Training began at midnight.

I was dragged from my cell by two of Niklas's Germans-a man and a woman with the same cold efficiency as their leader. They didn't speak to me. They didn't look at me. They just grabbed my arms and marched me through the labyrinthine corridors of the Council's stronghold until we reached a door I hadn't seen before.

It opened onto a forest.

Not a courtyard. Not a training ground. An actual forest, with trees that stretched toward a moonlit sky and soil that smelled of rain and decay. I blinked, disoriented.

"How is this possible? We're under the city."

"The Council's architects were clever," a voice said from the shadows.

Niklas stepped out from between two pines. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose pants, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat. The moonlight caught the lines of his muscles, the ridges of his scars, the way his skin moved over bone and sinew like water over stone.

I looked away. Too late. The wolf had already seen.

Beautiful, it whispered.

Shut up, I told it.

"Where are the others?" I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on a point just above his left shoulder.

"There are no others." Niklas walked toward me, slow and deliberate. "Your training is with me. Alone."

"Why?"

"Because you're dangerous. Because you don't know how to control what's inside you. And because I don't trust anyone else to put you down if you lose control."

He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the heat rising off his skin.

"Shift," he said.

"What?"

"Shift. Fully. Now."

"I can't shift fully on command. It doesn't work that way."

"Then you'll learn." His voice was flat, uncompromising. "Shift, Elif. Or I'll make you."

The wolf stirred. Not with fear. With anger.

"Try it," I said.

Niklas's eyes flashed. In the moonlight, they looked almost silver.

He moved so fast I didn't see it. One second he was standing in front of me; the next, he had my throat in his hand and my back against a tree. His grip was tight-not enough to choke, but enough to warn.

"I don't have time for your defiance," he said quietly. "The second trial is in three days. If you fail, you belong to the Council. And the Council will use you until there's nothing left. Do you understand?"

I couldn't nod. His hand was too tight. But I understood.

"Good." He let go and stepped back. "Now shift."

I didn't shift.

Not fully. But something happened. The wolf came forward-not all the way, but enough. My eyes changed. My teeth sharpened. My fingernails darkened into claws.

Niklas watched me with an unreadable expression.

"Better," he said. "Now hold it."

"How?"

"Control your breathing. The shift is tied to your emotions. If you're angry, the wolf rises. If you're scared, the wolf hides. You need to find the middle ground."

"And how do I do that?"

"Think of something that makes you calm."

I thought of the Black Sea. The waves crashing against the rocks below my mother's house. The salt wind in my hair. The feeling of running along the cliff's edge, free and wild and alive.

The wolf settled.

My claws retracted. My teeth shrank. My eyes faded back to brown.

"Good," Niklas said again. There was something different in his voice now. Something that might have been respect. "Again."

We trained until dawn.

Shift. Hold. Release. Shift. Hold. Release. Over and over, until my muscles screamed and my mind blurred with exhaustion. Niklas was relentless. Every time I faltered, he was there-correcting my stance, adjusting my arms, touching me.

And every time he touched me, fire raced through my veins.

I tried to ignore it. I tried to tell myself it was just adrenaline, just the heat of training, just anything other than what it was.

But the wolf knew.

Mate, it said.

No, I argued.

Mate, it insisted.

"Focus."

Niklas's voice cut through my thoughts. He was standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders, positioning my body for a defensive stance. His chest was pressed against my back. I could feel his heartbeat.

"You're trembling," he said.

"I'm cold."

"No, you're not."

He was right. I wasn't cold. I was burning.

He stepped back abruptly, putting distance between us. "That's enough for tonight. Tomorrow, we work on speed."

He walked away without looking back.

That night, there was a fire.

I don't know who built it. Maybe the Germans. Maybe the Council. But when I emerged from my cell to find something to eat, I saw Niklas sitting alone in the courtyard, staring into the flames.

I should have walked away.

I didn't.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked.

He didn't answer. I sat anyway.

The fire crackled between us. For a long time, neither of us spoke. The sounds of the stronghold-distant voices, footsteps, the clink of metal-faded into the background.

"Why are you really here?" Niklas asked finally.

"You kidnapped me. Remember?"

