The cold bite of the night air clung to Elaria’s skin as Draven’s hand closed around hers, pulling her deeper into the shadows of the pine-lined ridge. Behind them, the sounds of distant pursuit—low howls and the faint thud of boots—tangled with the pounding of her own heartbeat. Every instinct in her screamed to run faster, but Draven’s grip anchored her, steady and commanding.
“Stay with me,” his voice was a low growl, vibrating through the dark like something dangerous and unshakable. His eyes, molten gold even in the dim moonlight, flicked over her face, scanning for signs of weakness.
“I am,” she whispered, though her legs burned, each step heavier than the last. She could feel her pulse in her ears, in the bruise blooming across her ribs from earlier.
Draven’s wolf instincts were
