Page 43

Dain grinned, pleased, but Veyr—ever the cautious one—finally spoke.

"We need to assess the situation before we make rash decisions." His voice was quiet, thoughtful.

Hagan exhaled, feeling like he was in a cage and the gate had clanged shut.

They were late.

His father was going to be furious. He had been shouting at him through the tribelink for the last half an hour.

They moved quickly through the trees, the sound of voices growing louder as they neared the longhouse. The tribelink buzzed in the peripheries of his mind. Then, as they stepped past the crowd, the bodies parted, and for the first time, he saw her.

Her back was turned to him, her body slightly bent as she murmured something to a young cub. A single plait of ink-black hair fell over her shoulder, stark against the deep red of her dress—strange, unfamiliar.

Then, suddenly—she stiffened.

And she turned.

It was like she had been pulled by something unseen, some invisible thread that connected them both, stretching taut.

The girl standing before him was unlike anyone he had ever seen.

Her hair was impossibly black, darker than a moonless night, falling in a long plait over her shoulder with loose tendrils framing her face. Her skin, smooth and deep as sun-warmed earth, was dark in contrast to the pale tones of the wolves around her. And her eyes—they were what unsettled him most. Too large, too bright, a piercing silver that seemed almost unnatural against her darker complexion, like ice melting into shadows.

There was something wild in her beauty, something otherworldly.

She wore a deep red dress, embroidered with unfamiliar patterns along the hem—ornate, intricate, foreign. The fabric hugged her slender frame, making her appear too delicate, too thin for a world like theirs. A silver ring gleamed in her nose in a small act of defiance, adding to her strangeness. Wolves did not like silver.

She was not like them.

Everything about her was wrong. And yet, the longer he looked, the more a strange knowing stirred deep in his chest, like a buried memory scratching at the edges of his mind.

Everything about her was wrong.

Wrong for here.

Wrong for him.

And yet—

Something in his chest stirred.

It wasn't recognition. No, something older. A knowing buried deep, like a memory he couldn't quite touch. It made him feel dizzy, off-balance. His breath felt too shallow, his body suddenly aware of every heartbeat.

Lia shifted beside him, her fingers still laced with his. Her presence pulled him back from the brink. He could feel Dain standing close, his sharp eyes narrowing, showing fang as he muttered, "She looks strange. Those eyes...I don't like her looking at me."

Hagan swallowed, tearing his gaze away.

"She looks weak," Lia murmured, and something in her tone made his stomach twist.

It snapped him out of the daze.

Weak.

Yes. She did look weak.

She wasn't even a wolf.

He watched as she hesitated, stepping toward him like she wasn't sure if she should. Her fingers dug into the strap of a worn leather backpack, patched in places, decorated with unfamiliar patterns. She pulled something from it—a blanket, deep purple, woven thick and heavy. The edges were embroidered, small intricate patterns woven into the fabric.