"Not what I meant." He looked at me. In the firelight, his eyes looked almost warm. "Why are you sitting here? Next to me?"

"Because you look like you need company."

He laughed. It was a bitter sound. "I don't need anything."

"Everyone needs something."

"Not me." He picked up a stick and stabbed at the embers. "I learned a long time ago that needing things is a weakness."

"What happened?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.

"My wife," he said at last. "Her name was Liesel."

I froze. "You're married?"

"Was. She's dead." His voice was flat, empty. "Killed three years ago. By a half-blood."

The fire seemed to dim.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Don't be. She was everything to me. And the half-blood who killed her didn't just take her life. He took my ability to trust. To feel. To need."

"Is that why you hate me?"

Niklas looked at me. Really looked at me. "I don't hate you, Elif. I hate what you represent. A reminder that the thing I loved most was destroyed by something like you."

"I'm not like him."

"Aren't you? You have the same blood. The same instincts. The same hunger."

I reached out to touch his arm. Just to comfort him. Just to let him know that not all half-bloods were monsters.

He flinched away.

"Don't," he said. "Don't touch me. Don't pity me. I don't deserve it."

"You deserve to be loved."

His laugh was hollow. "Love is for people who haven't lost everything."

He stood up and walked into the darkness, leaving me alone by the fire.

I fell asleep in my cell with his words echoing in my head.

Love is for people who haven't lost everything.

The dream came without warning.

I was standing in a forest-not the training forest, but somewhere older, darker. The trees were black and twisted, their branches reaching toward a sky that had no stars.

And in the center of the clearing stood my father.

He was covered in blood.

"Baba?" I ran toward him, but no matter how fast I moved, I couldn't get closer. "Baba, what happened?"

"The relic," he said. His voice was thin, distant, like an echo from the bottom of a well. "Don't let them find it, Elif. Promise me."

"I don't even know where it is!"

"You will. And when you do..." He looked at me with eyes that were hollow and scared. "Don't win. Whatever you do, don't win."

"What? Why?"

"Because winning makes you one of them. And once you're one of them..." His body began to dissolve, pieces of him falling away like ash. "Once you're one of them, you become a monster."

"Baba!"

"Promise me!"

"BABA!"

I woke up screaming.

The walls of my cell were the same. The cot was the same. The torch flickered in its bracket, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.

But I wasn't alone.

Niklas stood in the doorway.

He was still shirtless. His hair was disheveled, like he had just woken up. And his eyes-those storm-gray eyes-were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"You heard me screaming?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"I heard more than screaming." He stepped into the cell, and the door closed behind him. "I heard him."

"Who?"

"Your father."

I stared at him. "You heard my father?"

Niklas knelt beside my cot. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, the slight curve of his lips, the tension in his jaw.

"That wasn't a dream, Elif," he said quietly. "That was a call. Your father is trying to reach you from beyond the grave. And if he's telling you not to win..."

"He's trying to protect me."

"Or he's trying to protect the relic." Niklas reached out and touched my cheek-just a brush of his fingers, barely there. "Either way, you need to be careful. Dreams like that can kill you."

"How do you know?"

His hand dropped. For a moment, something flickered across his face. Pain. Grief. Regret.

"Because I had them too," he said. "After Liesel died. Every night for a year. And they almost drove me mad."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Niklas stood up. He looked down at me, and in the dim torchlight, he looked almost human. Almost kind.

"Because you're not my enemy, Elif. I wanted you to be. I tried to make you my enemy. But you're not." He walked toward the door. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we train harder."

He opened the door.

"Niklas."

He stopped.

"Thank you," I said. "For not letting me scream alone."

He didn't turn around. But I saw his shoulders relax, just a fraction.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "The worst is still to come."

The door closed behind him.

I lay back on my cot, my heart pounding, and stared at the ceiling.

The wolf inside me was quiet now. Not sleeping. Waiting.

And somewhere in the darkness, I could have sworn I heard my father's voice one more time.

Don't trust him, kızım. Don't trust any of them.

But it was too late for that.

I already did.

