Aria woke to warmth.

At first she thought it was a dream—the kind where her body floated in sunlight, safe and soft. But the rain still drummed faintly in her ears, and her clothes clung damp to her skin. The warmth came not from the weather, but from the heavy cloak wrapped around her shoulders.

She blinked, sitting up slowly. She was no longer in the forest. The walls around her were stone, lit by the glow of torches. The air smelled of pine and smoke.

Her chest tightened. Not my cottage. Not Ashwood.

The events flooded back—the rogues, the golden-eyed wolf, the blood. Him.

Her hand flew to her chest, to the mark that still throbbed faintly.

“You’re awake.”

The voice came from the shadows. Low, rough, but smooth as silk over steel.

Aria’s gaze snapped up.

Damian stood against the wall, arms crossed. The firelight carved shadows across his sharp jaw, his dark hair damp from the rain. His shirt was torn at the shoulder where blood had dried, but he looked untouched by the wounds that should have felled a man. His eyes—those same golden eyes—watched her with unsettling intensity.

She drew the cloak tighter around herself. “You.”

He didn’t move. “You shouldn’t have been in the forest.”

Aria bristled. “I didn’t exactly plan to be hunted.”

His mouth curved—something between amusement and disapproval. “Rogues don’t hunt without purpose. They were tracking you.”

Her stomach dropped. “Me?”

“Yes.” He pushed off the wall, pacing slowly closer. His presence filled the space, coiled and predatory, yet restrained. “Your mark is drawing them.”

Aria’s hand pressed harder against her chest. “This?”

His gaze lingered there for a heartbeat too long before snapping back to her eyes. “Yes.”

The silence between them thickened, heavy with unspoken things. She should demand answers—what he was, why she had seen him shift, why her dreams had come alive before her eyes. But her throat was tight, her words caught in the storm of his presence.

Finally she whispered, “You’re the wolf.”

He stopped a step away, golden eyes locked on hers. “And you’re the cursed bloodline.”

Her breath hitched. “What does that mean?”

He looked at her for a long moment, as if weighing how much truth to give. Then he turned away, pacing toward the fire.

“Your mother tried to hide it from you,” he said quietly. “But blood remembers. The Moon doesn’t forget. That mark is not a gift—it’s a chain.”

Aria’s hands curled into fists beneath the cloak. “My mother… she knew?”

“She knew enough to run.” His tone hardened. “And she knew enough to keep you from us.”

Us. Wolves. Packs. All the shadows that now pressed in around her.

Aria rose shakily to her feet. “You saved me.”

His head tilted slightly, as if the words struck deeper than she meant. “You think that matters?”

Her chest tightened. “It matters to me.”

He turned then, slowly, until his eyes found hers again. The air between them sparked, hot and dangerous. His jaw flexed, his fists clenched at his sides. For a heartbeat, she thought he might step closer, might let the pull between them snap into something neither could undo.

Instead, he growled low, almost to himself. “You should be afraid of me.”

Aria held his gaze, trembling but unyielding. “I am.”

Silence. The fire crackled. Rain whispered against stone.

But underneath it all, the bond pulsed between them—undeniable, fierce, like fire under skin.

Damian broke the stare first, shoving a hand through his hair. “You’ll stay here tonight. You’re not safe in Ashwood.”

Her protest caught in her throat. Because part of her wanted to argue, to run, to demand her life back. But another part—deep, shameful, dangerous—felt relief.

Relief to be here. With him.

He turned away, his voice a rough command. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

And though her heart thundered, though every instinct told her she was standing on the edge of something she couldn’t escape, Aria lay back down.

Sleep came slow. Her mark burned. And through heavy-lidded eyes, she saw the shadow of him by the fire, silent, unmovable, golden eyes never leaving her.