He rode in on foot, surrounded by four of his warriors. His presence cleared the space like a gust of wind. Even the wolves who had been sneering at the strange girl moments earlier went quiet when he stepped into view.
Alaric Darius wasn’t a man who spoke often.
He didn’t need to.
One look from him was enough to silence a room, command a pack, or end a life.
Dressed in black, broad-shouldered and tall, with silver eyes sharp as frost and a voice like gravel, Alaric walked toward the unconscious girl with steady steps.
The moment he saw her, he froze.
His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but something else.
Something unfamiliar.
There was blood on her knees. Her hands were scraped, dirt embedded in her skin. Her long hair hung tangled around her face, sticking to the side of her cheek
