Michael’s POV

Chase Cawthorne was dead.

It didn’t matter.

He was only the beginning. My revenge wouldn’t be complete until I sent that little girl of his to the grave right next to him. Avery. Weak, slow, soft. She didn’t even belong on the battlefield. But I saw her run. I saw her eyes, wide with fear. I saw her tears.

She would be next.

I would show the world how cruel I could be. They would all learn to fear the name Michael Damire.

I was moving fast now, tearing through the woods. Her scent was easy to follow. She didn’t even try to cover her tracks. No skill. No fight in her. I almost laughed.

What a joke of a beta.

I didn’t get a close look at her earlier, but even then, I could tell she was pretty. Blonde hair that caught the sun. Soft skin. A little thing. Maybe I’d play with her before I finished her off. Show her what fear really felt like.

Then it hit me.

A sharp pain in my chest. Like fire. I stumbled forward and crashed into a bush, breathing hard.

Damn this curse.

It had been with me since I was six. A pain that came and went, without warning. Some said it was from my mother’s side, others said it was the mark of a twisted soul. I didn’t care anymore. I had learned to live with pain.

But I hated Chase even more because of it.

He had a daughter. A child he raised. A child he loved. And I—what did I have?

Pain. Always pain.

My father never wanted me. I was the bastard. The mistake. My brothers—seven of them—died one by one. I made sure three of them never woke up. They were soft, spoiled. And my grandfather? He saw me kill one of them, and he didn’t even flinch. That’s when I knew.

If I wanted to survive, I had to be stronger than everyone else.

And I was.

But even now, this pain still clung to me, a reminder of everything I had lost. I growled low in my throat and pushed forward. I would not let it stop me. Not today. I was so close.

I followed Avery’s scent through the trees. She moved like someone with no training. No control. A spoiled child. I hated people like that.

Then I found her.

She had cornered herself, backed into a tree like an animal caught in a trap.

I stopped.

For a moment, I just stared.

She was even smaller up close. Her hair glowed like gold. Her cheeks were red, maybe from the cold, maybe from crying. She wore a purple tank top, a lace skirt, and a scarf tied around her head. A plain country girl, wearing boots better fit for walking the farm than fighting in a war.

I chuckled. “You’re quite fucking little,” I said out loud.

She jumped. Her hands trembled. Her lips were cut, her eye was swelling. But her eyes—those green sea moss eyes—still held a flicker of fire.

She pulled out a knife from her skirt. Pointed it at me.

“Stay away!” she screamed.

Her voice shook. She was scared. Good. I liked it that way. But then… something strange happened.

She smelled like fear, yes, but underneath that… something sweeter.

My wolf stirred.

I stepped closer. She trembled harder.

“Leave!” she shouted again, but I could see it—she was breaking.

I tilted my head and smiled. “Little girls shouldn’t play with knives,” I said quietly, voice calm, almost bored. “It’s not a toy, you know.”

Her eyes burned. She screamed and charged.

Idiot.

I disarmed her in one move. The knife clattered to the ground.

She barely even fought me off before I grabbed her by the throat and slammed her into the tree. She gasped, clawing at my hand. Her legs kicked, trying to break free.

“Yes,” my wolf whispered. “Kill her.”

My fangs slid out.

She cried out, eyes full of tears. “Moon Goddess… please…” she whispered in Old Latin.

I didn’t care.

She was nothing.

I bent my head, about to bite down on her neck—rip her throat out—

Then I stopped.

Her scent… it hit me all at once.

Stronger now.

Sweeter.

It filled my lungs, sent heat through my body. I sniffed her again. Her neck. Her hair. My eyes rolled back for a second.

Why… why did she smell like this?

My wolf went quiet.

Words from long ago echoed in my mind—words from the old crone who cursed me.

“The one who can solve all your problems… who can heal your heart… she will have the mark. A heart-shaped birthmark. On the lower left of her back.”

No.

It couldn’t be.

I growled and spun her around, ignoring her scream. She tried to resist, but she was nothing in my grip. I grabbed her shirt and yanked it up.

She cried harder.

And then I saw it.

A heart-shaped mark. Faint, but clear.

Mate.

My heart stopped.

Everything stopped.

She was mine.

The world tilted beneath me.

I let go of her and stepped back. She slid to the ground, coughing, gasping, curling in on herself. Tears streamed down her face.

I didn’t care.

I was staring at the mark. At her.

How could this be?

My mate?

This weak, broken, terrified girl?

No. No, no, no. I was supposed to kill her. I was supposed to make her suffer. Not… this.

I shook my head, backing away like I had just touched fire. My wolf was no longer bloodthirsty—it was quiet. Watching. Waiting.

I turned away, but I couldn’t run. Not yet.

I looked back at her.

She lay there in the dirt, holding her neck, shaking with fear.

But even like this… she was mine.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

She was…my mate.