Heather's POV
☆☆☆☆☆
She waited until the house slept.
Heather had memorized the rhythms of the packhouse—when the guards changed shifts, when the halls grew silent, when Marcus took his last drink and passed out in his chambers. She had counted the seconds in the dark, traced every crack in the stone with her eyes, and committed every pattern to memory. For weeks, she planned. For days, she waited.
Tonight was the night.
Her body was weak, her ribs still tender from the last "lesson," but her spirit—gods, her spirit had sharpened into something blade-like. Her wolf stirred beneath her skin, sensing the shift in her intent.
Freedom.
It was close.
She crept barefoot from the servants' corridor, clutching the stolen blade she'd hidden under her mattress for days. Just a sharpened kitchen knife, but it felt like a weapon of vengeance in her hands.
The hallway stretched before her, dark and cold. Each step was agony. Every creak in the floorboards made her breath hitch. She kept her head low, her presence small. She was a shadow, nothing more.
The first guard sat dozing by the eastern door. She didn't hesitate. A quick move—swift, silent. The blade pressed to his throat. One drag. Blood. He slumped. No sound.
Heather kept going.
By the time she reached the outer wall, her legs were shaking. Silver spikes lined the top. Magic wards pulsed faintly at the gate. A warning. Her kind couldn't pass without pain.
But she would rather bleed to death than spend one more night as Marcus's plaything.
She took a running start and climbed the stone wall. Her fingers slipped. Her arm tore on the jagged edge of the silver fencing, and she screamed—but no one heard it over the wind.
Then came the wards.
They struck like lightning—searing, ripping, breaking through skin and bone. Her wolf howled inside her, writhing in agony. Her vision dimmed. The forest beyond the wall swam like a mirage.
She fell.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her hands clutched dirt. Cold, wet earth. Outside. She was outside.
But she couldn't move.
Blood pooled beneath her, hot and fast. Her arm was sliced open. Her ribs—she wasn't sure how many were still whole. Her breathing was shallow, her body convulsing.
But she had made it.
She had done what none before her had.
She'd escaped.
The last thing she saw before the world went black was the moonlight filtering through the trees, and the faint shimmer of a figure in the distance—tall, still, watching.
Then—
Darkness.
Darkness dragged at her like an undertow. Voices swam just out of reach—distant, muffled. Her body refused to respond, locked in pain and ice. But somewhere deep inside, something primal still fought to live.
Leaves crunched nearby. Heavy steps.
Not Marcus. Not Krey.
This presence was different.
A growl, low and warning, cut through the silence like thunder. The sound rumbled in her bones, and even unconscious, her wolf stirred.
Heather's lashes fluttered, eyes barely slitting open. Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting silver beams over a massive figure crouched beside her.
He was huge—shoulders broad and tense, his dark cloak rippling in the breeze. Shadows kissed the edges of his jaw, but she could still see his eyes.
Piercing. Unnatural. Almost inhuman in how they glowed beneath the moon.
And angry.
"Who did this?" he growled, voice gravel and fury.
Heather couldn't speak. Her throat was dry. Her lips cracked. But her eyes met his, and that was enough.
His nostrils flared. He leaned closer, inhaling. Then he froze.
She felt it too—the bond snap taut like a thread drawn between them. Raw. Ancient. Unyielding.
Mate.
His eyes darkened, shifting to something darker than rage.
Possession.
Darrian moved fast. One arm slipped under her knees, the other behind her back. His touch burned like fire and ice—unfamiliar yet somehow necessary.
Heather tried to resist, but her body betrayed her. She slumped against his chest, blood soaking his shirt. A strangled sound escaped her lips. Not a word. A plea.
"Easy," he said, his voice lowering. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… steady.
"I've got you now."
The forest seemed to hold its breath as the feared Alpha carried her across the border, past the wards that flared and hissed at his power but dared not strike.
She faded again into unconsciousness, but this time, she didn't feel alone.
Not safe—but not alone.
And in her final thread of waking thought, she wondered if she'd escaped one cage only to fall into the hands of a far more dangerous captor.