The Alpha King's Cursed Mate

Four

Lyra ran.

The forest closed around her the moment she left the pack’s outer trails, branches whipping her arms and face, roots grabbing at her bare feet. Every breath tore through her damaged ribs. Her head pounded in time with her pulse. The heat that had been building all day now burned under her skin like a second fever, and the wolf inside her clawed at the edges of her mind without mercy.

Behind her the howls rose.

They had found him. Of course they had. Werewolves healed fast and woke faster. The enforcer must have opened his eyes, spat blood, and spoken her name. Now the pack was coming. Footsteps crashed through the undergrowth, more than one set, maybe half a dozen. The howls were close enough that she could hear the difference between them. Dain’s rough bark. Another she didn’t recognize. All of them hungry for the chase.

Kill her.

That was the only order that made sense. A servant who turned on one of their own was no longer useful. A cursed leftover who suddenly grew claws was a problem that needed solving before the blood moon rose fully.

Lyra’s lungs burned. She pushed harder anyway.

She had wished for death more times than she could count, on the floor of Caden’s room, in the mud outside the kitchen, in the dark of the storeroom when the nightmares came. But wanting death and accepting it were two different things. Something in her still refused to lie down and wait for their teeth. Something that had stayed quiet for years was finally done being quiet.

The trees grew denser. Pine and oak pressed close, the canopy thick enough to turn the moonlight into scattered silver coins on the ground. The sounds behind her grew louder, then closer, then so near she could hear the snap of a branch under a heavy boot only a few dozen yards back.

She fell.

Her left knee struck a root hard enough to send white pain up her thigh. She hit the ground with both hands, scraped her palms open again, and shoved herself upright before the pack could close the distance. Blood ran warm down her shin. She ignored it and ran on.

She no longer knew how long she had been running. Time blurred into the rhythm of her feet and the fire in her chest. The full moon hung high and white above the trees, blood moon or not, it was full, and its light seemed to press against her skin like a hand. Her bones ached in a way that had nothing to do with bruises. They felt too big for her body, shifting, grinding, trying to rearrange themselves while she was still moving.

The wolf stopped asking.

It demanded.

Lyra’s vision swam. Heat flooded every vein. She staggered, caught herself on a tree trunk, and screamed as the first real wave of pain ripped through her. It started in her spine and radiated outward, cracking and reforming, tearing muscle and forcing it into new shapes. Her fangs lengthened whether she wanted them to or not. Claws punched free of her fingertips and dug into the bark. She dropped to all fours without meaning to, still screaming, the sound turning raw and animal halfway through.

Then the world went dark.

When the darkness lifted, she was no longer on two legs.

The white wolf stood in her place, large, pure white from nose to tail tip, a color so rare the old stories called it myth. No living pack claimed a white wolf. They were said to have died out generations ago, if they had ever existed at all. Her eyes burned two different colors: one a deep, glowing red, the other a clear, cold blue. She shook out her coat once, snarled low in her throat, and turned toward the sound of the approaching hunters.

The human part of her was still there, buried under the new body, but the wolf was in control now. And the wolf did not want to die either.

She ran.

The forest opened under her paws the way it never had under her bare feet. She moved faster, quieter, the pain in her side and ribs dulled by the shift. Behind her the howls changed pitch, confusion first, then something sharper. They had expected a broken girl. They had not expected this.

An arrow hissed out of the dark and buried itself in her left flank.

The white wolf staggered but did not fall. She howled, loud, furious, the sound carrying farther than any ordinary wolf’s cry, and kept running. The shaft jutted from her side with every stride. Blood matted the pure white fur. She could smell the iron of it, and something else underneath: a bitter, chemical tang that did not belong in any natural wound.

Poison.

The realization hit her the same moment her legs began to weaken. The edges of her vision darkened. Her paws grew heavy. She snarled and forced herself forward another dozen yards, then another, until the trees started to tilt and the ground rose up to meet her.

She collapsed in a heap of white fur and dark blood, still snarling at the night. The arrow burned deeper with every heartbeat. Her mismatched eyes stayed open only long enough to catch a final shape at the edge of the clearing, tall, still, watching.

A pair of silver eyes stared back at her from the shadows.

Then everything went black.