Six days until the marking ceremony.

Lia jerked awake to pounding on the door.

"Up," Mark's voice cut through the pre-dawn darkness. "Now. They need you."

Need. Not want. Not request.

Need.

She was on her feet before her brain fully engaged, Derek's cloak—his scent still clinging to it—wrapped tight around her shoulders. The cabin he'd deposited her in last night was small, isolated, perched at the territory's edge. He hadn't spoken. Hadn't explained. Just left her there like cargo.

"What happened?" Lia pulled open the door. Mark's face was grim.

"Elder Torin's son. Border skirmish with Silver Creek. He's dying."

The words hung heavy. Lia's stomach dropped. "And they think I can—"

"They don't think. They're counting on it." Mark's jaw clenched. "Move."

The main lodge was chaos when they arrived. Elders shouting. Pack members pressed against the walls. And in the center, on a blood-soaked pallet, a boy—couldn't be more than sixteen—gasping like a landed fish.

The smell hit Lia first. Blood. Infection. Death creeping closer with each rattling breath.

"There." Elder Morna's voice cracked like a whip, pointing at Lia. "Let's see if Derek's pet has any actual value."

Lia's hands clenched beneath the cloak. Pet. As if yesterday's humiliation hadn't been enough.

Elder Torin pushed through the crowd, his face haggard. "Please." The word clearly cost him—begging a half-blood. "He's my only son."

The boy's eyes found hers. Glassy with pain. Terrified.

Lia moved before she could think. She dropped to her knees beside the pallet. "Let me see."

Torin unwrapped the bandage with shaking hands.

Lia's breath caught.

Four parallel gashes ran from the boy's shoulder to elbow. Deep. So deep she could see bone gleaming white through shredded muscle. The flesh around the wounds was mottled purple-black, infection spreading in ugly tendrils up his arm, across his chest.

He was dying. Right here. Right now.

"Silver Creek?" Her voice came out steady. How, she didn't know.

"Dawn patrol," Mark confirmed quietly. "Three of them ambushed our scouts."

The boy whimpered. His skin was burning—fever cooking him from the inside.

"I need a blade." Lia held out her hand. "Clean. Sharp."

Someone pressed a knife into her palm. The Elders had already arranged a clay bowl on the low table. Waiting. They'd planned this. Probably the moment Derek claimed her yesterday.

Vessel.

But the boy was dying.

Lia pressed the blade to her left palm. The strange warmth in her chest—the thing that had pulsed to life yesterday when Derek's gold eyes found hers—stirred. Responding. Almost eager.

She cut.

Pain flared bright and sharp. Blood welled immediately, but wrong—darker than it should be, with something silvery catching the firelight.

The warmth surged.

Lia tipped her hand over the bowl. One drop fell. Two. The liquid shimmered, actually shimmered, silver light pulsing beneath the surface like a heartbeat.

The air grew warm. Fragrant. Like spring rain and new grass and something indefinably alive.

"What—" Torin started.

Lia didn't wait. She plunged her fingers into the bowl, coating them with blood—with whatever this was—and pressed them directly to the ravaged arm.

The world exploded in silver light.

Not gentle. Not gradual. It detonated from the point of contact, brightness searing across her vision, flooding the lodge until everyone threw up their hands, crying out.

The boy screamed.

But not in pain—in shock, in overwhelming sensation as the light poured into him like liquid fire.

Lia couldn't look away. Couldn't move. The warmth in her chest had become an inferno, pouring down her arm, through her hand, into the boy. She watched—transfixed, terrified—as the ravaged flesh began to knit.

No. Not knit.

Rebuild.

Muscle fibers wove themselves together like threads on a loom, fast enough to see. Skin crawled across the exposed tissue, pink and new and perfect. The black infection veins reversed, pulling back, vanishing as if they'd never existed.

The silver light pulsed once more—so bright Lia had to close her eyes.

Then silence.

The light vanished.

Lia opened her eyes slowly. Her hand was still pressed to the boy's arm. But there was no wound. Not even a scar. Just smooth, unmarked skin.

