The summons came at dawn.

Aria had barely slept, her dreams burning with gold eyes and fire-hot touches that lingered long after waking. The mark on her chest throbbed in time with her heartbeat, as though it had synced to someone else’s rhythm. His rhythm.

When the knock came, sharp against the heavy door, she already knew it wasn’t a request.

Damian stood there, flanked by two guards. His hair was still damp from the morning run, his shirt unlaced at the collar. He looked as if he hadn’t slept either, though his expression gave nothing away.

“The council wants you,” he said.

Aria’s stomach dipped. “You said—”

“I know what I said.” His jaw flexed. “But refusing them now would cost more than it saves.”

She wanted to argue, but his gaze silenced her. Not because it was cold—because it wasn’t. Beneath the steel was something raw, protective, fighting itself.

She nodded.

The council chamber was nothing like she expected. She had imagined something regal, perhaps with banners and polished stone. Instead it was austere—circular, the walls lined with ancient carvings of wolves and moons. A long table curved around the center, where seven elders sat like judges.

Their eyes tracked her as she entered. Some sharp with hostility, some calculating, others hollow with years. She felt like prey stepping into a ring of predators.

Damian moved to stand beside her, his presence a shield. But the weight of their gazes still pressed heavy against her skin.

“Aria of Ashwood,” rasped the eldest, Marlowe, his voice like dry leaves. “Daughter of Elara. Cursed of the Moon.”

Her breath caught. Elara. Her mother’s name, spoken with such disdain it made her chest ache.

“My mother wasn’t cursed,” she said, forcing strength into her voice. “She was kind. She healed people. She—”

“She ran,” Marlowe cut her off. “She defied the bond and fled her fate. And now you stand here, her legacy glowing on your skin.” His gaze flicked to her chest where the mark burned beneath her dress.

Anger and shame tangled in her throat. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did we,” another elder murmured.

Damian’s voice cut through the chamber, low and edged with warning. “Careful.”

The council shifted, unease rippling through them. For all their age and power, none of them dared meet Damian’s gaze for long. He was Alpha. He was Shadowpine.

“She is a threat,” Marlowe pressed. “The rogues already circle. They scent her. They know what she carries.”

“She carries nothing but her blood,” Damian said. “And she is under my protection.”

The words struck through Aria, sharper than they should have. Under my protection. Was that all she was to him? A responsibility? A duty forced by fate?

Yet when she dared glance up at him, his jaw was tight, his golden eyes fixed on the council with something like fury. Not cold duty. Possession.

Another elder, Tomas, leaned forward. “Alpha, you feel it, do you not? The bond. You cannot deny it.”

The air thickened. Damian didn’t answer.

Aria’s pulse raced. The bond? They knew? Of course they knew. Wolves, councils, curses—how could they not feel what she felt every time he came near?

“Do not speak of it,” Damian growled, voice so low it vibrated through her bones.

But the damage was done. Aria’s cheeks flushed, her skin burning under their stares. Shame, fear, and something hotter tangled inside her.

“Enough,” Damian said. “She’s not your pawn. If the rogues want her, they’ll answer to me.”

Marlowe’s eyes narrowed. “And if you fall, Alpha? What then? She’ll doom us all.”

Damian stepped forward, a threat in every line of his body. “Then pray I don’t fall.”

Silence clamped down on the chamber.

At last, Marlowe leaned back, lips curling. “Very well. Keep your cursed girl. But know this—if her mark burns brighter, if the prophecy stirs, we will act. With or without your consent.”

The guards opened the doors, the summons dismissed.

Aria walked quickly, needing air, needing distance. But Damian’s stride matched hers until they were back in the corridor, alone.

Her chest ached. “You didn’t have to protect me like that.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “Yes. I did.”

She froze.

Damian’s breath was rough, his eyes molten gold in the torchlight. “Don’t you understand? They don’t see you. They see a weapon. A curse. Something to chain or destroy. But I—” His jaw clenched, words choking off.

“You what?” she whispered.

The silence burned.

For a heartbeat, his hand lifted, as if to cup her cheek again, to bridge the gap between them. The same fire from last night sparked in the air, pulling them closer, closer—

Then he dropped his hand, turning away sharply. “Stay in my chambers. Don’t leave without me.”

Her heart stung at the retreat. But the truth was there, in the way his voice cracked, in the way his shoulders tensed as if holding back more than words.

Whatever this bond was, whatever curse it carried… he felt it too.