CHAPTER 2 — THE SCENT THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST
1441 Words
The forest should have been silent after the moon bled.
But silence was never gentle in Blackthorn territory.
It felt like a warning—stretched thin, trembling, as though even the trees feared what they had just witnessed.
Seraphine didn’t run.
She should have.
Every instinct inside her—every spell her mother ever whispered, every memory of fire and death—begged her to vanish into the shadows.
But she stood there, barefoot on frozen soil, the earth humming beneath her skin.
Two figures approached with the kind of confidence that only predators owned.
Damian Blackthorn appeared first—dark-haired, broad-shouldered, his presence jagged as winter steel. His wolf lurked just beneath the surface, visible in the sharpness of his jaw, the quiet violence in his eyes.
Beside him stepped Darius—taller, sun-bronzed despite the cold, wearing a smirk that promised danger in ways no blade ever could. His aura was different: wildfire, not frost. If Damian was the night, Darius was the very edge of dawn—bright, unpredictable, destructive.
Twin Alphas.
Sworn enemies when they needed to be.
Sworn protectors when the kingdom demanded it.
Bound by blood, divided by fate.
And now both of them stared at her as if she were the first breath they had taken in years.
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t exist.”
Seraphine tilted her head, her hood slipping back just enough to show the faint glow in her irises. “People say that a lot.”
Darius stepped forward, boots crushing frost. He didn’t bother hiding the slow drag of his gaze from her face down to her fingertips.
“You’re a witch,” he murmured, voice low. “A powerful one.”
Her lips curved. “Or maybe I’m just very good at dramatic entrances.”
A huff of amusement escaped him—brief, dangerous.
Damian didn’t smile. He studied her like a puzzle carved from blood and prophecy.
“The moon turned red when you arrived,” he said. “That only happens for one reason.”
Seraphine lowered her lashes, the fire in her palm dimming. “Let me guess. A bad omen? A curse? The end of the world?”
Darius’ smirk deepened. “A mate.”
Her breath caught—sharply, unwillingly.
No.
This wasn’t happening.
Witches didn’t have fated mates.
Witches weren’t supposed to be bound by instinct or destiny or the pull of a wolf’s soul.
But the moment Darius said the word, her magic reacted—violent, traitorous—sparking beneath her skin like starlight trying to escape her veins.
Damian felt it.
Darius felt it.
And so did she.
A heat spread through the clearing, the kind that didn’t belong to winter.
Seraphine forced her voice steady. “You’re mistaken.”
Damian stepped closer, closing the distance until she could feel warmth radiating from his chest. “Wolves don’t mistake scent.”
He inhaled softly—a slow, deliberate act that made her spine stiffen.
“Moonfire,” he murmured. “Shadow. A hint of burnwood. No witch should smell like this.”
Darius circled behind her, his breath brushing her ear. “That scent means one thing.”
His voice dropped, almost feral.
“You’re meant for us.”
Seraphine’s hands trembled despite her will.
“Step back,” she warned.
Darius didn’t. He leaned in, lips ghosting near the corner of her jaw—not touching, just close enough that her pulse betrayed her.
“Careful, little witch,” he whispered. “Your heartbeat is telling a different story.”
She shoved him away with a burst of dark flame, the blast hitting his chest like a punch from the moon itself.
Darius staggered—surprised, delighted.
Damian didn’t flinch. “Power like that shouldn’t exist outside legend.”
Seraphine’s breath clouded in the cold. “I don’t want trouble.”
“But trouble wants you,” Darius said, dusting frost from his jacket.
Damian’s gaze sharpened. “Why are you in our territory? Witches avoid Blackthorn lands.”
“I wasn’t given much of a choice.”
“Someone sent you?”
“Someone hunted me.”
The twins exchanged a glance—one of those silent, telepathic conversations only brothers and bonded alphas could have.
Then Damian spoke. “Who?”
Seraphine hesitated.