Three days blurred into a fever dream. Niklas trained me relentlessly each night, pushing my body until exhaustion set in and my muscles screamed. His methods were unforgiving, yet strangely patient. When I faltered, he offered no mockery, only the demand to repeat the action. Again. And again. And again.

I began to shift on command. Not fully-not yet-but enough. Enough to fight. Enough to survive. The wolf within me was transforming. It was no longer a mere wild animal; it was me. And I was starting to perceive the world with a newfound understanding. The intricate stories carried on the wind, the vivid landscapes painted by sounds, and the undeniable scent of Niklas when he was near-a scent that was both home and danger, a pull I simultaneously craved and fled.

"Your focus is slipping," Niklas stated one evening, after I missed a block for the third time.

"My focus is fine."

"Your focus is on me. Not on the fight."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words caught in my throat. He was right. My attention was perpetually drawn to him: the ripple of his muscles beneath his skin, the quickening of his breath during our spars, the darkening of his eyes when I landed a hit.

"You're imagining things," I countered.

Niklas moved closer. "Am I?"

"Back off."

"Make me."

The wolf surged within me. I welcomed it. For a fleeting, exhilarating second, I transformed my hands into claws and slashed at his chest. He dodged, a mere hair's breadth away, and let out a laugh.

"Better," he conceded. "Now do it again."

That night, sleep eluded me. I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, replaying Niklas's words: his deceased wife, his animosity towards half-bloods, and the way he looked at me when he believed I wasn't watching.

Mate, the wolf whispered insistently.

Stop saying that, I willed it.

It doesn't cease to be true simply because you refuse to acknowledge it.

A shadow flickered across my window. I sat up, my heart pounding. The window was small, far too narrow for a person to pass through, yet the shadow was undeniably human-shaped.

"Relax," a voice soothed. "It's just me."

Kianuk emerged from the darkness. He wore the same bone necklace as before, but his attire had changed-leather and fur, suggesting he had journeyed from a place considerably colder than Istanbul.

"How did you get in here?" I whispered.

"The Council's walls are ancient. They possess... vulnerabilities." He offered a smile. "Get dressed. I'm taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"The forest. The real one. Not the training grounds."

A sensible part of me urged refusal. I should have remained in my cell, awaiting Niklas for our next session. Yet, Kianuk's calm demeanor and gentle eyes instilled a sense of trust. I pulled on my boots and followed him into the night.

The forest surrounding us was unlike the designated training area. It felt older, wilder. Ancient trees, their roots deeply embedded in the earth, stretched their branches towards the stars like grasping hands. The air was thick with the scent of moss, decay, and something else-a familiar aroma that stirred memories of my father.

"Where are we?" I inquired.

"Outside the Council's jurisdiction," Kianuk replied. "A neutral territory. The packs utilize it for rituals and meetings the Council need not be privy to."

"And what are we doing here?"

Kianuk halted and turned to face me. In the moonlight, his dark skin seemed to radiate a subtle glow, and his ancient, knowing eyes met mine.

"I'm going to teach you what Niklas cannot," he stated. "Not how to fight. How to be."

"I already know how to be."

"Do you?" He tilted his head. "You are a half-blood, Elif. Torn between two worlds. Too human for the wolves. Too wolf for the humans. You've spent your entire life feeling like an error."

My throat tightened. "How do you know that?"

"Because I once walked in your shoes. I am also a half-blood." He sat on a fallen log, gesturing for me to join him. "I lead because I am a half-blood, not in spite of it." He scooped up a handful of soil, letting it sift through his fingers. "The purebloods deem us inferior. Broken. But they are mistaken. We are not broken, Elif. We are bridges."

"Bridges?"

"Between the human world and the wolf world. Between instinct and reason. Between wildness and civilization." He looked at me intently. "Your father understood this. That is why he commanded such respect. Not for his strength, but for his balance."

I remembered my father-a man I barely recalled, who had died with unspoken secrets. "He never told me any of this."

"He was protecting you, just as I protect my own daughter." Kianuk reached into his pocket, retrieving a small leather pouch. "This is an Alaskan ritual. We call it the 'Breath of the Ancestors.' It will help you connect with the wolf within you-not as a master or a servant, but as a partner."

