Meret woke with the sharp inhale of someone expecting pain.

She braced for hard earth beneath her back, for the bite of cold but none of it came.

Instead, she was met with the weightless press of silken sheets, the scent of cedar and something herbal in the air, and the low thrum of fire behind a nearby wall.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Not because she was afraid, but because none of this made sense.

The ceiling above her was wood-paneled and high, the air rich and warm.

She was tucked into a massive bed, dressed in clean clothes that weren’t hers… soft, oversized, and black. And for some reason, she didn’t feel ache — not in her leg, not in her ribs, not even the dull bruise that had settled in her chest after everything.

It was like her body had been reset.

She blinked, trying to sit up only to find herself met by a calm but very male voice.

“I wouldn’t try standing. Not unless you’re planning to hit the floor again. Which no offense, you do with a lot of flair.”

Her head whipped toward the sound.

A tall boy leaned casually against the doorframe. Or… not a boy. Something older than the other boys she knew. He had blue eyes and tousled dark hair.

“You,” she said warily.

He raised his hand in a half-hearted wave. “Bruce, if you forgot.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He smirked. “You were about to.”

Meret narrowed her eyes. “Where am I?”

He pushed off the wall and wandered into the room, giving her space but not hiding his interest. “An estate. It’s Safe and Private.”

“Why am I here?”

“Because you passed out cold after scaring off a rogue ambush with a growl that could shatter ribs.” He paused to rub his stomach. “Trust me, I would know.”

Meret frowned. “That doesn’t explain why I'm here. In a bed and in clothes that aren’t mine.”

Bruce arched his brow. “How about a thank you for a start?”

She gave him a flat look. “For what? Kidnapping me and changing my clothes while I was unconscious?”

“You make it sound so scandalous,” he said, feigning offense. “For the record, I didn’t touch a thing. There are professionals for that. Fully trained. Very discreet.”

He paused, then added with a dramatic sigh, “And very susceptible to my charm, by the way.”

Meret snorted. “That must be exhausting for them.”

“No,” he argued. “It just means there’s something wrong with you. Probably internal. Definitely concerning since no one is immune to my charms. I should’ve called the healers.”

“And tell them what? That I’m allergic to arrogance?”

He grinned. “Exactly. Could be fatal if left untreated.”

Meret opened her mouth to fire back but paused as something clicked in her mind.

He hadn’t called the healers.

So how was she… fine?

Her brows drew together as she touched the spot where she had been bruised. No sting. No bruises. She swung her legs over the bed and pushed herself to stand bracing for pain but it didn’t come.

Bruce straightened, brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

She ignored the question, still checking her body like she expected something to snap.

“If you didn’t call the healers,” she said slowly, “then how am I healed?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Well… don’t all werewolves heal?”

“No,” she replied, her voice tight, almost wary. “I’m not like the others.”

She looked up at him, and for the first time since waking, something cracked through her composure.

“I’m wolfless.”

Bruce paused, eyes narrowing slightly. He waited—maybe for the punchline, maybe for the sarcasm—but it didn’t come.

“You’re serious,” he said.

She gave a quiet nod.

“But you growled,” he said slowly, like he was trying to make the pieces fit. “In the forest. I heard it. Felt it.” his hand went to his stomach again.

Meret looked away, arms folding protectively over herself. “I know. That’s why none of this makes sense.”

There was a long beat of silence. The fire cracked softly behind the wall.

Then Bruce stepped closer—not threatening, just steady. His voice lost its teasing edge.

“That sound wasn’t wolfless,” he said. “It wasn’t normal, either.”

Meret stepped back, suddenly re-registering that he was a stranger. And not just a stranger, he could be one of them. He had seen what happened.

“I can’t be here,” she said, panic flickering at the edge of her voice. “I have to go.” she voiced, wanting to see if he would try to stop her.

Bruce didn’t move, but his voice softened, losing its teasing edge. “You can’t leave. I have to report back to my father.”

There was something about the way he said father—like the word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Meret hesitated. Was that what they called their rogue leader? Father.

“You can’t keep me here,” she said, her voice sharper now. “That’s against—”

“Laws,” he cut in, “that I’m very familiar with. But you’re not leaving until I speak to—”

“Okay, can you drop the accent?” she snapped. “Stop talking like you’re some kind of prince or something.”

She started backing toward the door, eyes darting for an exit.

When Bruce shifted slightly, maybe just to reposition himself, she flinched. “Don’t move or I’ll growl,” she threatened, and to her surprise, that worked because he froze.

Meret shoved the door open and slipped out into the hallway, still walking backward.

“I wouldn’t recommend—” he began, but stopped mid-sentence when she crossed the threshold.

He sighed and followed after her, already bracing for whatever was coming next.

He found her outside, hands raised in surrender.

Royal guards… at least half a dozen, stood in formation, weapons drawn.

Meret froze, hands still raised. Her breath hitched when Bruce stepped into view beside her. The guards’ stances shifted subtly—they stiffened—but their blades didn’t lower.

They were still pointed at her.

She recognized them instantly. Not by their faces, but by the uniform.

Crimson sashes. Polished boots. The silver crest stitched over their chests.

Her father used to command these men. She’d grown up watching him inspect those creases with military precision.

Meret wasn't sure what was happening, but she suspected they had infiltrated what she believed to be the rogue grounds where Bruce had taken her. She quickly pointed at Bruce. “He brought me here. He might be one of them… one of the rogues.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, without a word, the guard at the front dropped to one knee.

Another followed.

Then another.

Within seconds, all of them had lowered their weapons and bowed their heads. The air went still.

Meret blinked, throat dry. “What…”

She turned to Bruce in disbelief, but he didn’t look smug or amused. If anything, he looked tired.

From the side, a tall woman in dark armor approached swiftly, her expression unreadable. She reached Meret and gave a respectful bow—not to her, but to Bruce.

“Your Highness,” the woman said firmly. “We were about to send word to the palace. Your sudden departure caused some concern. Especially to the Alpha King.”

Meret’s head snapped toward Bruce.

Your Highness? Palace? Alpha King?”

Bruce sighed like someone caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I told you I had to report to my father,” he muttered.

“You never said your father was the freaking Alpha King!” Meret stuttered.

There was a beat of silence. A hawk cried in the distance.

Bruce offered her a sheepish shrug. “You never asked.”