Chapter 6 Pull of the unknown
1219 Words
The Pull of the Unknown
Daxus Vale sat alone in his office, the low hum of the old grandfather clock barely audible over the silence. A single desk lamp cast a pool of golden light across a stack of manila folders, the warm glow softening the otherwise severe lines of the room—leather-bound books, dark oak furniture, thick velvet curtains that barely stirred in the late-night breeze.
The air smelled of cedarwood and something faintly metallic, like dried blood that had seeped too deep into the grain of old wood to ever wash out. Fitting. It was his space—controlled, guarded, and rarely intruded upon.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and reached for the top file in the stack. He’d seen it before. Twice, in fact. Yet his hand went to it again, like muscle memory, like instinct.
Avane Monroe.
Scholarship recipient. Honors-level academic scores. No pack ties. No known affiliations. Human.
That last detail stuck with him like a splinter he couldn’t quite dig out.
He flipped the folder open and let his gaze settle on the photo clipped to the upper corner. The image was standard—application-grade, bland background, neutral expression. But her face…
Almond-shaped eyes, with cerulean depts. Dark, curling hair that framed her high cheekbones and full lips. Her expression was still, but not blank—there was tension there, a trace of something withheld. Defensiveness? Determination?
He didn’t care.
She was beautiful. That was the truth of it.
The attraction struck him low and hot, not the deep, binding tether of instinct or mating bonds—he wasn’t deluding himself. It wasn’t fate.
It was flesh.
A purely physical reaction. And that annoyed the hell out of him.
He was Alpha. Discipline defined him. He didn’t chase impulses like some untrained pup. He ruled with precision—strategic, ruthless when needed, composed when it counted. And yet here he was, staring at a human girl’s application photo like a schoolboy.
Disgusted with himself, he leaned back in the chair and let the folder fall shut with a quiet thud. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, tension coiling in his shoulders.
A sharp knock at the door cut through the silence.
“Enter,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse.
The door creaked open and Joren stepped inside, his Gamma. The scent of blood and pine clung to his uniform, along with the sharp tang of adrenaline.
“Alpha,” Joren said, inclining his head. “We’ve got movement.”
Daxus was already rising. “Where?”
“North ridge. Three, maybe four rogues. One’s down. The others slipped the line.”
Daxus’s jaw flexed. “Wards didn’t catch them?”
“They were smart. Got deep before they triggered anything. Desperate. Quick.”
His lip curled slightly. “Then we’re done talking.”
---
The forest loomed ahead, a black sea of branches and fog as Daxus moved swiftly through the trees. The moon rode high and cold above the treetops, casting silver over everything. His senses sharpened as he half-shifted—claws extending, vision tinting gold, muscles stretching just shy of the full transformation.
He didn’t need full form. Not for this. Just enough to kill.
The scent of rot hit him first—old blood, sickness, desperation. Rogues. Filthy, feral creatures with no allegiance and no purpose but survival. They were broken wolves, stripped of control and reason. Dangerous in packs. Suicidal when cornered.
A twig snapped to the left.
He spun and caught the rogue mid-air. It had launched itself without finesse, teeth gnashing wildly. Daxus slammed it into the forest floor, claws raking across its throat in a single, efficient stroke. It gurgled once. Stilled.
Another came from behind. Faster.
He twisted, ducked under the swipe of claws, and struck upward—elbow connecting with bone. The rogue crumpled to the ground with a sound like a sack of stones hitting wood.
The third tried to run.
Always one who thought it could escape.
He didn’t bother shifting further. Didn’t need to.
His legs coiled and released, launching him forward like a predator off leash. He hit the rogue from behind, driving them both through underbrush. Before it could scream, he tore into its ribcage and yanked out the still-beating heart.
Silence fell again.
His breath fogged in the cold air, but it came steady. Controlled. Blood painted his forearms, glistening on the claws he slowly retracted.
No howl. No roar. No ceremony.
Just death.
He rose and scanned the woods. No more movement. No more threats.
Still, something clung to him—a buzz in the back of his skull, a thought like a gnat he couldn’t swat away.
Her.
He clenched his jaw and turned back toward the estate.
---
By the time Daxus returned to Blackwood’s private wing, most of the estate was asleep. A few security lights glowed in the distance. The campus was cloaked in that particular silence that came only in the deep hours of the night.
He didn’t go to bed.
Instead, he walked down the silent hallway to the lounge. It was a private room—books lining the walls, thick rugs underfoot, a bar stocked with bottles no one else touched. A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth casting flickering shadows over the leather furniture.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight as he sank into the low couch.
The folder was already on the table.
Avane Monroe.
He cursed under his breath but didn’t look away.
There was nothing new in the file. No secret heritage. No pack politics. No reason she should have landed on his radar.
Except she had.
And now, alone and blood-streaked, adrenaline ebbing from his body, Daxus found himself drawn back to that photograph again.
His fingers grazed the image like he might feel something real beneath it.
She was… soft. But not fragile. There was something in her gaze that hinted at strength. A sharp mind. A wariness he found oddly satisfying.
And her mouth—
He swore again and downed half the glass.
This wasn’t instinct. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t destiny.
It was desire.
Sharp. Immediate. Unwelcome.
He didn’t need distractions. Especially not from some girl—no matter how stunning—who didn’t belong in his world.
But he couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to stand near her. To see that fire in her eyes up close. To test whether her guarded expression would crack if he leaned in too close. If her voice would shake.
The thought turned something in his blood molten.
Damn it, he thought, tossing back the rest of the whiskey.
Tomorrow night was the annual welcoming gala. He usually made an appearance out of tradition, said a few words, and left. Dressed in black. Distant. Untouchable.
But this year?
He’d stay.
He’d watch her.
Not for answers. Not for strategy. Not even for understanding.
Just to see if the reality matched the photo. If she would affect him in person the same way she already had in the dark, quiet corners of his mind.
He didn’t tell himself it would go further than that.
He wouldn’t allow it.
But he also knew—he wouldn’t be able to look away.
- Writer
