Chapter Four – A Wolf That Watches
The room Lucien abandoned me to was not cold, yet I shook violently.
Every surface glittered like obsidian—walls, floors, furniture—every surface carved with symbols I didn't know. They glowed dimly, not with light, but with energy. As if the room was breathing. Waiting. Watching.
I stood in the center of it, arms wrapped tightly across me, my thin top clung to skin still damp with sweat and blood. The pain in my bones had not eased since the night that they threw me out into the woods. But it was no longer merely physical. Something deeper had opened within me.
The bed-huge, dark wood, piled with heavy black covers-hung like a throne. A plate of food rested on the ground next to it. Meat, still warm from the fire. Bread. Some dark red fruit, its surface like blood. My belly rumbled with hunger, but I didn't approach it.
I didn't want to take anything from him. Not yet. Not when I didn't even know what I was anymore.
A prisoner? A guest?
Or something worse?
A memory clawed its way up—my stepmother's icy, pitiless hand, gripping my arm that morning.
"They don't need you," she'd spat, dragging me to the pack square. "You've always been a bother. This way, you'll at last be of use."
I remembered the fear. The shame. The cut of betrayal so sharp I couldn't catch my breath through it.
And then the eyes of my Alpha—cold, empty—as he issued the command.
Sacrifice her.
My nails dug into my arms. That me, the one that shook and wept, was gone. Left behind in the forest with the blood on the rocks.
There was a knock that broke my thoughts.
I didn't answer.
The door opened anyway.
Lucien walked in like he owned the room, owned the air, owned the ground I stood on. He was shirtless, and the view hit me harder than it ought to have. Broad chest, bruised and shaded. Tattoos—no, etchings—ran down his left side, winding like vines or runes, old and unreadable. His jeans were low on his hips, showing the V-shape of his torso.
He was dangerous. It went without saying.
But it was the way he looked at me—i.e., as if I already belonged to him—that made something coiled and hot in my belly.
"You haven't eaten," he said.
I swallowed, hugged myself tight. "Didn't know obedience was rewarded by being. whatever this is."
Lucien's eyes turned toward me. His silver eyes flashed under the mask of tranquility. Like lightning about to strike.
"You owe me nothing," he said to me. "But your body's weak. You'll need strength."
"For what?" I spat. "So you can use me? Feed me to the next full moon?"
He stepped closer, slow and fluid, his movements more animal than human. "I don't feed what's mine to the moon."
The words hung between us like a rock.
Mine.
My heart leaped. "I'm not yours."
He stopped a breath away from me. So close I could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. "That's the second lie you've told tonight."
I caught my breath. My lips opened, but no voice came out.
"I felt it," he whispered. "When I touched you. When I pulled you out of that meadow. You didn't cry because you were frightened. You cried because something inside of you was splitting open."
I stood with my back to him, but he did not move. I circumnavigated the tray, stiffening every movement into a stance of defiance. My hands trembled as I grasped a hunk of bread. I ate it slowly, not because I trusted him, but because I would not give him the pleasure.
I glanced up to see him still gazing at me.
Not like a man looks at a woman.
Like a wolf looks at something sacred.
"I'll be back before nightfall," he said after a long hesitation. "Don't even think about trying to run."
"And suppose I do?"
He lingered by the door. "Then I'll be hunting you. And trust me, little spark… I'll enjoy every second of the hunt."
The door shut quietly. But the echo of his words rang in her ears long after.
Time passed strangely in that room.
I walked. I sat. I stared at the carvings on the walls and fought not to wonder why they appeared to beat in time with my pulse. I ate the fruit—sweet, dark, addictive—and avoided the rest.
Hours ticked by before the door creaked again.
But it wasn't Lucien.
A young woman entered, maybe my age or younger. Pale hair, freckled skin, wearing simple gray linen. She blinked at me with large hazel eyes and nodded stiffly.
"I'm Mira," she said quickly. "Lucien instructed me to ready your bath."
Bath?
I blinked, caught between laughing and sending her away.
"I can do it myself," I told her.
Mira paused. "He said to make you comfortable."
"Why?"
She flinched at the brutalness of my voice, and then answered quietly, "Because you're… important."
I turned aside before I was brave enough to discover what that was. The girl moved around the room, opening a door I hadn't noticed—a hidden bath room lined with cold black stone, a silver bath already steaming.
I stood to observe the water froth. Waves of heat rose. It smelled of cedar and something wilder, something like lightning and wind.
I waited until she'd left, and then I got undressed and in.
The water blistered. Then softened. Then unwound all the things inside of me.
I don't know how long I was sitting there, head back, the heat soaking into my skin. I wanted to believe I was safe. That I'd gotten through.
But survival here came at a price. And I still didn't know what mine was.
When I emerged, Mira had left me new attire—a soft black dress, clean undergarments, a dark green cloak. I clothed myself slowly, looking over to the mirror.
I did not appear to be a servant anymore.
I appeared to be something new.
Something in transition.
Dusk fell rapidly.
When Lucien returned, I sat upon the bed, attired, hair dripping about my shoulders. I did not stand. I did not flinch.
"You bathed," he said, closing the door behind him.
I raised an eyebrow. "Is that a shock?"
He moved closer, but this time he didn't touch. "You smell like my territory now."
"Gross."
Lucien's mouth curved. "You're not frightened of me."
I stood. The distance between us vanished in a heartbeat. "Should I be?"
His eyes flared. The air around him pulsed.
"No," he said, his voice low. "But they will be."
"Who?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes tracked along the contours of my face, as if memorizing it. "You're not of this world, Elara. Not entirely."
I felt a scowl form. "I was born in Black Hollow. I know who I am."
"You know what they told you were," he countered. "There is something inside of you. Borne. Sleeping. But I've seen it in the woods. Felt it."
I moistened the dryness in my throat. "What are you talking about?
Lucien leaned in, and the world contracted to the space between us. My breath caught for the second time—damn him—and his voice dropped to a whisper.
"I'm not talking about how the earth trembled when you screamed. I'm talking about power. Ancient blood. You're more than a mate, Elara. You're something they fear."
He palmed my wrist, slid it into his gently, fingers pressing against my skin like a question. Like a claim.
And the spark struck again.
A burst of heat. Of memory that wasn't mine.
A snarl of wolf. A crown of antlers. Flames running through the trees.
I gasped and drew back, stepping back.
Lucien didn't stir.
"You felt it," he said softly.
I scowled at him. "What the hell was that?"
"A glimpse," he said. "Of what you once were. Of what you may yet become."
My heart thudded. The walls were too confining, the air too thick.
Lucien's voice went low and gentle, but the fire never left his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you. I want to protect you. But only if you'll let me."
I swallowed hard, torn between rage and confusion and the strange, compelling allure of him. "You told me I belonged to you. But you don't actually know me.".
"I know enough," he answered tersely. "I know the moment I turned to look at you, my wolf fell silent. As if he was listening to something older than instinct."
My throat constricted.
"I don't want to be anyone's prize," I whispered.
"You're not," Lucien answered. "You're the tempest that ends the war."
I did not know what that was. Not yet.
But I trusted him.
And that scared me most of all.