The boy sat up, gasping. He stared at his arm. Flexed his fingers. Touched the place where bone had been visible moments ago.

"I—" His voice cracked. "It doesn't... it doesn't hurt."

The lodge was dead silent.

Then someone whispered: "Silver blood."

"The legends," another breathed. "They're real."

"True Healer's blood," Morna murmured, but her voice had changed. No longer dismissive. Hungry. "Imagine what we could do with—"

The door slammed open.

Derek filled the frame.

His eyes swept the room in one predatory glance—the healed boy, the Elders' expressions, the clay bowl still shimmering faintly with residue.

Then his gaze locked onto Lia.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

His nostrils flared. Once. Twice. His pupils dilated so fast it looked like his eyes were being swallowed by darkness.

And Lia watched—everyone watched—as gold bled into the blue. Not a flicker this time. A flood.

His hands clenched at his sides. She heard his knuckles crack from across the room.

The scent. That sweet, vital fragrance that had bloomed when her blood transformed. It was everywhere now, clinging to her skin, saturating the air.

And Derek was breathing it in like a drowning man gasping for air.

"What. Happened. Here." Each word was bitten off. Controlled. But Lia heard the strain beneath. Saw the tremor in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands were shaking.

"The half-blood healed my son," Torin said, wonder thick in his voice. "With her blood. It was extraordinary—"

"I can see what she did." Derek's voice was flat. Cold. But his eyes—his gold, burning eyes—never left Lia's face. "Mark. Remove her. Now."

"Derek—" Morna began, already moving toward Lia. Toward the bowl. "We need to discuss the implications. If her blood can do this, we should—"

"Touch her," Derek said softly, "and I'll remove your hand."

The room froze.

Derek took one step into the lodge. Just one. The movement was controlled, but Lia saw the cost. Saw the way his entire body locked up afterward, as if stepping closer had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed.

That scent—her transformed blood—hung between them like a living thing.

"Mark," Derek repeated. His voice had gone rough. Strained. "Get her out. Now."

Mark didn't argue. He gripped Lia's elbow, hauling her to her feet, toward the door. Toward Derek.

As they passed him, Derek's hand shot out.

Not touching. But close. So close she felt heat radiating from his palm, hovering inches from her bleeding hand.

His breathing changed. Faster. Shallower. His eyes were fixed on her palm, on the blood still seeping from the cut, and his lips parted. Canines longer. Sharper.

"Derek?" Lia's voice came out smaller than she intended.

His eyes snapped to hers. Pure gold now. Burning. Wild.

For one heartbeat, she saw it—the war raging behind those eyes. The thing inside him that wanted to close the distance. Wanted to—

He wrenched his hand back, slamming it against his chest. "Go."

Lia went.

Mark practically dragged her through the morning mist. Neither spoke until they were back at the cabin, door closed, bolt thrown.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Lia demanded, cradling her bleeding palm. "Why did he look at me like—"

"Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered?" Mark shoved a roll of clean linen at her. "Bind this. Quickly. And listen very carefully."

His expression was grave. Worried in a way that made Lia's pulse spike.

"That scent from your blood. It's... different. Strong.

Every wolf in the pack can smell it, and it's making them restless."

Mark's jaw clenched. "Derek wants you to stay inside. Don't ask me why. Just... trust me. Something about that healing made you visible. Too visible."

"Visible to who?"

"I don't know," Mark lied. But his eyes said he knew exactly.

Mark moved to the window, scanning the treeline. "That's why Derek wants you hidden. That scent is a dinner bell, and you just rang it for every predator in the territory."

Cold dread washed through her. "How long will it last?"

"I don't know. Hours? Days?" Mark turned back. "But until it fades, you stay inside. You don't open this door for anyone but Derek or me. Understand?"

Lia nodded numbly.

Mark hesitated at the door. "And Lia? What Derek did back there—stopping himself from coming closer? I've known him my entire life. I've seen him fight entire packs without flinching. I've seen him take wounds that would kill most wolves and not make a sound."

He met her eyes.

"I've never seen him afraid before today."

Then he was gone.

Lia sank onto the cot, wrapping the linen around her palm with shaking hands. The cut throbbed dully, but that warmth in her chest had settled back to embers.

