Chapter 2
747 Words
Reason told me to turn around and leave.
A strange wolf wounded this badly had probably brought disaster with him.
If I saved him, I might drag that disaster straight to my pack.
But while I hesitated, the black wolf forced his eyes open.
Amber.
Even on the brink of death, the moment those eyes met mine, my breath caught.
Inside my mind, Sorrel suddenly began pacing, restless and frantic.
A sound came from her throat that I had never heard before.
Almost a whine.
"Save him, Wren. Save him now."
I couldn’t explain the feeling.
It was as if an invisible thread had reached out from my chest and wrapped itself around that wolf.
Later, I would learn that fate had made its first mark on me before I even knew what it was doing.
"Damn it."
I cursed under my breath, threw away my hesitation, and rushed toward him.
Using every bit of strength I had, I dragged the wolf—three times heavier than me—into the abandoned old herb cellar at the edge of the field.
It had belonged to the old Pack Doctor.
No one in the pack remembered it existed.
The distance was less than a hundred yards, but by the time I got him inside, my legs were trembling and my shoulders felt like they were coming apart.
Every inch I dragged him, a low, pained growl escaped his throat.
As I gasped for air, I kept begging him silently.
Don’t die.
Please don’t die in my hands.
What came next was all instinct, training, and my two hands.
The broken silver blade had to come out immediately.
If it stayed in him, the poison would burn through his blood and reach his heart.
But the silver was buried deep.
The longer I waited, the farther the wolfsbane spread.
I lit the oil lamp, clenched my teeth, pressed a cloth soaked in numbing sap against the wound, then used sterilized tongs to pull the broken blade out inch by inch.
The black wolf trembled violently.
A suppressed growl vibrated in his throat.
His muscles were drawn tight as a bowstring.
But he never bit me.
It was as if he knew I was trying to save him.
The moment the broken blade came free, black blood and pus surged out.
I immediately packed the wound with crushed antidote roots, then pressed clean cloth hard against it.
It was a method the old Pack Doctor had taught me.
Use one poison against another.
Use the right herbs to pull wolfsbane from the blood.
When the bleeding finally slowed, his body began to change.
Fur receded.
Bones shifted.
The black wolf became a man.
I froze.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his black hair soaked with blood and mud.
Even unconscious and deathly pale, the lines of his face were sharp enough to look carved by a blade.
A dangerous aura clung to him.
The aura of a powerful male.
Even at his weakest, it had not fully faded.
I had never seen a male like him.
I brewed antidote all night and fed it to him one spoonful at a time.
Near dawn, his fever finally eased.
Half-conscious, he suddenly lifted a hand and seized my wrist as I changed his bandage.
His grip was shockingly strong.
The moment his fingers touched me, a faint current shot up my arm.
My heart trembled.
I instinctively tried to pull away, but he held me tighter.
I had never felt anything like it.
But the poison in his body was too strong, and that strange pull was so faint I convinced myself it was exhaustion.
"Who are you?"
His voice was rough and low.
His amber eyes opened halfway, watching me with sharp suspicion.
"Whose territory is this?"
"My name is Wren."
I tried to keep my voice calm.
"You’re in Hollowmoor. A small pack. You were poisoned with wolfsbane and almost died. Now let go. You’re hurting me."
He stared at me for a long time, as if deciding whether I was lying.
His gaze was too sharp.
Even weak, it carried the kind of pressure that made me feel as if he could see straight through me.
Then, slowly, he released my wrist.
"Aric."
He closed his eyes and gave me only that one name.
Nothing else.
No surname.
No pack.
No title.
I didn’t know then that those two syllables carried the most feared name in the entire Western Territory.
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