Chapter 3

Darkness wrapped around Evelyn like a suffocating blanket. She was drifting—caught between consciousness and oblivion. The pain in her body was distant, dulled into a faint ache compared to the crushing weight that pressed against her chest. The rejection still lingered there like a brand, searing her soul with every weak heartbeat.

Then came a voice.

Low. Steady. Commanding without effort.

"...She needs rest."

Something warm pressed gently against her forehead, and for a brief second, the darkness wavered. The fog in her mind began to lift, piece by piece.

Evelyn's eyes fluttered open.

The first thing she noticed wasn't the voice, but the ceiling. It was rough, wooden—completely unfamiliar. Her gaze shifted sluggishly to the sides, registering flickering lanterns casting shadows across the walls, and the faint crackle of firewood burning steadily. The air smelled of pine, smoke, and something else... something distinctly masculine.

Her body went rigid. Memories slammed into her all at once. The rogues. Their snarling teeth. The desperate chase. The enormous black wolf that had torn through them with lethal precision. And then—him. The man.

Ronan.

Her breath hitched sharply as her instincts screamed at her to move. She tried to push herself upright, but pain flared white-hot through her ribs, forcing her back against the pillows with a strangled gasp.

"Easy."

The deep voice resonated in the small room, firm yet not unkind. Her gaze snapped toward the figure seated near the bed.

Ronan.

Even in the dim glow of lanterns, his presence was overwhelming. He was leaning back in a wooden chair, arms folded across his broad chest, posture deceptively relaxed yet radiating raw power. His dark hair looked slightly damp, as if he had only recently washed, and a faint scar cut diagonally across his right cheek, stark against the rugged planes of his face. But it was his eyes—amber, sharp, watchful—that rooted her in place.

Evelyn swallowed hard. "Where... am I?"

"My cabin," he replied simply, his tone carrying no embellishment.

Her eyes flickered around the small space. It was sturdy, built from thick logs. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, its warmth filling the air. Herbs dangled from wooden beams above, their earthy scent mixing with smoke.

When her gaze dropped to herself, she froze. Her torn, bloodstained clothes were gone, replaced with a loose cotton shirt that brushed mid-thigh. Clean bandages were wrapped snugly around her ribs, the faint scent of salve clinging to her skin.

Her breath caught. He had seen her like that. He—

"I didn't touch you," Ronan said flatly, as if he had plucked the thought directly from her mind. His voice carried no defensiveness, only blunt fact. "An elder healer did. You would've bled out otherwise."

Evelyn exhaled shakily, torn between embarrassment and reluctant gratitude. "Oh."

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Then her voice broke through it, tentative but firm. "Who are you?"

Ronan's gaze didn't waver. "A lone wolf."

That answer was far too simple. She could feel the weight behind his words, the truth left unsaid.

"No pack?" she pressed.

His jaw ticked, the faintest sign of tension. "Not anymore."

The response drew a frown from her. Alphas without packs were nearly unheard of. Wolves needed family, hierarchy, structure—it was in their blood. For him to be here, alone in the wilderness, meant something devastating had happened.

Before she could probe deeper, his eyes sharpened. "Now, my turn."

Evelyn stiffened instinctively, clutching the blanket closer to her chest.

"Who were those rogues chasing you?" he asked, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.

Her heart lurched. What could she possibly say? That she was the rejected mate of Alpha Damien Blackwood—the most powerful Alpha in the region? That she had fled with no destination, only the desperate need to escape humiliation and pain?

The truth sat heavy on her tongue, begging to spill free. But could she trust him?

Her lips parted, then closed again. She held his amber gaze, searching for some sign of intent—mockery, judgment, cruelty—but found none. Only patience. Only quiet intensity.

Finally, she said carefully, "I was... leaving my pack."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered, sharp and assessing. "Why?"

Evelyn tightened her grip on the blanket, her nails digging into the fabric. The answer pressed against her throat, aching to escape, but she wasn't ready. Not yet. Not with a man she barely knew.

Instead, she forced out, "I had no reason to stay."

Ronan's gaze lingered on her, unblinking. His silence stretched long enough to make her stomach twist. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair. His face betrayed nothing, but the air between them felt heavier.

Still, he didn't press further.

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the silence between them. Evelyn shifted slightly, the ache in her ribs reminding her of how close she had come to death. She should've been terrified—alone in the woods, far from her pack, in the company of a stranger whose aura screamed Alpha. Yet strangely, she wasn't. Not entirely.

Something about Ronan unsettled her, yes, but it didn't ignite fear. It stirred something else. Curiosity. Recognition, almost—as if fate had brushed her against him for a reason.

Finally, Ronan stood. The motion drew her eyes to the effortless strength in his frame, the way command bled from his every movement.

"You need rest," he said.

She blinked at the abruptness. "Wait—"

But he was already striding toward the door, his presence filling the small cabin with each step.

"We'll talk more later," he said without looking back.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone with the warmth of the fire and the distant echo of his voice.

Evelyn sank back against the pillows, her body heavy with exhaustion but her mind far too awake.

Who was this man? What kind of Alpha lived without a pack? And why had fate led her straight into his arms, after tearing her world apart?

Her wolf stirred faintly inside her, still weakened from rejection but whispering something she could barely decipher. Not danger. Not warning. Something quieter. Something strange.

A spark.

Evelyn closed her eyes, her thoughts spiraling.

Damien had rejected her. Her pack had turned their backs on her. By all logic, she should've been broken beyond repair. And yet here she was, alive, breathing, burning with questions and a flicker of strength she hadn't thought she had left.

One thing was clear—her story wasn't over.

It was just beginning.