mate."
Ayla's stomach twisted. Mate? Bond? She had no idea what he was talking about. But the word throbbed inside her chest like it belonged, like it had been carved into her bones without her permission.
She clenched her fists. "Whatever this bond is, I don't want it."
A ghost of a smirk curved his lips, but it wasn't kind. "The bond doesn't care what you want."
Then he turned, snapping his fingers at the hunters. "She comes with me."
The men obeyed instantly, lowering their weapons.
Ayla stumbled back, shaking her head furiously. "No. You can't just—"
But when his eyes locked on hers again, blazing like molten silver, she realized with a chill that he could.
And some traitorous part of her—buried deep inside—wanted him to.