Wolf's Reckoning- A Steamy Werewolf Romance

2

They sat in their seat, not too close to the alpha but close enough. Their robes were homespun, heavy with charms made of bone, teeth, iron nails, and what looked like raven feathers. The bird feathers changed depending on their mood. I’d never looked too closely at the bones to know if they changed.

Their presence hummed with the quiet power of wind through ancient oaks. Their skin was the color of ivory under the palest moonlight, smooth and almost metallic in the soft light, with a faint scar arcing across one brow—a whisper of past trials.

Their hair was the most startling white. Sculpted into an undercut that exposed the graceful curve of their skull, the sides shaved down to a whisper of stubble, while above, a thick crest of moonlit white swept back in a single, elegant arc. At the nape, those strands cascaded into longer lengths, tumbling in gentle waves down their back, with flecks of pale lavender and dove-gray drifting through the mass. Ever since I was a child, I had been fascinated by the druid’s hair.

“Your heat comes soon.”

The smile I gave them was not a friendly one, before I turned to my father. “Hi, Dad,” I greeted my father, leaning over him to kiss his cheek. “The Binding was nice.”

The druid’s sniff wasn’t quiet. I ignored them, taking a seat beside my father’s bedside. He lay still, his arms over the covers, his palms flat against the sheets. His hair was thick and white with age, his skin pale. I didn’t remember the last time he’d managed a whole day without needing to rest.

“The pack needs strength.” The druid ignored my ignoring of them.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” I asked my dad.

“Rowen, daughter, you should listen to the druid. They tell me that there may be a strong leader up north, who would be good for the pack. Good bloodlines. It could mean good alliances.”

The words slid off me like rain on stone, but inside, the wrongness howled. Leaders. Bloodlines. Alliances. A perfect trap just waiting for me to step inside it.

They said marriage, I said cage.

The druid lifted their staff—a gnarled thing strung with bone and iron—and my father fell silent. “Two wolves, two names, one future,” they intoned, their voice low and heavy as a burial stone.

My father nodded with approval. To him, it was just another contract to be sealed under mist and expectation. I made myself stay still. I had been taught stillness as a child—taught how to wear obedience like armor.

But inside, my wolf paced. My wolf wanted to run. Wanted to fight the stillness.

The druid’s gaze met mine, one eye gray like mist, the other the deep amber of a wolf’s. “Soon you must be ready.”

It wasn’t a command.

It was a warning.

Soon.

The word throbbed in my blood. Before my father could latch onto it, I stood swiftly. “Were you able to visit the kitchen earlier, Dad?” I asked him, knowing he wouldn’t have. “If you haven’t, I’ll go and ensure our new bonded pair has cake for after their supper.”

My dad looked at me with a regretful expression in his gaze. “I’m sorry, I…I wasn’t able. And then the⁠—”

I leaned down to kiss his cheek once more. “I’ll do it now, Dad. I’ll get them to send you a cup of tea and a snack too, hmm?”

He smiled up at me, his gaze softening from alpha to parent. He clasped my hand, the strength all but gone, a reminder that the once unshakable man was fading. “You’re a good daughter, Rowen.”

I ignored the druid’s harrumphing as much as I had since I entered the room. I liked the druid. I respected them. It just seemed that lately, my patience for their comments, sniffs, and harrumphs was running out, and they were grating on my very last nerve.

“I’ll be back soon,” I promised Dad, and I left before he dismissed me.

I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore. The druid would start talking about Bindings and duty next.

My Binding. My duty to the pack.

The druid was not a bad person; on the contrary, they were important to the pack. They were just…annoying.

My father was my priority right now. The druid knew that, but still it felt like both of them had a hand around my throat, pressing down on me.

Like tradition itself.

I felt no guilt about leaving them both in my dad’s chambers. I visited the kitchen to request a tray be sent to my dad, and then using the back exits to the pack hall, I slipped away, into the trees that offered me a sanctuary from prying eyes. I’d already spoken to the kitchen earlier this morning, and the request for the bonded pair had already been made.

My feet found the trail long before my thoughts did. They knew the way. My black lace-up boots trod lightly on the mossy path until I stopped beside a familiar oak with a deep hollow in its trunk. I tugged them off first—each boot peeling free with a soft “pop”—then stripped away my socks, folding them over the heels. Next came the dark-green, cropped cargo pants, their pockets checked in case I had left anything I shouldn’t have unguarded. My black tee, smooth and cool in my hands, followed, and finally, my white tank top, along with my bra. I stacked my clothes neatly inside the tree’s cavity, a casual ritual I’d performed countless times before.

My fingers worked through my braid quickly, loosening it until my hair spilled down my back and over my shoulders.

With a sigh of relief, I shifted.

My wolf stretched and then I ran.

Fast and hard, the kind of run that flayed your soul back from your bones. My breath sawed through my chest, my pulse thundered, echoing in rhythm to the grip of soil as my paws thudded over the earth.

Blueridge Hollow opened around me like a secret. Out here, the rules didn’t speak. The forest didn’t care who my father was or what the druid whispered behind carved doors.

The pines towered over me like ancient sentinels, bark gnarled and thick with moss. Mist curled low across the ground, seeping from the hollows between tree roots, wrapping around my legs like old friends welcoming me home.

Crickets rasped from the underbrush. Something unseen cracked a twig deeper in. A blue jay called once, sharp and lonesome.

And still I ran.

I ran past the iron markers set by wolves long dead. Past the spring that carved through the mountain like a scar and was the source of the Hollow’s water. Up and up until the path vanished and the land forgot the touch of man.

Here, the air tasted thinner. Wilder.

The earth smelled of smoke, wet stone, and the sharp tang of something older than even Blueridge Hollow.