Reject Me Once, Regret Me Forever

Chapter 8 — The Net and the Blood

**POV: Aria Silverfang**

I kept count of the days.

Kael's camp had stood at the far end of the village for three days. Three days, and he had not left. The Alpha I had rejected in the forest, his arm still wrapped in the linen I had tied, had planted himself in my border village like a tree taking root. His wolf paced the edge of the camp every day, and I could feel it—the scar beneath my collarbone burned, a thread he kept tugging tight.

He had not gone. I knew exactly what he was waiting for. He was hunting the rose-scented girl, the girl who had rejected him on the forest road. He did not know the one he sought was right under his nose. And I had no intention of letting him find out.

By day I worked as the village healer. The village was small; rumor ran faster than wind. On the third day, unfamiliar faces appeared at the well. Not hunters. Not vassals—Silverfang wolf-head pins at their belts, and the trained, even stride of men who knew how to move.

I slid my basket of herbs behind me.

My sister's men.

Seraphine had finally moved. She had not come to invite me home for tea. She had come to bind me and drag me back to Thornheart, to shove me into the wedding robe she did not want to wear herself.

I slipped behind the drying shed, keeping to the wall as I walked for the edge of the village. The scar suddenly tightened—not pain, but a cold sense of being watched. I looked back. The leader at the well was looking at me, his eyes like a man studying a wanted poster.

Run.

I ducked into an alley, vaulted a low wall, and dropped into a vegetable plot. Footsteps came after me—few, three or four. They did not want to wake the whole village, only to pin me quietly.

Behind the third house's woodpile I turned, hooking up a hardwood drying pole.

"Second daughter of Silverfang," the leader strolled in from the alley mouth, smiling like he was selling livestock. "Come home with us. Save yourself the hurt."

"To marry your master?" I leveled the pole at him. "In my sister's place?"

His smile stiffened. Caught.

I didn't wait for his answer. The pole swept for his knee; he dropped to avoid it, and the second man lunged from the side. Pure-blood Alpha strength is not for show—the butt of the pole caught the man's shoulder, bone cracked, and he went down into the mud. The third circled behind; I spun and drove an elbow into his chest, driving him back.

Three against one, I could hold. But the leader did not fight fair.

He stepped back, drew a short blade from his coat—its edge shimmered an unnatural green, tainted with something. He didn't s***h at me; he flung it at my feet. The blade scraped my calf, opening a line.

Blood welled at once. Not an ordinary wound—that green carried numbness, and my leg went heavy in an instant.

"Run, then," he laughed. "The poison's in your blood. You won't make half a street."

I clenched my teeth, swept the pole to drive the two back, and retreated to the corner. Fire ran up my calf; the world began to blur at the edges. They closed in slowly, like fishermen drawing a net.

My back hit the earthen wall. The scar burned—not from poison, but from Kael's direction. He was across the village, yet I could not tell if it was the toxin or that scar dragging at me.

The moment the net drew tight, the air at the end of the alley changed first.

Not wind. Something heavier pressing down—the pressure of a wolf, of an Alpha. The leader's face went pale; his blade still raised, but his body had already frozen.

Then Kael walked in from the alley mouth.

He wore no armor; my linen still bound his arm. But his eyes were the most animal I had ever seen. His wolf recognized something before he did, a growl rolling up his throat, and the whole alley went still.

"Touch her," he said, voice flat and terrible, "and try."

The leader actually dared half a step forward. Kael moved.

I didn't follow the motion. Only the wet c***k of bone out of joint, and the sound of the man hitting the wall and sliding down. The others lunged; he flipped them aside one by one, like brushing away straw. The Alpha's strength in him was absolute—he did not even use his full weight, yet he ground them into the mud.

"Go," he didn't turn. "Tell Seraphine: whoever moves against her, I will tear down Silverfang's threshold."

They crawled away. The alley held only him, me, and the pool of my blood on the ground.

He turned to me. His eyes dropped to the wound on my calf, and his pupils narrowed.

"You—" his voice caught, then hardened. "Why do you always land yourself in these things?"

I meant to fling something sharp back. But my leg gave. He was at my side in one stride, his hand at my arm before I could—not a command, an instinct. The scar flared under his palm, and I heard the faintest gasp leak from my own throat.

Not pain. The scar was burning, burning so that I almost wanted to lean into him.

He looked down at me, and in his eyes was something I could not name—not an Alpha's condescension, but something hotter, something held down too long. "I've found you," he said, very quiet. "This time, you don't run."

My heart missed a beat. His "found"—had he found the rose-scented healer, or the girl who rejected him in the forest? I couldn't tell. Didn't want to.

"Put me down," I pushed off the wall. "I can walk."

"No." He bent, one arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and lifted me wholly. A princess carry. My face went hot—not from the scar, from shame. A man I had hated across three lifetimes, holding me as steady as if I were spoils of war.

"Kael—"

"Quiet, healer." He carried me toward the camp, steps brooking no argument. "You're bleeding. And still mouthing off."

I buried my face in his shoulder and said nothing. Roses and his scent tangled together; the scar went quiet, but somewhere in my chest, his one step, his one carry, pried open a c***k. His shoulder was warm under my cheek—*shut up, Aria*—and I hated that I noticed.

He did not know I hated him. He did not know I recognized him. Yet at this moment, held against him through the village, I could no longer tell if it was hate that burned, or something else.

Seraphine's men would come again. This marriage would not scatter over a little blood. But I knew one thing—that Alpha was not leaving. He had found his rose, and my scar kept score of every old debt.

Until that debt was paid, I supposed, I couldn't run.

He carried me to a tent and laid me on the cot. For one breath I thought he would leave. Instead the pallet dipped—he sat at my side.

His hand rose, hovering just above my face, not touching. I kept my eyes closed. *Play unconscious,* I told myself. *Don't give him a thing.*

"I know it's you," he said, so quiet it was almost to himself. "The rose-scented healer. The girl from the road. Tell me I'm wrong."

My breath held. The scar beneath my collarbone betrayed me—it flared, a small sharp leap against my skin, as if it answered him before I could stop it.

His fingers stilled in the air. "You're awake," he murmured. "Aren't you?"

I did not open my eyes. I did not move. But the scar kept burning, marking me, giving me away to the one man I needed most to fool.