Sunlight stabbed through the tent flap, hitting Areli square in the eyes. She groaned, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. Her ribs throbbed with a dull, deep ache—someone had wrapped her torso tightly with clean linen bandages while she slept, the bindings firm and smelling of medicinal herbs.

She was lying on something incredibly soft. A high-quality beast pelt. And she was wearing a man's shirt. It smelled like Hudson.

She sat up slowly, wincing as her bound ribs protested, clutching the shirt closed. Hudson was sitting a few feet away, watching her. His gaze was intense, possessive, and surprisingly gentle.

"Areli," he said, his voice deep and steady.

She met his gaze, refusing to look away. She had saved his life. She owed him nothing else.

Hudson stood up. He dropped to one knee. He placed a fist over his heart in a formal salute.

"I offer you my Mating Bond," he said, his voice ringing with sincerity. "I will protect you with my life."

Areli's breath caught. A Mating Bond from a Tier-1 Warlord? It was the ultimate security blanket.

But she wasn't going to be bought off that easily.

"Before we talk about bonds," she said, her voice cool and hard, "we need to talk about justice."

Hudson raised an eyebrow but remained kneeling.

"Your subordinate drugged me and forced my hand," she said, pointing toward the tent flap. "I want accountability."

Hudson didn't hesitate. He stood up and strode out of the tent. Areli pulled on a coat and followed, moving slowly and favoring her left side, one hand pressed flat against her bandaged ribs.

The camp was quiet. Doyle was kneeling on the ground, his back bare. Curt and Brown stood nearby, their faces grim.

Hudson walked up to Doyle. "You violated her agency. The punishment is the whip."

Doyle didn't flinch. "Yes, Warlord."

Hudson picked up a bone whip studded with barbs. He raised his arm.

Crack.

The whip bit into Doyle's back. Blood sprayed. Areli watched, her face expressionless. A fine mist of crimson drifted near her boots, and her stomach gave a violent, sickening lurch. In her past life, the sight of flayed skin would have sent her into shock. She had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from looking away. But then she remembered the icy water closing over her head, and Doyle's ruthless hands forcing the drugged pouch over her face. In this primitive, unforgiving world, weakness was an invitation for death. This was the currency of survival. She forced her breathing to steady. She felt no pity. Only a cold satisfaction.

Thirty lashes later, Doyle lay in a pool of his own blood. Hudson dropped the whip, turning to look at Areli. A silent question.

She nodded. The debt was paid.

"Pack up," Hudson ordered. "We're going to Blackridge Clan."

The journey, though short by beastman standards, was grueling for Areli. She could not walk the distance unassisted. Hudson, without a word, lifted her onto his back, his hands careful to avoid her bandaged ribs. She looped her arms around his neck, her pride stinging but her body grateful. As they traveled, she focused on her breathing, consciously using the rhythmic motion to assess her injuries—two cracked ribs, maybe three, but the bindings held them steady. By the time the camp's border stones came into view, the sharp edge of the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. Hudson set her down gently, and she straightened her spine, refusing to show weakness before her enemies. As they approached the clan's territory, Areli felt a familiar knot of tension form in her stomach. This was the place where the original Areli had died. It was time to make them pay.

They walked into the central square. The clan was gathered. And in the middle of the crowd, standing in front of Areli's old, tattered tent, was Gloria.

Gloria was mid-speech, her face a mask of sorrow. Then she saw Areli. Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in malice.

"Look!" Gloria shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "The traitor is back! She eloped with wild males!"

Eugene stepped up beside her, looking heartbroken. "Areli, how could you betray my love?"

The crowd erupted. Hisses and boos rained down on her. Curt and Brown reached for their weapons, but Hudson held up a hand. He looked at Areli.

This was her fight.

Areli looked at the mob. She looked at the two liars. A plan formed in her mind, sharp and lethal.

She let her eyes fill with tears. She let her body sway, looking like a broken, defeated woman.

And then, she struck.

"Eloped?" Areli repeated, her voice trembling but loud enough to carry. "Eugene, look me in the eye and say that again!"

Eugene flinched. The sheer coldness in her gaze unsettled him, but he held his ground. "You left with another male!"

Areli laughed, a bitter, broken sound. She took a deep, shaky breath, her fingers gripping the collar of the oversized shirt she was wearing. With calculated precision, she pulled the fabric back just enough to expose her upper chest, collarbone, and the tops of her shoulders-deliberately keeping the lower half of her neck and her back covered to hide any lingering marks from the river.

The crowd gasped. Her skin was a canvas of dark purple and green bruises. These weren't love bites; they were the marks of a violent impact.

"If I eloped for pleasure," Areli cried, tears streaming down her face, "why am I covered in life-threatening bruises? Why did I almost die at the bottom of the Blackwind Cliff? !"

The murmurs shifted. The evidence was undeniable.

Gloria panicked. "You're lying! You slipped while running away!"

"Slipped?" Areli shot back, her voice laced with venom. "You sent me to gather herbs at the cliff edge, and Eugene was the only one with me! Ask him how I 'slipped'!"

