LOGINMarcus returned with a set of crude iron restraints, heavy bands meant for wolves who needed to be reminded of their place. He handed them to Damien without a word, and the metal clinked with a sound that carried more weight than any threat could.The silent soldier's composure held, but his breathing had changed.Shorter.Shallower.The kind of breathing a man does when he's fighting the urge to bolt and his body knows it can't.Damien crouched behind him, one knee pressing into the dirt. He wrapped the first iron band around the soldier's left wrist, cinching it tight over the existing leather binding, then locked it with a pin that bit into the metal with a sharp click.He repeated the process on the right wrist, pulling until the man's shoulders strained backward, chest thrust forward, spine arched into a position that would become agonizing within minutes."Iron doesn't forgive," Damien said, his mouth close to the soldier's ear. "It doesn't stretch. It doesn't loosen. Every time
Dawn bled across the camp in pale ribbons of grey and gold, the light cutting through the mist that clung to the ground like a reluctant ghost.Damien stood at the center of the interrogation clearing, arms folded across his chest, watching as Marcus and Gideon dragged the captives into a rough semicircle before him.Five rogues.Four from the night's failed extraction attempt, plus Rook, who had been rotting in the supply tent for days, stubbornly silent.Now they knelt in the dirt, wrists bound behind their backs with leather restraints pulled tight enough to numb fingers. Ropes anchored their ankles to iron stakes driven deep into the earth. None of them could move more than an inch in any direction.Damien surveyed them with the cold patience of a man who had all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a single breath on mercy.The first rogue, a wiry man with a broken nose and dried blood crusted along his jaw, met his eyes.Defiant.Stupid.Damien filed that away and m
The tent flap was warm against his bloodied knuckles as he pushed through.Natasha sat on the edge of the cot, spine rigid, green eyes burning into him the moment he stepped inside. Maren hovered near the supply table, hands clasped tight, but Damien dismissed her with a single look.The healer slipped past him without a word.The tent flap fell shut behind her with a soft whisper.Silence pressed between them.The lantern flickered, casting shifting shadows across Natasha's face, her sharp cheekbones, the stubborn set of her jaw, the fresh bandages wrapped tight around her shoulder. Blood still flecked the gauze.His blood, not hers.He noticed the difference immediately, and something dark and satisfied uncurled in his chest."You're hurt," Natasha said.Her voice was flat, controlled, but the bond betrayed her. Worry laced through it like thread through fabric, sharp and insistent despite her careful composure."Rogue blood."Damien crossed the tent in three slow strides, stopping
The bond snapped taut at midnight.Damien felt it like a blade between his ribs, a sudden, electric jolt that had him on his feet before his mind registered why. The pulse between him and Natasha had shifted, threaded with something sharp and urgent. He pressed his palm flat against his chest, feeling the bond vibrate beneath his sternum like a plucked wire.Something was coming.He was already moving through the camp when Marcus found him."Alpha."Marcus's voice cut through the darkness, low and tight.Damien turned to see his lieutenant striding toward him from the eastern ridge, chest heaving, sweat darkening his temples despite the cold night."Scouts picked up movement twenty minutes ago."Damien's jaw tightened."How many?""Six. Maybe eight rogues moving through the eastern ridge toward the refugee tents." Marcus's breathing was controlled but rapid. "Not our spy. A full patrol. They're not coming for the refugees. They're coming to extract their man before we break him comple
The question hung between them until Damien answered it by pulling away.Not far. Just enough to break the almost-kiss, his hand sliding from her hip with deliberate slowness, fingers trailing across the fabric of her tunic like he was memorizing the shape of her beneath it. His eyes held hers for a long, charged moment, blue fire banked behind control, before he straightened and stepped back."You're staying here tonight." His voice left no room for argument. "Maren will check your bindings hourly. You don't leave this tent."Natasha's jaw clenched."I don't need a—""Natasha."Just her name. Low, firm, carrying the weight of everything he'd done in that interrogation tent and everything he would do to keep her from undoing it."You nearly tore the tissue again tonight. If you push it, you'll lose the use of that arm. Permanently."She hated that he was right. Hated more that he knew she knew it.Her fingers curled against the cot, nails pressing into the rough canvas. The bond pulse
The silence that followed the last scream was heavier than the noise itself.Natasha sat rigid on the cot, her restrained arm pinned against her torso by Maren's careful bindings, the poultice warm and bitter against her skin. The healer moved quietly around her, tidying supplies, checking the lantern's flame.Small, deliberate motions that filled the void left by the absence of screaming.Neither of them spoke.There was nothing to say.Minutes passed.Or maybe hours.The night had lost its shape.Then footsteps.Not the heavy, purposeful stride of Marcus or Gideon. These were measured, unhurried, carrying the kind of deliberate weight that announced authority without needing to.Natasha's body recognized the sound before her mind did.Her pulse quickened.Her skin prickled with awareness that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the bond humming low and constant beneath her ribs.The tent flap shifted.Damien ducked inside.He looked like a man who had just carved
Damien’s wolf had been clawing at his ribs for hours, a relentless, snarling pressure that made every polite smile a lie. The moment he’d walked into the ballroom and caught Natasha’s scent—wildflowers and steel—the beast inside him had lunged against its chains. Mate. The word was a drumbeat in hi
The ballroom no longer felt like a celebration.It felt like observation.Natasha moved through it with controlled precision, each step measured, each expression carefully restrained. The emerald gown made her feel exposed in ways armor never had, not because it was revealing, but because it was des
The carriage stopped beneath the grand estate of the Alpha King, and Natasha immediately understood why warriors preferred battlefields over silk diplomacy.Because battlefields at least made sense.The emerald gown her sister had forced onto her clung like a second skin, elegant in a way that felt
"You're twenty-two and still unmated."The words followed Natasha across the training grounds like an unwanted shadow.She ignored them.With a sharp twist, she caught her brother's wrist and used his momentum against him. Kael hit the dirt hard enough to shake the ground beneath them.A chorus of w