He opened the pouch and poured a glittering powder into his palm. It shimmered in the moonlight, a celestial blend of silver and blue, like crushed stars.

"What is that?"

"Ground wolf bone. Moonflower petals. And a drop of my own blood." He extended his hand towards me. "Breathe it in. But be cautious. The vision it imparts will reveal your true self. And truth is not always easily perceived."

Hesitantly, I leaned forward and inhaled.

The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of color.

I was running. Not as a human, nor as a wolf, but as something in between. My paws met the earth, and I felt every particle of soil, every blade of grass, the very heartbeat of every creature within a mile's radius. The forest stretched before me, ancient and boundless.

In the distance, I saw her. A wolf, as white as snow, with eyes like molten gold. She ran parallel to me, her movements a perfect echo of my own.

Who are you? I thought.

You know who I am, she replied. I am you. The you that you have been trying to conceal.

I'm not hiding.

You are. You hide from Niklas. You hide from your power. You hide from the truth your father died to protect.

What truth?

The white wolf ceased her run and turned to face me. Her eyes-my eyes-held a profound sorrow.

The relic is not an object, she conveyed. It is a person. And that person is you.

I awoke with a gasp. Kianuk knelt beside me, his hand cool on my forehead. His eyes were etched with concern.

"What did you see?" he asked.

"I saw... myself. A white wolf. She said the relic is me."

Kianuk's expression remained steady, but a flicker of something akin to fear crossed his eyes.

"We need to leave," he urged. "Now."

"Why? What's happening?"

"The Council cannot discover this. If they learn what you are..." He pulled me to my feet. "They will not seek to use you, Elif. They will seek to destroy you."

We fled.

We were halfway back to the stronghold when Niklas intercepted us. He emerged from the trees like a phantom, his eyes blazing with an intensity I had never witnessed.

"What," he growled, his voice low and menacing, "is she doing with you?"

Kianuk stepped forward, shielding me with his body. "She needed to learn. You were not teaching her what she needed."

"What she needed?" Niklas's laugh was a cold, harsh sound. "You mean you were filling her head with your Alaskan superstitions. Telling her she's special. Telling her she's more than she is."

"She is more than you perceive her to be."

"Step aside, old man."

"No."

Niklas moved. He was astonishingly fast, faster than I had ever seen him. His fist connected with Kianuk's jaw, sending the older shifter stumbling back. Before Kianuk could recover, Niklas had him by the throat, pinning him against a tree.

"I warned you," Niklas snarled. "Stay away from her."

"Niklas, stop!" I grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away. "He wasn't hurting me! He was helping me!"

"Helping you?" Niklas's head snapped towards me, his eyes wild. "Do you know what he is? He's a half-blood sympathizer. He wants to turn you against the Council. Against me."

"He's my teacher! Not you!"

The words hung heavy in the air between us. Niklas released Kianuk and turned to face me fully, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing.

"Your teacher?" he echoed. "I've been the one training you. I've been the one keeping you alive. And you go behind my back with him?"

"I didn't go behind your back. I went to someone who actually understands what I'm going through."

"And I don't?"

"You called me a dirty blood the first time we met!"

"Because I was scared!"

The forest fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Niklas stared at me, his expression raw and unguarded for the first time. "I was scared," he repeated, his voice softer. "Because I felt something when I looked at you. Something I haven't felt since Liesel died. And I didn't know what to do with it."

"So you decided to hate me instead?"

"I decided to protect myself."

"By hurting me?"

"By keeping you at a distance." He stepped closer. "But it didn't work. Nothing works. You're in my head, Elif. In my blood. In my bones. And I can't get you out."

I should have turned and fled back to the stronghold, never looking back. But I didn't. I stepped closer to him.

"Then stop trying," I said.

His hand rose to my face, slow and tentative, as if approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my lips.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

"I won't."

"Tell me."

"No."

His other hand found my waist, pulling me against him with an urgent force. I felt the undeniable press of his body against mine, the heat emanating from him, the hardness, the frantic rhythm of his heart mirroring my own.

"This is a mistake," he murmured.

"Probably."

"We shouldn't."

"I know."

