Mate of the Death Wolf

(Kyra’s POV) The whispers followed me everywhere. Ángel de la Muerte. The Angel of Death. It was a title I hadn’t asked for, but the kind of name tends to stick when you leave battlefields littered with bodies. To me, it was Tuesday. The night air carried the scent of blood and smoke, clinging to the pine forest that surrounded our territory like a dying breath. The rogues had hit the southern border again—sloppy, desperate, like starving dogs gnawing on a locked butcher’s shop door. And as usual, it fell to me to clean up the mess. I stepped over the twitching body of the last rogue, his lifeblood staining the soil. My blade dripped crimson, the metallic tang sharp in the back of my throat. Warriors behind me panted, some leaning on their weapons, others wide-eyed as they looked at me like I was something between salvation and nightmare. They weren’t wrong. “You could’ve let us kill a few, Kyra,” one of the younger fighters muttered, half-grinning but clearly uneasy. His hands still trembled around his dagger. I gave him a sweet smile—the kind that always unsettled men twice my size. “Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll ask them to line up politely so you can stab one or two. Maybe they’ll even let you take a trophy ear.” The boy flushed and looked away. That was the thing about my humor—it wasn’t designed to comfort. It was armor, razor-sharp and fitted perfectly to the scars I didn’t let anyone see. The truth was, killing came too easily for me. Too easily without my wolf. Even now, she was silent. Always silent. Most wolves felt their other half like a heartbeat in the back of their mind, a steady presence ready to surge forward. Not me. Mine had been quiet for years, a hollow space where instincts should be. And that silence haunted me more than the bodies at my feet. Back at the packhouse, the fires burned bright in the courtyard, drawing shadows across the walls. Elders sat in a semicircle like vultures waiting for the dying. My uncle—Alpha Marcus—stood at the center, his voice calm but heavy with command as he addressed the gathered wolves. When I entered, conversation hushed. Every gaze landed on me: blood-soaked, blades strapped at my hips, eyes that had seen too much. “The rogues press harder with each attack,” one elder rasped. “We cannot survive like this. Our warriors are stretched thin.” Another leaned forward, eyes narrowing on me. “We have strength. She has strength. But strength means nothing if she will not lead.” I tilted my head, flashing a grin that didn’t reach my eyes. “Oh, don’t mind me. I live to be discussed like a particularly vicious dog you’re not sure should be leashed or set loose.” The elder flinched. My uncle sighed. He’d long since learned my humor was as much a weapon as my knives. “We are grateful for her,” Marcus said firmly. His gaze swept the circle. “But leadership is not decided in whispers. It is chosen by blood and battle.” And that was the problem. Everyone knew I had the bloodline. Everyone knew I had the skill. But I had no wolf. To them, it made me incomplete. To me, it made me dangerous. Later, when the courtyard emptied and the elders dispersed like carrion crows in the dark, I sat on the steps with my knives balanced across my knees. The night was still, save for the faint hoot of an owl. “Ángel de la Muerte,” I whispered into the silence, mocking the weight of the name. It was supposed to be terrifying. A reminder of what I was. But to me, it felt like a curse. Because what use is an angel of death when her own soul is hollow? I tilted my head back, watching the stars through the gaps in the trees. Somewhere out there was fate, mate-bonds, wolves who laughed with their other halves like siblings in their heads. Me? All I had was silence. And silence, I’d learned, was the loudest thing in the world. Uncle Marcus found me before the moon reached its peak. His boots crunched softly across the gravel, his scent familiar—pine, smoke, and the weight of responsibility that never left his shoulders. “You enjoy making them uncomfortable,” he said, lowering himself onto the step beside me. “It’s a gift,” I said lightly, twirling one of my knives between my fingers. “Some people knit. Some people cook. I terrify old men until they choke on their own beards.” He chuckled, but it was strained. “They respect you, Kyra. Fear and respect often wear the same face.” “Good,” I said. “Maybe they’ll stop asking if I plan to settle down and bake pies.” His silence lingered too long. I knew that look. The one that said he had news I wouldn’t like. “Spit it out, Marcus.” “The elders are restless. They want strength displayed. Publicly. They want to see an Alpha fight for her people.” My laugh was sharp, humorless. “And let me guess—they nominated me? The cursed one? The wolf-less freak who just happens to kill better than anyone else?” His jaw tightened. “You are no freak.” I glanced at him, arching a brow. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. They want me to lead because they think I can save them. But how do you follow a wolf who doesn’t have one?” Marcus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Later, I retreated to my quarters. My room was simple—maps pinned across one wall, blades lined neatly on another. A cot, a chest, a single window that overlooked the dark forest. Comfort was for people who slept without nightmares. I stripped off my bloodstained shirt, scrubbing the crimson away at the basin until my hands turned raw. The reflection that stared back at me in the water was a stranger: long dark hair plastered to my temples, eyes like cold steel, scars tracing across skin I’d stopped caring about years ago. Ángel de la Muerte. The pack whispered it like a warning. But in the stillness of my room, I whispered something else. “Why won’t you speak to me?” No answer. No flicker of presence. No warmth of a wolf pressing at the edges of my mind. Just silence. Always silence. A sharp knock broke me from the spiral. I opened the door to find Luka—one of the border scouts—his face pale, his chest heaving. “Kyra,” he gasped, “you need to come. Now.” Every muscle in me tensed. My knives were in my hands before I even realized I’d grabbed them. “What is it?” He swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the forest. “It’s not rogues. It’s… it’s something else.” The words slid like ice down my spine. I didn’t waste time. Boots pulled on, weapons strapped, I was already moving before he finished his sentence. My instincts screamed, even without my wolf. Something was wrong. Something bigger. As we reached the southern ridge, the forest stretched below us in a sea of black. Moonlight painted the treetops silver. And there, in the clearing where rogue bodies should’ve been rotting, the ground was empty. Too empty. “Where are they?” Luka whispered. The corpses were gone. Every last one. I scanned the dirt, my heart hammering. Blood trails led into the trees, but they weren’t dragged. No—this was… deliberate. And for the first time in years, I felt something stir in the hollow space where my wolf should’ve been. Not a voice. Not warmth. Just a warning. Danger. I exhaled slowly, the night air sharp in my lungs. “Luka,” I said quietly. My sarcasm was gone now, stripped bare by the weight of instinct. “Run back to Marcus. Tell him to triple the guards. No one leaves the borders. No one.” He blinked. “What about you?” I smiled, baring my teeth. The Death Wolf, they called me. Maybe it was time to remind the shadows why. “I’m going hunting.”