Aria woke to the smell of pine smoke and rain-washed earth.

For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming. The ceiling above her wasn’t the wooden beams of her cottage, but rough-hewn stone. Faint light spilled through an arrow-slit window, painting pale silver across the floor. The cloak Damian had given her was still draped around her shoulders, heavy with his scent—wild, smoky, threaded with something primal that made her chest tighten.

Her mark pulsed, faint but insistent.

She sat up, heart unsteady. The events of last night slammed into her—the rogues, the golden eyes, the wolf who had saved her. The man who had become the wolf.

Damian.

She rose, pulling the cloak tighter around her, and stepped into the adjoining hall. The space was vast, its high roof supported by dark beams. Wolves carved from stone lined the walls—guardians watching with eternal eyes. Torches flickered in iron sconces, and the scent of roasted meat drifted faintly from beyond a door.

This wasn’t a cottage. It was a fortress.

And it was alive.

Voices murmured, boots scuffed, shadows moved at the edges of her sight. People—men and women—passed through the hall in leather and fur, their gazes sharp, their postures wary. They looked at her as though she were a fire burning in the wrong place—something dangerous, unpredictable.

Her pulse jumped.

“Don’t wander.”

The voice came from behind her. She spun.

Damian stood in the doorway, his presence filling the space as easily as breath. His dark hair was tied back now, his shirt replaced, though the faint line of a healing wound traced his collarbone. His golden eyes locked on her, and for a moment the world shrank to just that—just him.

“I wasn’t—” she began, then faltered. She had been wandering.

His lips curved, faint and humorless. “This isn’t Ashwood, Aria. Every corridor here has ears. Every shadow has eyes.”

She swallowed. “Then why bring me here?”

He studied her, silent for a beat. “Because you’d be dead if I hadn’t.”

The bluntness made her flinch.

He walked past her, motioning with a tilt of his head. “Come.”

Aria hesitated, but followed.

They moved through winding passages, the air thick with the weight of old stone. Wolves—real wolves this time—watched from alcoves, their eyes gleaming. The people they passed lowered their heads to Damian but kept staring at her, whispers trailing in her wake.

“What are they saying?” she asked under her breath.

“That you’re the cursed bloodline,” he said without hesitation. “That you’ll ruin us.”

Her steps faltered. He didn’t stop.

“You could have lied,” she said bitterly.

“I don’t lie,” Damian answered, his voice flat. “Not about fate.”

They emerged into a great hall where a long wooden table stretched beneath banners embroidered with a black wolf and silver moon. Food lay scattered across plates, the remnants of a meal. A man with sharp features and piercing gray eyes rose as they entered.

“Alpha,” he greeted.

“Rylan,” Damian replied.

So this was the Beta. The second-in-command. His eyes flicked to Aria, assessing, measuring. There was no hostility there—only wariness.

“This is her,” Rylan said quietly. “The one the rogues were hunting.”

“This is Aria,” Damian corrected.

Aria’s cheeks warmed, though she didn’t know why.

Rylan inclined his head to her, then turned to Damian. “The council is restless. They want to see her.”

“No,” Damian said at once.

Aria blinked. “Why not?”

“Because they’ll try to use you. Or worse.” He looked at her, voice edged with steel. “You’re not ready for their truths.”

Her chest tightened. Not ready? Or does he not trust me?

“I don’t even understand what I am,” she said softly. “How can I be dangerous to anyone?”

Damian’s jaw flexed. “Because of me.”

The words hung heavy, thick as smoke.

Before she could press him, a horn sounded from somewhere beyond the hall. Both men stiffened.

“What is it?” Aria asked.

Rylan’s expression hardened. “Scouts. The rogues are moving closer. Too close.”

Damian’s golden eyes burned. “They won’t stop until they have her.”

Aria’s heart lurched. “Me?”

He turned to her, his gaze fierce, unrelenting. “You’re not safe anywhere now, Aria. Not in Ashwood. Not even here.”

Her voice shook. “Then what happens to me?”

His silence was worse than any answer.

Because in that silence, she felt the truth—their lives were already tangled. And whatever the curse was, whatever fate had bound between them, it was far too late to escape.