He kissed me. It was not gentle, not soft, but desperate, hungry, and laced with anger-a consuming embrace that felt like both an attack and a salvation. His teeth grazed my lower lip, his tongue claimed mine, and his hands slid beneath my shirt, gripping my bare skin, drawing me closer still. I returned the kiss with every fiber of my being. The wolf within me howled with pure joy.

Mate, it sang. Mate. Mate. MATE.

We broke apart, gasping for air. Niklas's forehead rested against mine, his eyes closed, his jaw tight.

"I can't," he rasped. "I can't want you like this. It's not right."

"Since when has anything about us been right?"

He let out a broken, breathless laugh. "Fair point."

He pulled away, his hands leaving my skin, the absence a palpable wound. "We should go," he said. "Before someone finds us."

He turned and began to walk.

"Niklas."

He stopped.

"Thank you," I said. "For being honest with me."

He didn't turn. "Don't thank me. I'm still figuring out if I'm your salvation or your destruction."

He walked into the darkness. I followed.

We were nearing the stronghold when Niklas stopped again.

"Wait," he commanded.

"What is it?"

He turned to face me. In the dim torchlight, his expression was unreadable.

"Your shirt," he said. "It's torn."

I looked down. He was correct. During the struggle, or perhaps the kiss, the fabric had ripped, exposing the skin just above my collarbone.

"It's nothing," I said, pulling the torn material together.

"No. Let me see."

He stepped closer. His fingers brushed the torn fabric aside, revealing the skin beneath. Then he froze.

"Niklas? What's wrong?"

He was staring at my chest, at the spot just above my heart. At something I had never noticed before-a small, circular scar, resembling a bite mark.

"How did you get this?" he whispered.

"I don't know. I've had it as long as I can remember."

His hand trembled. His face had gone pale.

"Elif," he said, his voice barely audible. "This isn't just a scar."

"What is it?"

He looked up at me, his eyes wide with horror and an emotion I couldn't decipher. "This..." He touched the scar with his fingertip. "This is my tooth mark."

"What?"

"I know it. I remember it." He stepped back, his hand falling to his side. "Ten years ago. In a forest. There was a girl. A half-blood girl. I bit her to save her life. To mark her. To claim her as mine so the others wouldn't kill her."

My blood ran cold.

"Who was the girl?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Niklas looked at me, and in his eyes, the world shifted irrevocably.

"It was you," he said. "We've met before, Elif. And I think... I think I've been in love with you since I was fifteen years old."

The torches flickered. The wind howled. And the world as I knew it shattered into a million pieces.

I didn't remember him. That was the most painful part, the realization that made Niklas look as if I'd physically wounded him. He spoke of ten years ago, of a forest, a girl, and a bite intended to save, not harm. Yet, I retained nothing.

"No," I insisted, shaking my head. "You're mistaken. I would remember you. I would remember that."

Niklas recoiled, his hands trembling. His storm-gray eyes were wide with a desperate intensity. "You don't remember," he stated, the words devoid of a question.

"I don't. I'm truly sorry, but I don't."

A broken, hollow laugh escaped him. "Of course, you don't. Why would you? I was just a foolish boy who believed he could save someone, who thought he could matter."

"Niklas-"

"Don't," he commanded, holding up a hand. "Don't use my name like that. Don't look at me as if you care. You don't even know me."

"I do know you."

"You know what I've shown you. That's not the same thing." He turned and walked away, not in haste, but with each step a definitive severing of our connection. I yearned to follow, to grasp his arm, to implore him to stay, to explain, to help me remember. But my feet remained rooted to the spot. I stood alone in the encroaching darkness, watching the man who claimed to have loved me disappear into the night.

Sleep eluded me. I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, desperately trying to dredge up any fragment from a decade ago. There was nothing. My childhood was a haze of cold rooms and silent indifference, my mother's detachment, the villagers' whispers, and a persistent, gnawing sense of not belonging. But a boy? A German boy who bit me in a forest? Utterly blank.

"Perhaps he's lying," I murmured to myself.

The wolf stirred within me. He is not lying, it communicated.

"How can you be so sure?"

Because the scar is real. And when he touched it, I remembered something.

"What did you remember?"

Warmth. Safety. A voice that said, 'I've got you. You're safe now.'

