Chapter 2

Three years ago, on that full moon night, I thought he had come to kill me.

I lay in a pile of fallen leaves deep in the forest, my chest feeling like something was trying to burst through skin and flesh—my wolf was awakening, but it wouldn't obey. It rampaged through my body, claws scraping my ribs, teeth tearing at my blood vessels.

I curled into a ball, a beast's whimper trapped in my throat.

A shadow blocked the moonlight.

I looked up to see a man standing three meters away. Gray eyes, no expression.

Moonlight shone from behind him. I couldn't see his face clearly, only the silver wolf head on his cuff.

Alpha.

Ruler of the pack.

My wolf instantly curled into a ball, trembling against my chest.

He walked toward me. Each step slow, boots crunching on dead leaves. I backed away, my spine hitting a tree trunk.

He crouched down.

That hand landed on top of my head.

"Don't be afraid."

His voice was low, like wind rising at night.

My wolf went still.

I don't know how long I knelt there.

Maybe a long time, maybe just an instant. When I came to, my eyes were soaked through.

He withdrew his hand, stood up.

"Your wolf just awakened." His back to the moonlight, expression still unclear. "Not being able to control it is normal."

I opened my mouth. No sound came out.

He turned to leave.

"Wait—"

I grabbed the hem of his cloak.

He didn't turn back, but he stopped.

"I have no pack." My voice stuck in my throat. "I'm a rogue. My father was exiled when I was three, I don't remember anything. I have nowhere to go."

Silence.

Moonlight stretched his shadow long, falling across my knees.

"Come with me."

He started walking.

I scrambled up, following behind him.

The Blackstone Pack was built in a valley deep in the forest. He led me through barriers and guard posts. Every guard who saw him bowed their heads, not one daring to ask who I was.

He brought me to an empty wooden cabin.

"You'll live here."

I peeked inside. A bed, a table, a stove.

He turned to leave.

"Alpha." I called after him.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps.

"What's your name?"

He turned his head. Moonlight fell on his profile, those gray eyes holding an emotion I'd never seen before. Quickly, so quick I thought I'd imagined it.

"Marcus."

He left.

I stood at the cabin door, watching his figure disappear at the end of the corridor.

Later I learned that night he'd done two things he'd never done before. He allowed a rogue to enter the pack. He didn't ask my wolf's name. Every werewolf, upon reaching adulthood and awakening, has a wolf with its own name inside. It's something more intimate than bloodline. That day when he placed his hand on my head, if he'd wanted to, he could have sensed it completely. He didn't. He left that choice to me.

I stayed in the Blackstone Pack. During the day I helped at the infirmary, grinding antidotes for silver poison, bandaging wounded warriors. At night I returned to that little cabin, sometimes staring out the window in a daze, sometimes pretending to read herbalism books.

Actually, I was waiting.

Waiting for the sound of patrol footsteps passing by. Waiting for his low voice when he spoke in the hall. Waiting for when he occasionally passed the infirmary entrance, his gaze crossing the crowd to pause on me.

I broke those one or two seconds into many pieces, spreading them across an entire day.

He never sought me out alone. But he remembered I didn't eat wild berries. Every time the dining hall made wild berry pie, the next day a basket of bread would appear at my door.

He'd warned me. That was three months after I arrived. When I was treating silver weapon wounds at the infirmary, my emotions fluctuated and my wolf nearly lost control. He pushed through the door, pressed me into a chair, palm against my forehead.

"Control yourself." His voice was low. "Your wolf is unstable. Any loss of control gives the Council grounds to expel you."

He was very close. Close enough for me to smell the pine scent on his cloak.

"I know," I said.

He looked at me.

"You don't understand." He released his hand, stepped back. "You don't belong here. Any mistake will get you thrown out."

"What about you?"

He didn't answer.

That night, I found a dagger at my cabin door. The blade had been unsealed, the handle wrapped with old leather cord, the worn spots polished smooth—it wasn't new. I kept it under my pillow.

Later, during many sleepless nights, I would take out that dagger, looking at the blade's reflection in the moonlight.

He cared about me.

He must care about me.

I didn't know what to call this. Subordinate? Sheltered rogue? Or something else.

I didn't ask. I was afraid if I asked, the answer wouldn't be the one I wanted.

Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. I collected those one or two seconds of eye contact, storing them in the deepest part of my chest.

I learned to control my wolf, learned to be alone, learned to bow my head and pretend to be busy when he passed.

I learned not to expect.

But I never learned not to look at him.

Until today, in my most painful moment, my eyes still uncontrollably sought him out.

My delusion, my Alpha.

I heard the dungeon door open.

The memory cut off abruptly.