The moon cast long silver shadows across the silent forest as Lyra crouched on the high branch of a twisted pine, her eyes locked on the lone stone manor hidden between cliffs and mist. Draven's fortress. The lair of the Alpha King she had been ordered to kill.
She had been watching it for hours.
No guards. No movement. Only the faintest flicker of torchlight inside and the occasional howl from wolves on the far side of the mountain. She should've felt relief—an easy path in, a clean escape—but unease crawled up her spine. Something was off.
She tapped the dagger at her thigh, the one etched with the Order's seal, the one meant to pierce the heart of monsters.
But who was the real monster now?
Below, a door creaked open. A figure emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, with hair as dark as midnight and eyes that seemed to glow beneath the moon.
Draven.
Lyra's heartbeat quickened. Not from fear. Not even anticipation. Something else. Something she couldn't name.
He didn't speak. Didn't call to his wolves. Just stood there… staring at the woods. At her.
She froze.
Did he see her?
Impossible. No one had ever tracked her in a tree this high, this deep in the fog. But then his voice came, low and deadly calm.
"If you're going to kill me, assassin, do it without hiding."
Her breath hitched.
Draven turned slowly, gaze pinpointed at her position. "Come down."
Lyra's fingers twitched toward her blade, but she didn't leap. Not yet. Not until she understood what kind of game this was.
"I said come down," he growled again, voice edged with command.
And her wolf—traitorous and wild—responded.
She dropped from the tree, landing in a crouch just feet from him, blade now in hand.
He didn't flinch.
Up close, he was worse than the rumors. Power radiated from him, thick as fog. His presence was overwhelming, his scent… intoxicating. A mixture of pine, smoke, and something undeniably masculine.
She kept her dagger raised.
"You knew I was coming."
"I felt it."
"How?"
He gave a slow, feral smile. "Because fate doesn't whisper. It screams."
That wasn't an answer. Not really. And yet, she felt the truth in it. In her bones.
"I'm not here for fate. I'm here to end you."
"Then do it."
He stepped forward, baring his chest. "Right here. Right now."
Lyra blinked.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Her targets didn't offer themselves to the blade.
"What are you playing at?" she hissed.
"No game." He reached up slowly, brushing his fingers against her wrist, the one holding the dagger. "But you won't kill me. You can't."
"Why not?"
His eyes gleamed. "Because I'm your mate."
The world spun.
"No," she choked. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
Lyra took a stumbling step back, her dagger now shaking in her grip.
"Do you feel the pull? The storm in your chest? That's not magic. That's the bond."
She shook her head. "You're just trying to confuse me. That's what you monsters do."
"I'm not the one who came here to kill a stranger on someone else's orders."
That hit harder than it should've.
Lyra turned, needing air, needing space. She had trained for years to shut out distractions, to smother emotion. And now, one sentence from this man—this Alpha—had unraveled her control.
Draven didn't chase her. Instead, he said, "Come inside. We need to talk."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"You already did."
"What does that mean?"
"Your soul has already chosen. You just haven't accepted it."
She spun back to him. "Even if you are… fated to me—I'm still going to kill you."
Draven chuckled darkly. "Then try."
And she did.
She lunged, blade flashing. He moved faster. Their bodies collided in a blur of speed and strength. Steel met claws. The forest filled with the sound of growls and crashing limbs. But in the end, she was pinned.
Draven straddled her, breath hot against her ear. "You're strong. I like that."
"Let me go."
"I will. But not before you admit it."
"Admit what?"
He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"That you feel it too."
She said nothing.
But she didn't stab him either.
And that silence said everything.
Back inside the fortress...
The hall was carved from ancient stone, lit by torches that burned blue. Draven walked ahead, silent. Lyra followed, not because she trusted him, but because the bond tugged at her every step.
She hated it.
She hated how it made her feel—exposed, vulnerable. Like she wasn't in control for the first time in her life.
In a small chamber lined with old books and velvet curtains, he finally spoke.
"You were sent by the Crimson Order."
She stiffened. "How do you know that?"
"Because I've killed their assassins before. But you're different."
"How so?"
"You hesitated."
That truth stung.
Draven moved to a decanter and poured a dark red liquid into two glasses. "Blood wine. Won't hurt you. Might even steady your nerves."
Lyra took the glass but didn't drink.
"You're going to tell me why the Order wants me dead," he said.
She laughed coldly. "You're the Alpha King. Isn't that reason enough?"
"No. That's the excuse. The reason is always deeper."
She stared into the wine.
"They said you were dangerous. That you were turning packs against the Elders. That you killed your own brother for the crown."
Draven's jaw tensed. "Did they also tell you why?"
"They don't care about why."
"Neither did you… until now."
She looked away.
"I didn't kill my brother for power," he said. "I killed him because he allied with the same Order that sent you. He wanted to enslave our kind. I stopped him."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, she said, "I don't know what's true anymore."
Draven stepped closer, the tension between them crackling.
"Then stay. Find out for yourself."
She looked up, defiant. "And what if I still decide to kill you?"
"Then I'll let you try again. But next time, you'll have to decide if you're doing it for them… or for yourself."