CHAPTER 3 – His Scent in the Rain
1051 Words
The rain came first, a sudden, unrelenting curtain that washed over Blackridge Forest. It fell in thick sheets, drenching the ancient trees and soaking the earth with its cold, silver weight. The air smelled of wet pine, mud, and something metallic—blood perhaps, carried from some distant, unseen source. It was the scent of the wild, raw and untamed, a warning for those who dared trespass.
Through that storm, a lone figure ran, barefoot, slipping on the slick mud with every desperate step. Silver hair clung to her face and shoulders, plastered by the rain. Each movement felt heavier than the last, every breath cutting her lungs like shards of glass. But she didn’t stop. She could not.
Lyra.
The rogue-born, the packless omega, the girl no one wanted. Her life had always been a series of escapes—from the cruelty of others, from the rigid rules she had never fit into, from herself. Tonight was no different. Tonight, survival meant running, even when every instinct screamed to freeze.
Behind her, the forest erupted in sound. Wolves. The Shadow Moon patrol, relentless in pursuit. Their paws pounded the saturated earth, their growls rising over the thunder that rolled through the canopy. She had crossed the invisible line, the one no mortal dared challenge. She had stolen from the pack, and for that, she could pay with her life.
Clutching the satchel of stolen herbs to her chest, Lyra darted between trees, over roots slick with rain. Her knees struck the mud, scraped and bleeding, but she pressed on, pushing the sting away with each desperate inhale. Hunger, she realized, was a cruel teacher—it could make anyone reckless, a rebel in the name of survival.
Then — she froze.
A growl rolled through the storm, low, deep, and commanding. Not from behind, not from the hunting wolves—this came from ahead.
Her heart stopped. She looked up.
Through the sheets of rain, a figure emerged. Not in wolf form. Worse. Human. Terrifying. Tall, bare-chested, muscles gleaming with wet strength, hair black and dripping, eyes glowing gold through the darkness.
The Alpha. Damien Blackthorn.
She had heard the stories. The exiled heir who had returned ruthless, seizing the pack with a cold hand and a sharper mind. The one who had killed his own father to claim the throne. The man who had sworn never to love again after betrayal had burned his heart into ashes.
And here he was, standing in front of her, predatory, unyielding, like a storm that could break her at a glance.
“What are you doing on my land?” His voice rolled across the forest, low, smooth, edged with a danger that made the rain itself seem to tremble.
Lyra’s throat tightened. She swallowed. “I—I just needed—”
“Needed what?” His step brought him closer, deliberate, controlled. Rain slid off him, leaving him untouched as though nature itself feared him. She stumbled back.
“Please… I didn’t mean—”
“Stealing is punishable by death,” he said flatly, each word cutting like steel.
Her heart thundered so violently she feared it might betray her. “Then… kill me,” she whispered, voice trembling yet laced with defiance.
For the first time, his gaze flickered—not with anger, but with curiosity. Exhaustion. Surrender. She did not beg. She did not plead. She simply stood there, raw, desperate, alive.
Lightning cracked the sky, illuminating her dirt-streaked face, trembling lips, eyes molten silver. And something long buried inside Damien stirred, something he had thought dead. A primal flicker, a heat in his chest that unsettled him, angry and unwelcome. He did not like it.
His jaw clenched. “What’s your name?”
“Lyra.”
He tilted his head, sniffing the storm-heavy air. His body stiffened. Beneath the rain, beneath the scent of wet earth and distant blood, there was something else—a faint, intoxicating scent that struck him like wildfire.
Moonlight and ashes.
No. It couldn’t be.
Lyra felt it too—the change in him. Pupils dilated, gold blazing brighter, predatory focus locking on her. He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, deliberate enough to make her stumble back against the rough bark of a tree.
“Stay away,” she warned, voice steadier than she felt. “I’ll scream.”
His lips curved into a smirk, slow, dangerous. “Who would hear you out here?”
Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning everything. His scent enveloped her now—cedar, storm, raw power, danger. She should have been terrified. She was. And yet, beneath that fear, something ancient awakened, coiling inside her chest like recognition. Something wild, something that belonged to her without question.
“I don’t hurt those who don’t deserve it,” he murmured, leaning closer until his breath ghosted across her ear. “But you… you’re testing my control.”
Her eyes fluttered closed. “You’re the Alpha.”
“And you,” he said, voice rough, gravel-edged, “shouldn’t smell this good.”
Before she could move, his hand caught her wrist. Firm, not cruel. Controlling, not hurting. A restraint layered over raw strength—the kind that comes from a man fighting himself, wrestling with every impulse he had been taught to bury.
The rain slowed, as though the world itself held its breath.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She obeyed. And the instant their eyes met, everything snapped. Her heart slammed against her ribs. His wolf surged inside him, claws tearing at the confines of his human form. The bond—the bond they both had ignored, denied, feared—snapped into life. Electric, primal, ancient.
The rain ceased entirely, silence settling over the forest like a shroud. Even the storm seemed to respect them, holding its breath as their fates collided.
Damien’s chest heaved, golden eyes molten with fire. He released her wrist, stepping back as if the storm itself had struck him.
Lyra’s vision blurred with disbelief, confusion, and a tremor of fear that ran deeper than anything she had felt before. “What… what’s happening to me?”
His gaze did not waver. It burned into her, through her. His voice broke the heavy silence, guttural, commanding, unmistakable.
“Mate.”
- Writer
