Chapter 4

Morning came slowly, the golden light filtering through the wooden cabin's small window. Evelyn stirred, her body aching from the previous night's ordeal. For a brief moment, she forgot where she was—until she caught the scent of burning wood and something... else.

Something male.

Then, it all came rushing back.

The rogues. The chase. Ronan.

Her fingers instinctively brushed against the bandages wrapped around her ribs. The pain was still there, but it had dulled overnight. Someone—Ronan's healer, most likely—had treated her wounds well.

But why?

She forced herself to sit up, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. The cabin was quiet, but the scent of freshly brewed tea drifted from the other room.

Evelyn swung her legs over the side of the bed, hissing at the soreness in her muscles. Ignoring the discomfort, she stood and made her way to the cabin door, pushing it open.

The sight before her made her pause.

Ronan stood near the fireplace, pouring tea into two wooden cups. His back was to her, but even from this angle, his strength was undeniable. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders and muscular frame littered with faint scars—proof of battles fought and won.

Her gaze trailed lower before she caught herself and looked away.

Focus, Evelyn.

As if sensing her presence, Ronan turned. His amber eyes flickered over her, assessing. "You're awake."

She crossed her arms, trying to ignore the way his voice sent an odd shiver down her spine. "Where exactly is this place?"

He handed her a cup of tea before answering. "Deep in the neutral lands. No pack territory for miles."

She frowned. "So you really are a lone wolf."

Ronan took a slow sip of his tea, his expression unreadable. "Something like that."

Evelyn narrowed her eyes. He was hiding something, but she had no energy to push him for answers. Not when she had questions of her own.

"What do you plan to do with me?" she asked bluntly.

Ronan raised a brow, amused. "I saved your life. You think I have some hidden agenda?"

She hesitated. "Most lone wolves don't help strangers."

His lips twitched in something close to a smirk. "Most pack wolves don't wander into rogue-infested lands alone."

She exhaled sharply, looking away. He had a point.

Silence stretched between them before Ronan spoke again, his tone quieter this time. "Why were they after you?"

Evelyn's grip tightened around the cup.

She could still hear Damien's voice in her head, cold and final. I reject you. You are not fit to be my Luna.

The words sliced through her again, no matter how much she tried to bury them. She had spent her whole life preparing to stand beside her mate, only to be tossed aside like she meant nothing. And now? Now she was running, lost in unfamiliar lands with a stranger who didn't belong to any pack.

"I left my pack," she said finally, choosing her words carefully.

Ronan studied her, his expression unreadable. "Was that your choice?"

She swallowed. "It was the only choice I had."

Something flickered in his amber eyes, but he didn't press. Instead, he nodded toward the plate of food on the small wooden table. "Eat."

Evelyn hesitated before sitting down, her hunger outweighing her pride. She hadn't eaten since yesterday, and her body needed the strength.

As she picked at the food—bread, cured meat, and a few wild berries—Ronan leaned against the fireplace, watching her.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He shrugged. "You're the first pack wolf I've seen out here in a long time."

"Not surprising," she muttered. "Most wouldn't dare step outside their territories."

"Yet here you are."

She met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

He was right. She shouldn't be here.

But maybe... just maybe, fate had led her to him for a reason. She just didn't know what yet.

Ronan broke the silence first. "You should know this land isn't safe. Rogues hunt in packs now, organized—more dangerous than before. A wolf wandering alone won't last."

Evelyn bristled. "I wasn't wandering. I was—" She stopped herself.

"Running," he finished for her, his voice low but certain.

Her stomach knotted, but she didn't argue.

Ronan's eyes sharpened. "Running from what?"

"From who," she corrected softly.

That gave him pause. His jaw tightened, and his gaze shifted to the fire, as though weighing whether to ask more. But he didn't. Instead, he said, "Whatever your reason, you can't stay here long. The rogues will come looking. They always do."

Evelyn's chest tightened. Even here, even after everything, she wasn't safe. "And you?" she asked, tilting her head. "Why are you here, living alone in the middle of nowhere? What are you running from?"

Ronan's expression hardened instantly, and for a moment, she thought he might throw her out then and there. His amber eyes glinted, sharp and dangerous.

"Some packs aren't worth belonging to," he said finally, his tone clipped.

The finality in his voice silenced her.

She looked down at her food, chewing slowly, but her mind spun. A wolf without a pack was rare, unnatural even. Wolves needed connection, hierarchy, bonds. What had happened to Ronan to drive him to isolation?

And why did his words sound so much like her own truth?

Later, when she tried to stand, her knees buckled. Ronan was at her side instantly, catching her before she fell. His hands were strong, steady, and far too warm.

"Careful," he muttered, his voice close to her ear.

Evelyn's heart raced as she pulled away, ignoring the flush creeping up her neck. "I'm fine."

"You're not," he countered, stepping back but keeping his gaze locked on her. "Your ribs are cracked. It'll take time before you can shift again."

Her stomach dropped. A wolf unable to shift was vulnerable—prey. She hated that weakness.

Ronan must have seen the frustration in her face because his expression softened slightly. "You'll heal. But until then, you stay here. Understand?"

Evelyn's pride flared. "And what if I don't want to?"

His jaw ticked. "Then you'll die."

The words were blunt, unflinching, and they silenced her argument.

That night, after Ronan had stepped outside, Evelyn lay awake in the small cabin bed. The fire had burned low, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

She thought of her mother, of the pack she had left behind. Of Damien.

Her chest ached—not just from her injuries, but from the hollow emptiness that rejection had carved into her.

But then, unbidden, her thoughts turned to Ronan.

The mysterious lone wolf with scars and secrets. The man who had saved her when he had no reason to.

Her instincts told her he was dangerous. But another part of her, deeper and quieter, whispered something else.

That maybe, in the ruins of everything she had lost, she had stumbled into something she wasn't meant to understand yet.

Fate.

And for the first time in days, Evelyn drifted into sleep without fear.

But far outside the cabin, unseen eyes watched the woods.

The rogues had not forgotten.

And neither had Damien.