Beacon. Signal. Dinner bell.

She'd just painted a target on herself. On the entire pack.

And Derek—

She couldn't stop seeing his face. The gold eyes. The trembling hands. The way he'd looked at her blood like it was the answer to a question he'd been asking his entire life.

Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Hours crawled past. The sun climbed, peaked, began its descent. Lia dozed fitfully, exhaustion from the healing crashing over her in waves.

She woke to evening shadows and a sound outside.

Not footsteps. Something else.

Scratching. Low and rhythmic and wrong.

Lia moved to the window, peering through the shutters.

Derek stood in the treeline, maybe twenty paces away. His back was to her, shoulders heaving.

As she watched, he raised one hand and dragged it down the trunk of a massive oak.

Five deep gouges appeared in the bark. Fresh. Raw. Sap weeping like blood.

He did it again. And again. Tearing into the wood with savage force, each strike punctuated by a sound that might have been a snarl or a sob.

Lia's breath caught in her throat.

Then Derek stopped. Pressed both palms flat against the scarred tree. His head bowed. Even from this distance, she could see him shaking.

Slowly—like it cost him everything—he turned.

His eyes found her window unerringly.

Gold. Still gold. Burning in the dying light.

They stared at each other across the distance. Predator and prey. Neither sure which was which.

Lia's hand moved to the window latch. She didn't know why. Didn't know what she'd say or do if she opened it.

But Derek saw the movement.

He took one step toward the cabin.

Then stopped. Froze. Every muscle locked.

His hands clenched into fists so tight she saw blood drip from between his fingers. He was clawing into his own palms.

"No," she heard him say. Just that one word, raw and broken. "No."

Then he turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving only the torn tree behind.

Lia's legs gave out. She slid down the wall, heart hammering.

After a long moment, she looked down at her wrapped palm. Blood had seeped through the white linen.

She unwrapped it slowly.

The cut was clean, already beginning to close. But the bandage Mark had given her—the one he said Derek had prepared—bore marks she hadn't noticed before.

Claw marks.

Deep gouges in the fabric, as if whoever had handled it had been gripping too tight. Fighting not to tear it apart.

Derek had prepared this bandage himself.

And he'd nearly shredded it in the process.

Lia pressed her bleeding palm against the fabric, her blood covering those desperate claw marks.

Six days until the marking ceremony.

Six days until she was bound to a man who clawed trees to shreds to stop himself from coming to her.

A man who looked at her blood with hunger and desperation and something that might have been need.

And she still didn't know what terrified her more:

The beacon she'd become.

Or the beast she'd awakened.

Five days until the marking ceremony.

Lia woke to voices drifting through the night air.

Elders. Multiple. Arguing in hushed, urgent tones from the direction of the main lodge. At this hour—well past midnight—that meant trouble.

She should stay inside. Mark's warning still rang clear: Don't open this door.

But those voices were talking about something. And given yesterday's healing, given the way the Elders had looked at her with hunger in their eyes—

Lia pulled on her boots.

The night was cold and still, stars scattered like salt across black velvet. She moved through shadows, keeping to the treeline. Her half-blood heritage made her weak in most ways, but she could move quietly. Nearly human footsteps, almost silent.

The main lodge glowed with firelight. Lia crept to the back wall where age had warped the wood, leaving gaps. She pressed her eye to the largest crack.

Five Elders sat around the fire. Morna. Torin. Three others she rarely saw—the eldest, who spoke only at the most important gatherings.

"The bloodline sickness grows worse," Elder Cain said, his face a map of wrinkles. "My grandson died last week. Three days old. Lungs too weak. That's the third pup this year alone."

Silence fell, grim and heavy.

"Which is why we need her blood," Morna said. "Not drops. Not rationing. The great blood offering. As much as she can give."

Lia's breath caught. As much as she can give.

"That could kill her," Torin said quietly.

"Then she dies serving her purpose." Morna's voice was ice. "She's half-blood. A vessel. Nothing more."

Lia's nails bit into her palms. Vessel. Always that word.

"But the prophecy—" one Elder began.