I pressed my hand to my chest, tracing the smooth, old scar. Beneath the surface, a faint pulse, an echo of something profound, seemed to resonate.

Perhaps you don't want to remember, the wolf suggested. Perhaps you're right.

Dawn arrived too swiftly. I remained on my cot, still clad in my torn shirt, when a knock sounded at the door. It wasn't Dimitri, nor one of the German guards. It was Anastasia Volkov.

She stood framed in the doorway, her ice-blonde hair neatly braided, her blue eyes sharp and observant. Dressed head-to-toe in black leather, she exuded an aura of lethal competence. "You look like sh*t," she stated bluntly.

"Good morning to you too."

She entered without invitation, her gaze sweeping over the sparse room: the thin mattress, the bucket of water. "The Council doesn't believe in luxury for prisoners," she remarked.

"I'm not a prisoner. I'm a 'guest.'"

"Same difference." She settled onto the edge of my cot. "I heard about last night. About you and Niklas."

My heart seized. "Who told you?"

"No one had to. I have eyes." She tilted her head. "The formidable Niklas Vollbrecht, brought to his knees by a half-blood. It's almost poetic."

"We didn't-nothing happened-"

"Something happened." Anastasia's eyes flickered to my chest, to the ripped fabric of my shirt, revealing the scarred skin. "And whatever it was, it terrified him. Profoundly."

I instinctively pulled my shirt closed. "Why do you care?"

"I don't. But I see an opportunity." She leaned closer. "Niklas possesses something I desire: information about the relic. And you possess something he wants."

"What's that?"

"You." A smile touched her lips. "He's utterly obsessed with you. I've never seen him like this, not even with Liesel."

"His deceased wife?"

"His conveniently deceased wife." Anastasia's smile vanished. "Liesel isn't dead, Elif. She's in hiding. And she was the one who told me about you."

A chill permeated the room. "What are you talking about?"

"Liesel faked her own death. She hired the half-blood who supposedly 'killed' her. It was all a fabrication designed to make Niklas despise half-bloods, to isolate him, to render him easily controllable." Anastasia rose. "She's been manipulating him for years. And now, she perceives you as a threat."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I share your goal: freedom. Freedom from the Council, from the packs, from all of this." She gestured around the room. "Help me locate the relic, and I will help you reclaim what Niklas is withholding."

"And if I refuse?"

Anastasia shrugged. "Then you remain here indefinitely, a pawn in a game you don't comprehend." She moved toward the door. "Consider it. I'll return tonight."

She departed, leaving me amidst a swirling vortex of doubt, questioning the sincerity of anyone in this place.

That night, I resolved to act. I would find Niklas's room, seek answers, and reclaim my lost memories. The stronghold was eerily quiet after dark. Torches cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. I moved through the corridors, my bare feet making no sound on the cold floor, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm.

Niklas's room, I recalled, was at the end of the east wing. The door was heavy, reinforced wood and iron. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and slipped inside.

The room was surprisingly small: a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a single window overlooking the moonlit forest. On the desk lay a leather-bound book-a journal. My hands trembled as I picked it up. The pages were aged and yellowed, filled with handwriting that shifted from neat to frantic, detailing dates, names, and places.

Then, I discovered it. A drawing. A young girl, perhaps seven or eight, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a solemn expression. Beneath it, a name: Ella.

My breath hitched. Ella. Not Elif. Ella. I stared at the drawing, at the subtle curve of the girl's smile, the way her hair fell across her forehead, the small scar on her chin-a scar identical to my own. It was me. It was undeniably me.

I frantically turned the pages, devouring the words:

"Today I met her. She was crying in the forest. Alone. Scared. I asked her name and she said 'Ella.' I told her mine. She smiled. I think I'm in love."

"Ella showed me how to catch fish with her bare hands. She's faster than anyone I've ever seen. Faster than the purebloods. I asked her how she does it. She said 'The wolf helps me.' I asked if the wolf helps me too. She laughed. I love her laugh."

"They found out about her. The Council. They say she's a half-blood. They say she's dangerous. They want to kill her. I won't let them. I can't let them. I'll protect her. I'll always protect her."

