Petal’s POV

My stomach did a triple flip, that I could hear the sound. My palms grew sweaty, and my throat went so dry immediately. I let out a low cough and signaled to Madam Garcia that I needed water.

“Here, my dear,” she said gently, placing a wooden cup into my hand.

I drank the contents in a single gulp, desperate to wash away the dryness clawing at my throat. The coolness slid down, but it did little to soothe the storm raging inside me. My stomach churned with nerves, my chest tightening with every single second.

The feast hall smelled so much of roasted meat, herbs, and something sharper I could not name, but the scent of dominance, of wolves gathered under one Alpha. Wooden benches lined the stone chamber, torches burning in their sconces along the walls. Every flicker of firelight seemed to stretch the shadows, making the whole place feel alive with hidden judgments.

I kept my eyes down, but my ears caught the whispers. I always heard them, no matter how quietly they thought they spoke.

“She won’t last a single day here.”

“Stray thing, pretending to be Luna.”

“Aslaan must be so desperate, bringing Crimson’s rejected scum.”

Their words sliced into me sharper than a blade. My fingers tightened around the cup, nails biting into the wood. I had endured rejection, humiliation, even torment, but somehow this was worse. Because this wasn’t just cruelty from enemies but this was disdain from those who were supposed to become my pack.

I forced my breath steadily. Don’t crumble, Petal. Don’t let them see it.

A presence pressed down on me suddenly, heavy and suffocating. My body stiffened instinctively, hairs rising along my arms.

Aslaan.

The Alpha hadn’t touched his food since the feast began. He sat still, carved from stone, but his piercing blue eyes burning with unreadable fire, which did not leave me gazing. My heart stumbled in my chest as his gaze met mine, unflinching. He didn’t need to speak for the entire room to quiet, their whispers dying like embers in a storm.

“Eat,” he commanded at last. His voice was low but carried, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

I forced myself to bite into the bread before me. It turned to ash on my tongue, heavy and tasteless. My throat burned with the effort of swallowing, but I did it anyway. Because if I faltered now, if I looked weak again, I feared I’d break entirely.

Morgan’s voice echoed in my memory just that night in the grave when she pulled me back from the edge of death. “Rise, child. Even the broken bloom again.”

So I raised my chin.

I dared to meet their stares with every sneer, every contemptuous look and refused to look away. My heart belated, but I did not bow my head. I would not crawl.

The air shifted instantly. Unease rippled through the hall. Conversations died. And then Aslaan spoke again, his words thundering though his tone never rose.

“She is mine,” he said. The words struck like iron. “You question her, you question me. And you all know what I do to traitors.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. I watched wolves avert their eyes, shoulders stiffening as his dominance rolled over them like a tide. A few muttered apologies, others stared down at their plates.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. His protection wasn’t tender, wasn’t gentle. It was brutal, merciless but it was still protection. I hated how much relief it stirred in me, hated how safe I felt under his shadow when I should fear him most.

The meal ended quickly after that. Wolves trickled out of the hall, their voices hushed. Madam Garcia gathered the dishes, her eyes darting toward me with something that looked like pity.

When the last of them left, Aslaan stood. His height alone commanded the space, his shadow stretching long across the stone floor. Then he extended his hand.

“Walk with me.”

I hesitated. My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to follow him, didn’t want to play the part of the obedient stray he had claimed. But something in his tone left no room for refusal.

“You are not a prisoner, Petal,” he said, as though sensing my thoughts. “Not anymore. But if you are to stay in my den, you will learn what it means to stand, not crawl.”

The words struck me harder than I wanted to admit. I thought of how often I had been forced to my knees in Crimson’s camp, beaten until I bled, mocked for daring to exist. I thought of Zoran’s rejection, the way he spat on me as if I were filth. Crawling. Always crawling.

My chest ached, but I rose. Against every instinct screaming at me to resist, I placed my hand in his. His palm was rough, calloused, warm. Infuriatingly steady.

We walked the long corridors in silence. Candles burned low along the walls, casting everything in a flickering gold-red haze. The stone smelled of damp earth and smoke. Our footsteps echoed, the sound almost rhythmic, though my heart beat far too fast for calm.

At last, we stepped out into an open courtyard. The night air was crisp, cool against my skin, and the full moon hung high, silver and solemn. The yard was wide, ringed with wooden posts and weapon racks. The scent of sweat, iron, and dirt filled the air.

Aslaan released my hand and moved to the rack. He pulled out two wooden staffs, testing one before tossing the other at me.

I fumbled, catching it awkwardly. My arms trembled with the weight.

“What is this?” I asked warily.

“Your first lesson,” he said simply, spinning his own staff in a slow, practiced arc. “Strength isn’t only the bite of the wolf. It’s in balance. In defiance. In refusing to break.”

My brows furrowed. “You want me to fight you?”

He smirked, and the sight made my stomach flip. “I want you to stop running.”

Before I could respond, he lunged.

The staff sliced through the air, a blur of wood and force. I yelped, barely lifting my own to block in time. Pain shot up my arms from the impact. My heart thundered, adrenaline flooding me as he pressed forward, his strikes precise and relentless.

I stumbled back, each clash of wood against wood shaking me to the bone. He didn’t slow, didn’t soften. He was testing me, pushing me, forcing me to face him head-on.

My back slammed against a training post. Panic flared. My arms quivered, breath ragged, every muscle burning.

“No,” I hissed through clenched teeth, a surge of defiance breaking free. I shoved forward with all my strength, twisting the staff to catch his wrist.

For a fleeting heartbeat, I saw it come in surprise in his eyes.

Then he moved. Effortless, fluid. He disarmed me in a blink, swept my legs from under me, and I crashed to the dirt.

Stars burst behind my eyes. The world spun. And when I looked up, he was there towering, unyielding, golden eyes locked on mine.

“Again,” he ordered.

Anger roared through me. My lungs burned, my body screamed, but I scrambled to my feet and seized the staff again. Strike. Block. Fall. Rise. Over and over, until my arms shook, until sweat drenched me, until my legs wobbled like twigs in a storm.

And still, I refused to stay down.

At last, Aslaan lowered his staff. His chest rose and fell steadily, while mine heaved with exhaustion. His gaze burned into me, fierce and unreadable.

“You are stubborn,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Sweat trickled down my temple. My hair clung to my face. My chest rose and fell like I had run miles. And still, I met his gaze, refusing to look away.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

Then he stepped closer. Too close. The heat of him enveloped me, his breath brushing my skin. My pulse stuttered wildly.

For one terrifying, thrilling moment, I thought he might close the distance. My heart screamed both yes and no.

But he didn’t.

“You’ll survive here,” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. “You’ll survive me.”

And then he turned, leaving me trembling under the moonlight like breathless, furious, and terrified of the dangerous pull tying me to the Devil Wolf.