"The prophecy is precisely why we must act quickly." Morna stood, firelight casting her shadow long across the walls. Her voice took on a ritualistic cadence:

"When silver blood walks among wolves,

The ancient power shall wake.

Old orders will crumble to dust,

And the marked shall rule or break."

The words hit Lia like ice water. Her whole body went cold.

Silver blood.

Could they mean—no. Impossible. She was just half-blood. Mongrel. Worthless, they'd said so for five years. This had to be about someone else. Some legendary figure from the past.

But that warmth in her chest—the thing that had exploded in silver light yesterday—pulsed once. Hard. Like it was responding to the words.

Lia pressed her hand to her sternum, trying to quiet it. Trying to understand.

"'Old orders will crumble,'" Torin repeated slowly. "That could mean—"

"Chaos," Morna snapped. "Everything our ancestors built—hierarchy, bloodline purity, pack order—threatened. We cannot allow it."

"But what if the prophecy means salvation?" Cain said quietly. "The marked shall rule or break. What if—"

"Superstition." Morna's voice cracked like a whip. "I don't care what ancient ravings say. That girl's only purpose is providing blood to heal our people. The ceremony is perfect. Once Derek marks her, the bond forces compliance. She'll have no choice but to submit to whatever we require."

Cold flooded Lia's veins. The marking wasn't a claiming. It was a leash.

A magical leash that would let them bleed her until there was nothing left.

"And Derek?" Torin asked.

"Derek is compromised." Morna's tone went cold. "You saw him yesterday. He can barely control himself around her. That makes him unreliable. If his... attachment becomes a liability, we have contingencies."

"You're talking about removing our Alpha," an Elder said, shocked.

"I'm talking about survival. The pack comes first. If Derek chooses her over us—" Morna's voice hardened. "Then we do what must be done."

Lia's heart hammered against her ribs. They'd kill Derek if he tried to protect her.

But would he even try? Or was his claim just another cage, another way to use her?

Silver blood walks among wolves.

Lia looked down at her hands, at the faint scar on her palm from yesterday. When her blood had touched that boy, it had glowed. Actually glowed, silver and bright and impossibly alive.

Was that what the prophecy meant? Was she—

No. She couldn't be. Prophecies were for important people. Pure-bloods. Alphas. Not discarded half-bloods who spent five years being called mongrel.

But the warmth in her chest pulsed again, insistent.

A twig snapped behind her.

Lia spun, heart in her throat.

Derek stood three feet away. Gold eyes catching starlight.

His gaze moved from her to the gap in the wall. Understanding flickered across his features.

Then his hand shot out, gripping her arm—firm, burning hot—and he pulled her into the forest.

Lia tried to speak but he pressed a finger to his lips. Silent. They moved quickly through trees until the lodge was far behind, until they reached a moonlit clearing.

Only then did Derek release her.

His hand left a phantom heat on her arm.

"What," he said quietly, dangerously, "were you thinking?"

"I heard voices. I needed—"

"You risked everything." His voice was controlled but she heard the edge. "If they'd caught you—"

"They're planning to drain me!" Lia's fear morphed to anger. "At the ceremony. They'll use the bond to force me to give blood until it kills me. And they don't care."

Derek's jaw clenched. "I know."

Two words. Devastating.

"You know?" Lia stared. "You knew and you still claimed me—"

"I claimed you to protect you from exactly that." Derek's hands clenched at his sides. "The ceremony was supposed to buy time. Time to find another way. Time to—"

He stopped abruptly, head turning.

Footsteps. Coming from the lodge.

"Mark," Derek said. "Checking on you." His eyes snapped to hers, urgent. "Go back. Now. If they realize you heard—"

"What about you?"

"They won't suspect me." His voice went flat. Cold. The warmth vanished behind ice. "Because I'm simply keeping my property secure. Nothing more."

The word stung. Property.

But Lia saw his hands shaking before he clenched them into fists.

Before she could respond, Derek's expression changed. His nostrils flared, head tilting slightly. He was scenting something on the air.