If she told them…
If she revealed the truth…
The prophecy would no longer be a whisper—it would be a spark thrown into dry bone.
But something inside her—the same thing that reacted when they stepped near—pushed her forward.
“A coven,” she said. “My coven.”
Darius’s eyes narrowed. “Your *former* coven. Witches aren’t loyal.”
She didn’t correct him. Loyalty was a luxury. Survival was not.
“They want my power,” she said. “Or they want it destroyed.”
Damian folded his arms. “And what do you want?”
For a moment, Seraphine didn’t know how to answer. She had spent her entire life running, hiding, pretending the shadows were home.
What did she want?
Freedom.
Safety.
A life that wasn’t dripping in fear and prophecy.
But most of all—
“I want to choose my own fate.”
Darius took a slow step forward, his voice dropping into something that felt too intimate for the cold air around them.
“Then don’t run from us.”
Her heart hammered.
“You don’t even know me.”
Damian’s gaze didn’t waver. “We don’t need to. Instinct knows.”
Seraphine shook her head. “Instinct is dangerous.”
“Instinct keeps packs alive,” Darius countered.
“And destroys everything else,” she shot back.
A gust of winter wind whipped between them, carrying her scent—moonfire and shadow—straight into the twins’ lungs.
Their wolves surged.
Damian’s hands curled into fists.
Darius’s pupils blew wide.
Seraphine felt the shift in them—raw, feral, magnetic.
She stepped back—
And her heel hit a root.
Her balance faltered.
Both twins moved at once.
Damian caught her wrist—firm, unyielding.
Darius caught her waist—slow, heated, possessive.
The world stilled.
Her breath hitched, chest brushing Damian’s arm, back pressed against Darius’ warmth.
She swallowed hard. “Let go.”
“No,” they said in unison.
Her pulse thundered.
This was wrong.
This was dangerous.
This was—
Somewhere deep in the forest, a howl erupted—panicked, not proud.
Another followed.
And another.
Not wolves.
Hunters.
Seraphine froze. “They found me.”
Damian’s grip tightened. “Who?”
“Shadowtrackers.”
Darius swore softly. “Witches with stolen wolf senses.”
“They can smell magic,” Seraphine whispered. “Especially mine.”
Damian released her wrist only to pull her behind him. His voice lowered into an alpha’s command.
“We’re not letting them take you.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“Then consider this territory law,” Damian growled. “Anyone hunted in Blackthorn lands falls under Blackthorn defense.”
“It’s not that simple—”
Darius stepped closer, eyes burning gold. “Little witch, you have no idea how simple we can make it.”
Branches cracked in the distance.
Shadows moved.
Cold magic brushed the air—familiar, cruel.
Seraphine’s pulse spiked. “They’re close.”
Damian looked over his shoulder. “Shift?”
Darius cracked his knuckles. “Gladly.”
Seraphine exhaled sharply. “You don’t know what they can do.”
“We know what *we* can do,” Damian said flatly.
“And that’s enough,” Darius added.
The ground rumbled as the twins inhaled the scent of approaching danger. Their wolves clawed beneath their skin, desperate to surface.
Damian’s voice deepened, vibrating through the clearing.
“Stay behind us.”
Seraphine’s fingers curled around her spellbook. “No. I fight my own battles.”
Darius grinned, wild and feral.
“Then fight with us.”
The wind shifted—and then the attackers burst through the darkness.
Hooded.
Armed.
Dozens of them.
Seraphine lifted her fire.
Damian and Darius stepped in front of her, bodies tensing, their wolves ready to explode free.
The shadowtrackers raised their blades.
And the twins spoke as one:
“Touch her—
and you die.”
The night ignited.
A roar shook the treeline—two wolves shifting in the same heartbeat, one black as midnight, one silver-white like a fallen star.
Seraphine stared—
Because the prophecy had never sounded so loud in her head.
*Two alphas shall burn for her.*
She lifted her fire.
They lunged.
And the war for her fate truly began.
- Writer