Every eye in the square turned to Eugene. He went pale, stammering incoherently.

"He told me he loved me," Areli continued, her voice breaking, "then he watched me fall. Is that your version of loyalty, Gloria?"

The female members of the clan began to whisper, looking at Gloria with disgust.

Gloria lost it. She lunged forward, her hand raised to slap Areli. "Shut up, you lying bitch!"

She never made it.

A wave of crushing pressure slammed into the square. Hudson appeared in front of Areli, moving faster than sight. He caught Gloria's wrist in mid-air.

Snap.

The sound of breaking bone was sickeningly loud. Gloria screamed, collapsing to the ground.

Hudson tossed her aside like garbage. He looked out at the crowd, his eyes promising death to anyone who moved.

"She is under my protection," he declared, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "Anyone who touches her, dies."

The clan leader scrambled forward, sweating. "Who... who are you?"

Curt stepped up, a smirk on his face. "This is the Warlord of the Whitefang Clan."

The clan leader nearly fainted.

Hudson turned back to Areli. He held out his hand. "You don't need these pathetic people. Come with me to Whitefang. You will have everything."

It was the perfect escape. A ticket out of this hellhole.

Areli looked at his hand. Then she looked at Gloria, writhing on the ground, and Eugene, cowering behind the crowd.

She shook her head.

"No," she said firmly. "I want justice, not just a rescue."

Hudson's hand dropped slightly. "What do you mean?"

"If I leave now, they win the narrative," Areli explained, her gaze never leaving Gloria. "I will stay until I clear my name completely."

A flicker of intense admiration crossed Hudson's face. He slowly lowered his hand.

He turned to the clan leader. "She stays. And if a single hair on her head is harmed, I will raze this clan to the ground."

The leader nodded frantically.

Areli turned her back on the crowd and walked toward her tent. As the flap fell shut behind her, she let out a long breath.

Round one was hers.

The forest was quiet. Hudson leaned against a massive oak tree, his gaze fixed on the small, dilapidated tent in the distance. Two weeks had passed since the confrontation in the central square. In that time, Areli had skillfully woven herself back into the clan's rhythm, all the while covertly gathering information on her enemies.

Brown and Doyle—his back heavily bandaged—knelt before him.

"Warlord," Brown asked, confusion evident in his voice. "Why don't we just take her? She's your mate now."

Hudson's eyes didn't leave the tent. "She's not a trophy to be dragged away. She wants closure. I will give her the space to get it."

Brown and Doyle exchanged a glance. They had never seen their Warlord show such restraint, such respect for a female's boundaries.

"Run full background checks on Gloria and Eugene," Hudson ordered, his voice turning cold. "I want every dirty secret they have."

He paused. "Don't interfere with Areli's plans, but if they try to harm her again, eliminate them quietly."

The two men vanished into the shadows. Hudson shifted into his massive white wolf form and settled on a high ridge overlooking the camp. He would watch over her from here.

Inside the tent, Areli sat on her cot, a single candle flickering beside her. She was sorting through a pitiful pile of dried herbs.

She was thinking. Gloria wouldn't give up. The woman was vicious and petty. Areli needed to strike first.

She picked up a plant called "Thorn Vine." According to her modern knowledge, if ingested without proper preparation, it caused excruciating nerve pain. A perfect trap for a thief.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and lunged for the bucket in the corner, retching violently.

She wiped her mouth, her sharp biochemist mind immediately rejecting the easy excuse of stress. She drank some water, trying to settle her stomach, analyzing the physiological response.

When she caught a whiff of a common herb she used every day—a plant containing mild, usually undetectable volatile alkaloids—the nausea returned with a vengeance.

Areli sat back, her face draining of color. Her period was nearly two weeks late. She had attributed the delay to the extreme physical trauma of the fall and the subsequent stress. But now, coupled with this extreme, specific olfactory aversion and the persistent low-grade fatigue she'd been fighting... the pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. A terrifying hypothesis formed in her mind.

She didn't need a lab test to read the biological signals her body was screaming at her.

She was pregnant.

The memory of that frantic night in the river flashed through her mind. One time. And in the span of a mere two weeks, her body had already begun its profound transformation.

Panic, cold and sharp, gripped her heart. Pregnant in this brutal, primitive clan? It was a death sentence.

And if Hudson found out... he would drag her away to Whitefang immediately. She would lose her chance for revenge. She would lose control of her life.

No. She couldn't tell anyone. Not until she was strong enough to stand on her own.

She forced herself to breathe. She started rummaging through her herbs, looking for something to ease the morning sickness without raising suspicion.

A breeze brushed her cheek. She smelled pine and smoke.

She moved to the tent flap and peeked out. On the ridge above, two glowing eyes watched her in the darkness.

Hudson.

He was protecting her. The thought brought a strange warmth to her chest, but also a chill of fear. If he knew about the baby, his protectiveness would become a cage.

She let the flap fall. She placed a hand on her flat stomach.

This changed everything.