"Go," he said, but his voice had gone rough. Strained. "Now. Before I—"

He cut himself off, jaw clenching so tight she heard teeth grinding.

"Before you what?" Lia demanded.

Derek took a step back from her. Then another. Like he was forcing distance between them.

"Just go," he rasped.

Lia turned, racing back through trees. Behind her, Derek's footsteps headed a different direction—not toward the settlement, but deeper into the forest. Running from something.

Or running from her.

She reached the cabin seconds before Mark appeared on the path. Threw herself onto the cot, pulling Derek's cloak over her.

Mark's knock came. "Lia?"

"Sleeping," she made her voice groggy.

"Thought I heard something."

"I'm fine."

Pause. "Lock the door."

His footsteps retreated.

Lia lay in darkness, mind racing. The prophecy. The plan. Derek claiming he was protecting her while calling her property.

Silver blood walks among wolves.

The marked shall rule or break.

She was marked. By Silver Creek. Soon by Derek.

But could she really be what that prophecy meant? It seemed impossible. Ridiculous, even. She was nobody. Nothing.

Except her blood had glowed silver yesterday. Except that warmth in her chest responded to the prophecy's words like recognition. Except the Elders were terrified enough of some ancient prediction to plan her death.

Maybe she wasn't nobody.

Maybe that was exactly what they were afraid of.

A sound outside made her tense.

Derek stood at the clearing's edge, barely visible in starlight. Something was wrong with his posture. Rigid. Strained.

His hand pressed against his chest. Trying to hold something back.

Then his head tilted back. Even from here she saw elongated canines.

His eyes found her window.

Gold. Burning.

His lips moved. She couldn't hear but she could read them:

"Don't. Come. Closer."

He wasn't talking to her.

He was warning himself.

Derek's hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into claws. He took one step toward the cabin. Stopped. Every muscle locked.

"Don't," she saw him mouth again. Barely audible across the distance: "Don't come near her. Don't—"

His voice broke into something between growl and plea.

Then he ran. Not walked. Ran into the forest with inhuman speed.

Lia stood at the window, shaking.

She'd seen trapped animals gnaw off their own limbs to escape.

Derek looked at her cabin like she was the trap.

And he was desperate not to gnaw free.

She pressed her hand to the window, fingers splaying against cold glass. That strange warmth in her chest pulsed, responding to something. His proximity? His distress?

A connection. Growing stronger with each encounter.

The marking would forge a bond. The Elders wanted to use it to control her.

But what if it unleashed whatever was clawing inside Derek instead?

Lia moved from the window. Sat on the cot. The prophecy echoed in her mind, the words feeling heavier now, more real:

When silver blood walks among wolves, the ancient power shall wake.

She thought about five years of contempt. Of molding herself to fit their world. Of swallowing insults with grateful smiles.

Five years of being called vessel. Half-blood. Mongrel. Damaged goods.

And now they wanted to chain her with magic and bleed her until she broke.

Unless she was something they hadn't anticipated. Unless that prophecy wasn't about some legendary figure from the past.

Unless it was about her.

Something cold crystallized in her chest. Not the silver warmth—something harder. Sharper.

If they wanted to call her dangerous, maybe she should become exactly that.

Lia pulled Derek's cloak tight, breathing in pine and steel and wildness.

Five days until the marking ceremony.

Five days to figure out what she was.

And what she was capable of becoming.

Four days until the marking ceremony.

A wooden plaque hung on Lia's cabin door at dusk, the words carved deep: *The pack gathers tonight. Derek Damsi's mate will attend.*

Mark appeared with a bundle of rough cloth. "For tonight," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I'll come get you at moonrise."

Lia unwrapped it after he left. Her stomach dropped.

Servant's dress. Undyed linen, coarse and cheap. Not even the midnight blue from before—this was deliberately degrading.

The Elders' message was clear: Derek's claim changes nothing. You're still beneath us.

Lia's hands clenched in the fabric. That cold rage flickered back to life.

They wanted to humiliate her? Fine. She'd endure it. Learn from it. And remember every slight when the time came.

---

The Great Hall blazed with firelight and chaos. Long tables groaned under roasted meat, mead flowing freely. The pack celebrated a successful hunt—three elk, enough meat to last weeks.