"I bit her. To mark her. To claim her. Now they can't kill her without killing me too. She cried. I held her. I told her I would come back for her. I lied."

"They took her. I don't know where. I've been looking for three years. I can't find her. I can't find Ella. I can't find her. I think I'm going mad."

The entries ceased. I closed the journal, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Ella. He had called me Ella.

I walked to the small mirror on the wall and met my reflection: dark hair, dark eyes, a small, serious face. The same face from the drawing. The same face he had been searching for, for ten years.

"Ella," I whispered. The name felt foreign, yet profoundly right-like a key turning in a lock, a door swinging open.

Suddenly, a growl echoed. I spun around. Niklas stood in the doorway, his eyes not gray, but a burning, ember red. His chest heaved, his fists clenched.

"That journal," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Does not belong to you."

I clutched it to my chest. "Niklas-"

"Give it to me."

"Who is the girl in the drawing?"

His eyes flared. "Give me the journal, Elif."

"Not until you tell me the truth."

He moved with astonishing speed. One moment he was in the doorway; the next, he stood before me, his hand clamped around my wrist, his face mere inches from mine. "The truth?" he snarled. "You want the truth?"

"Yes."

"You are the girl in the drawing. You are the one I bit. You are the one I loved. And you are the one who forgot me."

His grip tightened, and the journal slipped from my fingers, falling to the floor. "Niklas, I didn't-I couldn't-"

"You couldn't remember?" His laugh was laced with bitterness. "Or you chose not to?"

"I didn't choose anything! I have no memory of my childhood before the age of ten. My mother claimed it was trauma, that I blocked it out."

"Your mother." He spat the word like a curse. "Your mother sold you, Elif. To the Council. For money. She told them where to find you. She told them your real name."

"My real name is Elif."

"No." He released my wrist and stepped back. "Your real name is Ella. Ella Vollbrecht. Because I claimed you. Because you were mine."

The room swam. "I was yours?"

"You are mine." His voice cracked. "You've always been mine. Even when you forgot me. Even when I tried to hate you. Even when I convinced myself you were dead and I needed to move on." He sank to his knees, Niklas Vollbrecht, the most powerful shifter in Germany, kneeling before me. "I've been searching for you for ten years," he choked out. "And now that I've found you, you don't even remember me."

I knelt before him, reaching out to touch his face-his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "Then make me remember," I whispered.

He looked up, his eyes still red but softening, regaining their human hue. "How?"

"Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out."

He closed his eyes, his hand covering mine, pressing my palm against his cheek. "You were seven," he began. "I was fifteen. I was hunting in the Black Forest-my family's territory-when I found you. You were hiding in a hollow tree, crying. You had run away from your mother because she locked you in the basement."

Memory flooded back. God help me, I remembered. The cold. The darkness. The chains. And then a boy's voice, gentle, kind. "Hey. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. What's your name?" "Ella." "I'm Niklas. Come on. Let's get you somewhere warm."

I opened my eyes, tears streaming down my face. "I remember," I choked out. "I remember you."

Niklas's eyes flew open. "You do?"

"You carried me on your shoulders. You showed me the stars. You told me stories about wolves who could fly."

His breath hitched. "And then the Council found us. And you bit me. And they took me away."

"You screamed for me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You screamed my name. And I couldn't reach you. I couldn't save you."

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against his. "You saved me," I said. "You marked me. You claimed me. I've been yours ever since. I just didn't know it."

His arms encircled me, pulling me against his chest. His heart hammered against mine, a frantic, desperate rhythm. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner. I'm sorry I let them take you. I'm sorry for every cruel thing I said to you. I'm sorry for-"

I kissed him. Not with hunger or desperation, but softly, gently, forgivingly. "I'm here now," I whispered against his lips. "That's all that matters."

He pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. His eyes were gray again, soft, brimming with tears. "Ella," he breathed.

"Elif," I corrected him. "I'm not that scared little girl anymore."

"No." He smiled, a genuine smile, the first I had ever witnessed. "You're so much more."

He pulled me to my feet, his hands resting on my waist, my hips, my back, holding me as if I were something precious. "I'm not going to lose you again," he vowed.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed me again. And this time, I remembered everything.