Chapter 3
1314 Words
Devon’s Pov
I hate mornings. I hate politics. And above all, I hate my brothers.
“Smile, Devon,”
Ethan drawled as he adjusted his cloak in the mirror. “You look like you just buried your soul.”
“Maybe I did,” I mumbled.
He grinned like the bastard he is. “Cheer up. It’s Hunting Day. Time to stretch those claws and remind the kingdom why we rule.”
“Rule.” Right.
They always said we ruled, but it felt more like I was constantly being ruled—by expectations, by tradition, by my parents’ obsession with fate.
The Midnight Ball was a week away. A week.
And I had a deadline: find my mate or choose one.
Choose. Like she was a piece of fruit at the market.
Like love—real love—was something you could order off a scroll.
Ethan found his mate last year. Tristian found his a month later. And me? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. The crown prince and triplet number three was still single. Apparently, that was a national crisis.
So here I was, joining my bloodthirsty brothers on a hunt I didn’t give two shits about, just so I could clear my head and maybe pretend, for an hour, that I wasn’t about to lose the throne I never asked for in the first place.
The arena buzzed. The crowd screamed. Our horses snorted beneath us as we rode in like gods.
Fake gods.
Tristian, with his smug wave.
Ethan, with bloodlust in his eyes.
And me? Hooded, silent, wondering how far I could ride before anyone noticed I was gone.
The announcer shouted our names like this was some grand sport. I hated this part. Always had. We weren’t supposed to be hunting werewolves. The Hunt was supposed to be symbolic—wild prey, wilderness, tradition. Not this.
But Ethan and Tristian? They liked breaking rules, especially when those rules bled.
And then they brought out the slaves. A line of them shoved like cattle into the holding gate. Girls. Most of them shook so hard they could barely stand. I looked away.
Until her.
Blonde. Barefoot. Bloody lips. But her chin was up, fire in her eyes like she’d spit in the face of a god if she had the chance.
She wasn’t shaking.
She wasn’t even crying.
She was watching. Calculating. Like a wolf forced into sheep’s clothing.
Something in my chest tightened.
And then she looked at me. Straight at me. No flinch. No falter.
The world went quiet.
I didn’t believe in all that “fated mate” crap. Not really. I figured mine had died at birth or was halfway across the world, blissfully unaware I was one political ultimatum away from marrying a power-hungry duchess with the personality of stale bread.
But this girl… there was something about her I couldn’t name. I couldn’t explain it. But I felt it.
Interest?
Recognition?
Or maybe just… hope.
The gates slammed shut behind the slaves. Ethan leaned over his horse, already picking one like she was a slab of meat.
“She’s new,” he said, pointing to the blonde. “Let’s see if she runs.”
I clenched my jaw. “She’s not a deer, Ethan.”
“No,” he smirked. “But she’s better.”
That’s when I knew I had to join the hunt. Not for blood. Not for the thrill.
For her.
And gods help me, I didn’t even know her name.
The gates opened. The horn blew. And hell began.
The girls ran like shadows, disappearing into the trees. Screams echoed—wild, raw—followed by the cruel laughter of nobles who had twisted the sacred Hunt into blood sport.
I didn’t move right away. Couldn’t.
Because the image of her, the blonde, was burned into my mind.
She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t even looked back. She just ran—fast and silent, like she’d done it before.
Ethan didn’t waste time.
His arrow whistled through the air and hit a dark-haired girl in the back. She fell hard. The crowd roared.
I didn’t.
I sat stiff in the saddle, fingers digging into the reins as something inside me curled and snapped.
They were supposed to have a chance. That was the rule. If they made it to the cursed wood, they lived. At least, that’s what the old law said.
But Ethan didn’t care about laws. Neither did Tristian.
I dismounted, tossed my hood back, and walked into the forest alone.
Let the crowd cheer. Let my parents frown. Let my brothers hunt and kill and feed their egos.
I needed to find her.
Not because she was prey. But because something about her made me feel less like a prince and more like a man.
A man who wanted to know who the hell she was.
The forest was silent. Too silent. I followed the trail—crushed leaves, snapped twigs, drops of blood from someone else’s wound. But not hers. She was careful. Smart. She knew how to move.
She knew how to survive.
I paused near a moss-covered tree, scanning the fog-drenched path. Then I heard it.
Breathing.
Shallow. Controlled.
Close.
I turned slowly.
She stood a few paces away, a stick in her hands like a blade, her body tense and ready to fight even if it killed her. And gods, her eyes. She looked at me like she already had my funeral planned.
“Stay back!” she warned.
Her voice wasn’t scared. It was furious. I almost smiled.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said.
“Liar.”
Fair. I’d probably say the same.
“You’re not like the others,” I tried instead.
“Wow. Congratulations on having eyes.”
Even bleeding and trembling, she had enough fire to talk back to a prince. Either she didn’t know who I was, or she didn’t care.
I stepped forward. She tightened her grip on the stick.
“Don’t!” she snapped.
I stopped, hands raised slightly. “Alright. You win. Just… hear me out.”
“Why?” she bit out. “So you can play the nice prince before putting an arrow in my back like your brother did to that girl?”
Something in my chest twisted. I didn’t blame her for hating us. Hell, I hated us too.
“I didn’t shoot anyone,” I said.
“That makes you a coward. Not a saint.”
Damn.
A low whistle cracked through the trees. Ethan.
He was getting closer.
I saw panic flash in her eyes—just for a second. She turned to run again, but I moved fast, grabbing her wrist.
“Wait—stop.”
She whirled around, nearly slashing my throat with the stick. I caught it midair. Her eyes widened. Not from fear. From recognition.
I knew it. She knew it too.
She felt it. And I felt it too.
“You can’t be…” she breathed.
I nodded slowly. “I am.”
“It can’t be. You’re the worst of them.” She tore away and ran.
And gods help me, I let her go.
Because the fire in her eyes didn’t scare me. It called to me.
Ethan’s voice rang out seconds later. “That blonde b***h! She’s making a fool of us. I want her head! Dead or alive! Bring her to me!”
He was putting a bounty on her. Publicly.
My blood turned cold.
I looked back into the woods, where she vanished like smoke.
I didn’t know her name yet. I didn’t know her story. But I knew this:
She wasn’t prey.
She was a storm.
And if I didn’t find her again—if I didn’t protect her from the monsters around her—I’d regret it for the rest of my cursed royal life.
- Writer