Lia stood at the threshold in her servant's dress, Derek's cloak the only thing of value she wore. Every eye turned. Whispers erupted.

"...the half-blood..."

"...even Derek's mate gets servant's cloth..."

Lia lifted her chin and walked in.

The pack parted. Not respect—morbid curiosity. They wanted to see where Derek would seat his claimed mate.

The head table sat raised. Elders in the center. Derek stood to the right, arms crossed, face carved from stone. His eyes swept the room but never landed on her. Never acknowledged her at all.

To his left, Aileen Graham held court in blue silk that probably cost more than everything Lia had ever owned. Jason sat beside her, hand possessive on her waist.

Mark appeared at Lia's elbow, guiding her forward. But not to the head table.

To a corner. Near the kitchens. Where servants ate.

The pack's laughter started low, building to a roar.

Lia sat. The bench bit into her thighs through thin fabric, splinters catching skin. The plate before her reeked—gristle, fat, cartilage. Parts even dogs wouldn't touch. While the pack feasted on prime cuts, she got literal garbage.

Around her, the feast continued. Loud. Raucous. She forced herself to sit still, keep her face neutral even as humiliation burned.

From the head table, she caught fragments of conversation. Derek's voice, low and controlled, discussing border patrols with an Elder. Aileen's laugh, bright and sharp. Jason agreeing with something Morna said, his voice carrying that edge of ambition she remembered from their years together.

They'd all moved on. Found their places. Their purposes.

And she sat in the corner with scraps.

Then Aileen stood.

She moved with deliberate grace, wine cup in hand, silk swishing. The crowd quieted, sensing entertainment.

Aileen approached Lia's table. Her smile was poison-sweet.

"Oh, Lia," she cooed, loud enough for half the hall. "You look so... comfortable here. It suits you, don't you think?"

Lia said nothing. Kept her eyes forward.

"I mean, we wouldn't want you out of place." Aileen circled like a predator. "Bloodlines matter. And yours is so..." She wrinkled her nose. "Diluted."

Laughter rippled through nearby tables.

"Though I suppose Derek sees some use in you." Aileen's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Even if it's just as a blood bag. Tell me, does it hurt? When they cut you open? Or have you gotten used to it?"

The silver warmth in Lia's chest pulsed hot. Her nails bit into her palms.

"Nothing to say?" Aileen leaned closer, perfume cloying. "I suppose that's wise. We wouldn't want the mongrel to—oh!"

She stumbled. Her wine cup tipped.

Red liquid splashed across Lia's chest, soaking through rough linen to the skin beneath. Cold. Humiliating. The wine spread across the fabric, dark as blood.

"Oops," Aileen gasped, mock horror on her face. "How clumsy. Did I ruin your lovely dress?" Her eyes glittered. "Oh wait, it's servant cloth. I'm sure they have more."

The hall erupted. Some laughed outright. Others whispered. All watched, waiting for the half-blood to break.

Lia stood slowly. Wine dripped down her front, pooling at her feet. The liquid had soaked through to her skin, cold against her collarbone, running down between her breasts.

She met Aileen's gaze directly.

"You didn't push me," Lia said quietly. "So I'll ask once: was that an accident?"

Aileen's smile sharpened. "Does it matter? You're not going to do anything. You're not pack. You're barely—"

The temperature in the hall dropped.

Lia felt it before she saw it—a shift in the air, a pressure building like a storm about to break.

Derek was moving.

Not walking. Not even running. One moment he was at the head table. The next he was there, massive frame cutting between them, and Lia hadn't seen him cross the space.

His face was still controlled. Stone. But something had changed in his eyes. Something dark gathering at the edges.

"Step back," he said to Aileen. His voice was quiet. Measured. But wrong somehow. Like the calm before thunder.

Aileen's confidence wavered, but she held her ground. "Derek, I was just—it was an accident—"

"Step. Back." Each word came out harder than the last.

Derek's hands hung at his sides, but Lia saw them now. Trembling. Not fear—restraint. His fingers kept curling inward, and she caught the flash of claws extending, retracting, extending again. Like his body was fighting a war with itself.

