I woke to the sound of steel.
Not the clash of blades, but the steady scrape of metal being sharpened—slow, deliberate, and far too close. My eyes flew open, my body jerking upright before pain tore through my side and forced a sharp cry from my throat.
"Don't move."
His voice was behind me.
Low. Controlled. Unyielding.
I froze, every nerve screaming as I forced myself to stay still. The room was dim, lit only by the dying embers of the fire and a narrow shaft of moonlight slipping through a crack in the stone wall. This wasn't a tent or a den.
It was a fortress.
Stone walls rose around me, carved with symbols I didn't recognize—older than the runes of the wolf packs, etched deep and deliberate. The air smelled of iron, smoke, and something darker.
Power.
"You'll reopen the wound," he continued, stepping into my line of sight.
The Lycan.
Up close, there was no mistaking what he was. He was taller than any Alpha I had ever seen, his build heavy with coiled strength. Dark hair fell loose around his shoulders, framing a face that was sharp and severe, carved by battles and survival rather than kindness.
His eyes were gold.
Not the warm gold of a wolf.
But the deep, molten gold of something ancient.
I swallowed, my throat dry. "Where am I?"
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he spoke, each word deliberate.
"My territory."
That explained the fortress. The silence. The weight pressing down on my chest like the air itself bowed to him.
"I didn't ask to be brought here," I said, my voice hoarse but steady.
"No," he replied. "You asked not to die."
That shut me up.
He turned back to the blade in his hands, resuming the slow sharpening. The sound grated against my nerves.
"You were bleeding out," he said. "Your bones were cracked. Your wolf was half-conscious. Another hour, and the rogues would have returned."
"You let them go," I accused quietly.
"I dismissed them," he corrected. "There's a difference."
A shiver crawled up my spine.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
He finally looked at me again.
Nothing in his expression softened. "Truth."
I hesitated. Every instinct screamed at me to stay guarded. This wasn't a pack Alpha who could be manipulated with submission or charm.
This was something else.
"My pack cast me out," I said again.
His gaze sharpened. "You don't smell like a rogue."
The words landed like a blade.
"You smell like broken bonds and fresh betrayal."
My breath caught painfully in my chest.
I hadn't realized my pain could be scented.
I looked away. "Does it matter?"
"Yes," he said. "Everything matters."
He set the blade aside and approached me, his movements silent despite his size. I tensed as he stopped just a step away, his presence overwhelming. Heat radiated from him—not physical warmth, but power.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Aria."
No last name. No pack.
Something flickered behind his eyes at the sound.
"And yours?" I asked before I could stop myself.
A pause.
Then, "Ronan."
The name settled heavy in the air, carrying weight and authority.
"Ronan… what?" I pressed.
His lips curved—not into a smile, but something darker.
"King," he said simply.
My blood ran cold.
Lycan King.
The ruler of the most feared territory in the north. The one packs whispered about in fear and superstition. The monster who answered to no Goddess and no law.
I had run from one danger straight into another.
"You're afraid," he observed.
I met his gaze. "I'd be stupid not to be."
A flicker of something like approval crossed his face.
"Good," he said. "Fear keeps you alive."
He turned away, clearly done with the conversation. "You'll stay until you're healed. After that, you leave."
Relief warred with confusion inside me. He wasn't claiming me. He wasn't threatening me.
Then why did his presence make my chest ache?
As if something inside me was straining toward him.
Days passed in uneasy silence.
Ronan kept his distance, but I felt him everywhere—in the fortress walls, in the watchful Lycans who bowed their heads when he passed, in the heavy stillness that followed his steps.
At night, the ache worsened.
My wolf stirred restlessly, pacing beneath my skin, drawn toward him with a pull I didn't understand. Not the violent tug of a false bond.
Something deeper.
Older.
One night, I woke gasping, my heart racing.
He was there.
Standing at the foot of my bed, his expression unreadable, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
"You feel it too," he said quietly.
My throat tightened. "Feel what?"
"The pull," he answered. "The thing you're trying not to name."
Panic flared. "No."
His jaw tightened. "You don't smell confused."
I pushed myself upright despite the pain. "Whatever you think this is—"
"It isn't what I think," he cut in. "It's what is."
The air between us crackled, heavy and charged. My wolf howled inside me, pressing forward, reaching.
I turned my face away, shaking my head. "I won't survive another bond."
His voice softened—just slightly. "This one won't break you."
That was what terrified me most.
Because some part of me believed him.
Ronan stepped back, breaking the tension. "Rest," he said again. "Tomorrow, you'll heal faster."
As he turned to leave, he added, almost to himself—
"You can run from many things, Aria."
His gaze lingered on me.
"But not from me."
The door closed behind him, sealing the silence.
And for the first time since the moon betrayed me, fear wasn't the only thing in my chest.
Fate had found me.