Chapter 2 Damien's POV

The woods behind Silverwood Estate held their breath at dawn. No birdsong, no rustle of leaves, just the sound of my sneakers pounding the dirt trail. Each stride was deliberate, measured. Control wasn’t optional for me; it was survival.

My lungs burned as I pushed harder, the icy air cutting against my skin. Beneath the surface, my wolf stirred, restless.

Always demanding more, more speed, more strength, more dominance. My father called it a gift. Proof that I was born to rule.

Most mornings, it felt less like a gift and more like a cage.

By the time the sun climbed over the hills, I was back at the estate. Its iron gates stood tall, its white stone walls glowing gold in the early light.

Manicured gardens, symmetry carved into reality, it wasn’t just a home. It was a monument to power, and one day it would be mine to carry on my shoulders.

“Late.” My father’s voice cut through the air as soon as I stepped inside.

Alpha Marcus Blackwood stood in the grand hall, his frame blocking the light. He was carved from iron and willpower, with eyes like cold flint that never softened.

Power radiated from him in waves, the kind that made weaker wolves lower their heads. I didn’t lower mine. Not anymore.

There was a time when his presence hollowed me out, when fear had a home in my chest. But he burned that out of me years ago. If he wanted a son who could stand in fire, he got one.

“I ran five miles before breakfast,” I said flatly, wiping sweat from my brow.

He studied me, gaze sharp enough to cut. Then, the corner of his mouth tugged, not a smile. My father didn’t smile, but approval flickered there, thin and cold.

“Good. You’ll need that stamina. The council expects a demonstration this season. You won’t embarrass me.”

As if I ever could. I left him standing in the echo of his own authority and made myself a black coffee. The portraits lining the staircase followed me upward, Blackthornes of centuries past.

Each jaw as sharp as mine, each set of gray eyes the same. Legends, tyrants, martyrs. They stared down like judges reminding me of the blood in my veins.

By the time I reached my wing, Cassian was already sprawled across my leather sofa, tossing an apple in the air as though he owned it.

“You look like hell,” he said with a grin.

I grabbed a towel and rubbed sweat from my face. “And you look like a parasite. What’s your point?”

He laughed, biting into the apple. Lucien and Jaxon were there too. Lucien with his sharp tongue, baiting Jaxon, who countered with the same dry boredom he always wore.

They were my circle. Not brothers by blood, but close enough. Together, we were untouchable. Or so the rest of Silverwood liked to believe.

Cassian crunched noisily, then smirked. “You hear the news? They’re letting in a scholarship kid this semester.”

I raised a brow. “And why should I care?”

He leaned back, smug. “Because the council doesn’t hand out charity. If someone’s here on scholarship, there’s a reason. Could stir things up.”

I scoffed, turning toward the window. “Scholarship kids come and go. They don’t last. Silverwood isn’t built for strays; it’s built for heirs.”

He didn’t argue, and he didn’t have to. The truth was written in the stone halls of this estate, in every portrait on the walls. Power here was bred, not given.

Whoever this girl was, she’d learn soon enough. Silverwood had a way of breaking people who didn’t belong.

Silverwood Academy rose from the hillside like something carved out of legend, stone towers reaching skyward, arched windows glinting with sunlight, and banners snapping in the breeze.

Humans called it prestigious. Wolves knew better. Silverwood wasn’t just a school; it was a crucible.

The place where heirs were sharpened into leaders, where the next Alphas learned how to dominate before the world ever dared to test them.

As I crossed the courtyard, the whispers started, soft, eager, inevitable.

That’s him. Damien Blackthorne.

Some voices carried awe, others fear. Both were acceptable. Both were useful.

Cassian slid in beside me, grin sharp enough to cut glass. Lucien and Jaxon followed close, and the four of us moved as though gravity itself bent to us.

Here, it did. Students parted like water around stone, the air alive with the mingled scents of wolf and human blood.

And then I saw her. She stood at the far edge of the courtyard, a worn backpack clutched to her chest like armor.

At first glance, she was nothing: jeans, a hoodie, dark brown wavy hair pulled back too carelessly, as if she’d sprinted here instead of gliding in behind the sleek black cars parked at the gate.

But when her head lifted, her eyes caught the morning light. Hazel, threaded with green, strange and sharp in a way that didn’t belong here.

Something inside me stilled. She didn’t look like the others, didn’t feel like them.

Cassian followed my line of sight, and his grin widened. “There’s your stray,” he murmured, low enough for only me to hear.

I should have looked away. Should have dismissed her like every other scholarship hopeful who thought they could survive in Silverwood. But I didn’t.

I held her gaze across the courtyard. She didn’t drop her eyes. Didn’t flinch under the weight of mine.

Most people broke in seconds. She didn’t. She stood her ground, steady, even when the flicker of challenge sparked between us like the crackle of a live wire.

Interesting.

The headmistress’s voice rang out, sharp as a bell, calling students to assembly. The girl broke the stare first, disappearing into the sea of uniforms and polished faces.

“She’ll be eaten alive,” Jaxon said lazily, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Unless,” Cassian drawled, amusement curling his voice, “our dear Damien decides to play with his food.”

Lucien smirked, eyes glinting. “This year just stopped being boring.”

I said nothing, but the faint curl at the corner of my mouth was enough to make them laugh. Let them think it was a game. Let them mock and smirk, but deep down, I already knew the truth.

Silverwood had just stopped being predictable.