His scent had changed too. That wild edge she'd noticed before was sharpening, intensifying, until it cut through the smell of roasted meat and mead and wood smoke. Several nearby wolves shifted nervously, instinctively responding to a predator in their midst.

But Derek still hadn't looked at Lia. His gaze was fixed on Aileen, and there was something building in those glacial blue eyes. Something golden trying to surface.

"Derek," Elder Morna's voice carried from the head table, sharp with warning. "Control yourself."

He didn't acknowledge her. Didn't move. Just stood there, every muscle coiled, breathing carefully through his nose.

Then Aileen made a mistake.

She stepped toward Lia. Not away. Toward.

"Really, all this fuss over spilled wine—"

Derek's head snapped around with inhuman speed.

His nostrils flared. Once. Twice. Drawing in deep breaths of air, and Lia realized what he was smelling.

The wine. Soaked through her dress. Against her skin. Her scent mixing with the alcohol, the heat of her body releasing it into the air in waves.

She saw the exact moment it hit him.

His pupils dilated so fast it looked like darkness swallowing his eyes from the inside out. His chest heaved. Every tendon in his neck stood out in sharp relief.

And gold bled into the blue. Not a flicker. A flood.

"Everyone," Derek said, his voice different now—rough, strained, barely controlled—"needs to move away from her. Now."

But Aileen didn't understand. Thought this was about her, about protecting her from punishment. She actually smiled, touching Derek's arm. "See? You agree it was just—"

Derek's hand shot out and gripped her wrist. Not hard enough to break—but hard enough to make her cry out in shock.

"Not from her," he growled, and the sound wasn't quite human anymore. "From me."

He released Aileen and she stumbled back, fear finally breaking through her arrogance.

Derek's whole body was rigid now, shaking with the effort of standing still. His hands had curled into fists so tight that blood welled up between his knuckles where claws had pierced through his own palms. It dripped onto the floor, dark droplets spreading across wood.

And his eyes—fully gold now, burning with inhuman intensity—were locked on Lia.

Not on her face. On her throat. On the pulse point jumping frantically beneath her skin. On the wine-soaked fabric clinging to her chest, rising and falling with each rapid breath.

His lips pulled back. Canines extended. Longer than they should be. Sharp enough to tear.

The growl that rumbled from his chest made the nearest wolves scramble back, chairs scraping, panic rising.

"Mark," Derek forced out, the word distorted, half-human. He was still staring at Lia, and she could see the struggle in those gold eyes. Recognition warring with something else. Something hungry and desperate and barely leashed. "Get. Her. Out."

"Derek—" Morna stood, voice sharp with command. "Remember yourself!"

"NOW!" The word erupted from Derek, more roar than speech, and the windows rattled.

Mark was already moving, gripping Lia's elbow, hauling her toward the door. But Lia couldn't look away from Derek.

He stood frozen in the center of the hall, blood pooling at his feet from his pierced palms. His chest heaved with harsh breaths. Every muscle locked in place, and she understood—he was forcing himself to stay still. Fighting every instinct screaming at him to move.

To come after her.

His eyes tracked her movement across the hall with the focus of a predator watching prey escape. Gold. Burning. Wild.

And beneath the wildness, something that looked like terror. Like he was watching himself lose control and couldn't stop it.

"Everyone out!" Morna commanded, real fear in her voice now. "Clear the hall immediately!"

The pack didn't need telling twice. They fled, chairs scraping, panicked voices rising.

Mark dragged Lia through the door and didn't stop until they were deep in the forest, the sounds of chaos fading behind them.

"What the hell just happened?" Lia gasped, her heart hammering. "Why did he—"

"The wine," Mark said, breathing hard. "On your skin. Your scent mixed with it, and he—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I've never seen him that close to losing it completely."

A howl split the night. Agonized. Enraged. Utterly inhuman.

From the direction of the hall.

Mark's face went white—not just pale, but bloodless, like he was seeing something he'd hoped never to see again. His hands trembled.

