Alpha of Her Ruin

The Forest

Chapter Eleven

The forest was quieter than it should have been.

Birds did not sing. Leaves did not rustle. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Aisla rode between Rhian and Corin, her eyes darting to the trees that towered around them like watchful sentinels. The deeper they traveled, the more the air thickened with something ancient and listening.

Rhian’s hand occasionally brushed her knee as they rode, grounding her. But even that small comfort could not erase the weight that pressed against her chest.

The Vargan’s voice still echoed in her bones.

You are the gate.

She had not spoken since they left the burning fortress. There were too many questions and too few answers. And Rhian had his jaw clenched so tightly she feared it might snap.

They finally slowed at a small clearing ringed with stones. The air shifted again. Colder. Older.

“This is where?” Aisla asked.

Rhian dismounted. “The edge of the sacred grove. The elders called it the Mouth of Memory.”

Corin tied the horses. “Lovely. Nothing says peaceful like a place named after a body part.”

Rhian shot him a glare. “Stay here.”

Corin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But if I hear screaming, I’m turning the horses around.”

Rhian took Aisla’s hand. “Come with me.”

She followed him into the grove.

The light dimmed instantly as they passed beneath the arch of roots. It was like stepping into a memory that did not belong to them. Every step made the ground pulse faintly, as if it recognized her presence.

“How do you know this place?” she asked quietly.

“My mother used to bring me here. Before the Council forbade it.” He paused. “She said the trees whispered things she was not supposed to know.”

They stopped before an altar made of black stone, weathered by time but still humming with energy. Strange runes lined the edges, glowing faintly.

Aisla reached out. The stone was warm.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“A place of origin. Before the packs. Before the bloodlines. Before the binding of the Moon.”

She turned to him. “Why bring me here?”

“Because if there are answers anywhere, they are buried beneath this grove. And because I trust the wild more than I trust the Council.”

He stepped closer.

“And because you need to know what’s inside you.”

She looked up at him. “And if I do not want to?”

He brushed her cheek, his eyes softening. “Then I will follow you anywhere. Even if it kills me.”

She leaned into his touch. “Why me, Rhian?”

He did not flinch.

“Because I have never felt peace like I do when I am near you. And because the moment I touched you, something in me stopped running.”

Their foreheads touched.

“Also,” he added, “you are terrifying.”

She laughed quietly, then pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was not slow. It burned. It devoured.

It was everything they had both been holding back. Her fingers curled into his shirt. His arms pulled her flush against him. The grove pulsed louder around them, as if it too responded to their union.

When he lifted her onto the altar, there was no hesitation.

Just need.

Just breath.

Just a wild kind of reverence.

His mouth trailed down her neck, to the mark on her shoulder, to the faint gold that shimmered like molten sunlight. She gasped when he touched it. The glow flared brighter.

Their bodies moved together like they had always belonged.

When it was over, she lay on the stone with her head on his chest, heart still racing. The grove was silent again.

But something had changed.

The runes around the altar no longer glowed softly. They burned.

A low whisper rose from the earth.

A name.

Not hers.

Not his.

A name that had been forgotten for centuries.

Rhian sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”

Aisla nodded. “Yes.”

They both turned toward the deeper woods.

Something was coming.

Something older than the Vargan.

Older than the wolves.

And it was calling Aisla by name.