Chapter 7
818 Words
Rayna POV
We move through the trees without speaking.
Damon walks a few steps ahead, not watching me, not slowing down - but never too far. He moves like he belongs here, like he’s memorized every branch, every root waiting to twist an ankle.
I trail behind, my boots crunching softly over frostbitten leaves. The deeper we go, the quieter the woods become.
Too quiet.
No birdsong. No wind. Just the occasional snap of a twig beneath our feet, and the steady rhythm of my breathing, faster than I want it to be.
I watch him.
Not just because I don’t trust him - but because I’m looking for something. Weakness. Hesitation. A tell. Anything.
But he’s maddeningly hard to read.
He walks with the ease of a man who’s fought and won more times than he’s lost - and never lets his guard down. His coat is worn, scuffed leather stretched over broad shoulders. There are faint tears near the seams. A dark stain near his left bicep.
A hit he didn’t dodge? Maybe.
His boots are solid, quiet. His steps are sure, but not arrogant. More like… calculated. Balanced.
Not even his hair is out of place. and we spend the night in the wild. What is he?
I try to scent him, but the cloak masks too much - herbs, old blood, damp stone - and his own scent is strange. Not sharp like most males. No arrogance or heat. Just cold air mixed with pine and smoke and iron.
He doesn’t look back at me once. But somehow I know he’s listening.
Measuring.
I force my mind back to strategy. If I had to run, I’d go northeast - I caught a stream that way last night, and higher ground. If I had to fight… I’d aim for his ribs, low and fast, hope the shovel broke on impact and gave me a chance to run while he flinched..
“Planning my death again?”
His voice cuts through the quiet. I jolt, nearly tripping on a root. “I- What?”
He glances over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Your footsteps changed. You shifted your weight back. You were bracing.”
I scowl. “You’re insufferable.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“I’m not planning your death,” I mutter. “I’m just… prepared.”
A breath of something like amusement brushes across his face. “Good.” And then he turns forward again, walking like nothing happened.
But I don’t stop watching. Because I know one thing for sure now. Damon may have saved my life. But he’s dangerous. And people like that always want something in return.
His scent still bothers me. Not in a bad way. Just… wrong.
I’ve been around rogues before. You can smell them. Wild, bitter, half-feral - no pack bond, no grounding. Like ash and fear soaked into skin.
Damon doesn’t smell like that.
He smells like cold iron and storms that haven’t broken yet in pine forest. And underneath it, something older. Like carved stone. Like memory of something lost.
I slow my pace just enough to close the space between us. He doesn’t react - but I know he hears me.
“Where’s your pack?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.
He doesn’t look at me.
“Gone.”
“Gone like… disbanded? Or wiped out?”
He gives the smallest shrug.
“Does it matter?”
I frown. “You don’t smell like a rogue.”
That makes him glance over, green eyes flashing faintly. “No?”
“No. Rogues smell like chaos. You… don’t.”
He says nothing.
I press further. “You smell like forest, metal and storms. Like- like something old. Like ruin.”
Damon stops walking. I nearly run into him. He turns toward me slowly. Not hostile - just… sharp. Like I’ve touched something I wasn’t supposed to see.
“You know a lot for an omega.”
“I pay attention.”
A breath of silence.
Then he says, “Maybe you smell me wrong.”
“I don’t.”
His mouth twitches - just slightly. “Then maybe I’m not what you think.”
I narrow my eyes. “So you’re not a rogue?”
“I never said I was.”
And then, maddeningly, he turns and starts walking again. Like the conversation never happened.
I stand there a second longer, heart pounding for reasons I don’t fully understand.
He’s not a rogue. He’s not pack. But he’s something.
And I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything like him before.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Then what are you?”
He turns back, closing the distance between us in two easy steps. His scent hits me harder, hotter.
His mouth lowers to my ear.
“Something you shouldn’t want.”
That sent a shiver down my spine.
- Writer