"Stay here," he ordered, voice tight with barely controlled fear. "Don't move. Don't go back to the cabin. Not until I know he's—"

He didn't finish. Just ran back toward the sound.

Lia stood alone in the dark, wine-soaked and shaking. That warmth in her chest was going haywire, pulsing in rhythm with her hammering heart.

She could still see Derek's eyes. Gold. Desperate. Fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Like she was prey.

Or salvation.

Or both.

Time crawled. Eventually Mark returned, breathing hard, his shirt torn.

"He's... contained. Barely." His voice was hollow. "Morna and three other Elders talked him down. He's in his quarters now. Alone. Locked in."

"What happened after I left?"

Mark met her eyes, and she saw real fear there. "He tried to follow you. Jason got in his way." He swallowed. "Derek broke his arm without even looking at him. Just... shoved him aside like he was nothing. Then he saw Aileen standing there and something in him just... snapped."

"Did he hurt her?"

"He would have." Mark's voice was grim. "He had her by the throat, lifted clean off the ground. His claws were out. She was screaming. It took four of us to pull him off. And even then..." He shook his head. "He wasn't seeing us. Wasn't seeing anything. Just that gold in his eyes and this sound he was making. Not quite a growl. Not quite..."

"What?"

"Not quite sane," Mark finished quietly. "Then he just... ran. Out into the forest. We found him two miles out, tearing into trees. His hands were shredded. Blood everywhere. But he wasn't stopping."

Lia's stomach turned. "Is he—"

"He'll heal physically. But Lia, this is bad. The Elders saw everything. They're meeting right now, deciding if he's still fit to lead."

"They'd really remove him?"

"After tonight?" Mark's laugh was bitter. "They're terrified. Derek nearly killed two pack members in front of everyone. And all because someone spilled wine on you."

Not just the wine, Lia thought. The scent. Her scent mixing with it. Calling to whatever beast lived inside Derek's skin.

"Go back to the cabin," Mark said. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. Not even—" He stopped himself.

"Not even Derek," Lia finished.

Mark nodded, his expression miserable.

---

Hours later, Lia woke to sounds outside.

Violent. Rhythmic. Wrong.

She moved to the window.

Derek stood at the clearing's edge, moonlight turning everything silver. His back was to her, shoulders heaving with each breath. As she watched, he raised both hands—wrapped in crude, blood-soaked bandages—and slammed them into an oak tree.

Again. Again. Again.

Fresh blood seeped through the bandages with each impact. The tree bark splintered. Wood groaned. But he didn't stop.

Mark appeared from the shadows, keeping his distance.

"Derek," he called quietly. "Brother. You need to stop. You're going to—"

"I know what I'm going to do," Derek's voice was raw, barely recognizable. "That's the problem."

He hit the tree again. The bandages on his right hand came loose, falling away. His knuckles were destroyed—skin torn, bone visible in places.

"It's starting again," Mark said, and his voice broke. "Just like before. Just like Father."

Before? Father?

Lia pressed closer to the window, breath fogging the glass.

Derek finally stopped, pressing his forehead against the ruined bark. His whole body shook. One hand moved to his chest, pressing hard, fingers clawing at his own skin through his shirt.

"Four more days. Just four more days.

Then the bond will force it to stop. The beast will be contained. It has to be."

He slammed his fist into the tree.

"Then this ends. This... need. This madness."

He wasn't sure if he meant the beast's need. Or his own.

He turned, and in the moonlight Lia saw his face clearly.

Tears tracked through blood and dirt. His eyes were still gold—hadn't returned to blue. And his expression was shattered, broken in a way that made her chest ache.

He looked toward her cabin. For a moment, their eyes met across the distance.

"I'm sorry," she saw him mouth. "I'm so sorry."

Then he walked into the darkness.

Mark remained, staring after him. His face was grief-stricken.

"He's not going to survive this," Mark said to the empty air. To himself. To no one. "Even if he makes it to the ceremony. Even if the bond works. He's not going to survive what he's becoming."

He turned and walked away, leaving Lia alone at the window.

Four days until the marking ceremony.

Four days until Derek either found salvation or destruction in the bond.

And Lia was beginning to realize she might be both.