The forest changed the moment Beatrice crossed the boundary.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
It changed the way a predator's gaze changes—slow, deliberate, inevitable.
At first, it was subtle. The birdsong thinned until it vanished entirely, leaving behind a hollow hush that rang in her ears. The wind slowed, dragging across the leaves as though reluctant to move. Tree bark darkened at the edges, blackened like something scorched but never allowed to burn.
The forest floor softened beneath her boots, moss thick and spongy, swallowing sound. Vines curled around fallen branches like fingers flexing in their sleep.
The Deadlands.
No wolf crossed this threshold willingly. Not packborn. Not rogue. Not feral.
The stories told to pups around firepits warned of spirits that drank names, of wolves who entered whole and returned wrong—if they returned at all. This land rejected bonds, they said. Snapped them clean like brittle bone.
And yet—
Beatrice felt stronger with every step.
The moment her foot crossed the invisible boundary, something inside her clicked into place. A tension she hadn't known was there loosened. Her lungs filled more easily. Her spine straightened.
The land did not resist her.
It recognized her.
The pull in her chest sharpened, tightening into a cord that stretched forward into the dark. It wrapped around her ribs and tugged—gentle but insistent.
Ronan.
She pressed her palm to her sternum, breath shuddering.
"No," she whispered to the empty woods. "This isn't possible."
Omegas did not bond like this. They were claimed, used, discarded—but bonds were for chosen pairs, blessed by Luna, sanctioned by pack law.
This wasn't blessing.
This was hunger.
Need.
A demand written into her bones.
She shouldn't want this.
Shouldn't feel it.
And yet the closer she moved, the more her blood sang.
She paused, bracing a hand against the trunk of a twisted ash tree to steady herself.
The bark was warm.
She jerked her hand back.
Trees didn't hold heat.
Her heart pounded as she stared at her palm. Ash clung to her skin, smearing her fingers gray—and beneath it, something glowed.
A sigil bloomed against her flesh.
A crescent moon, split cleanly in two.
Her stomach dropped.
She pressed her glowing hand to her chest, directly over her heart, and felt the answering heat surge there. The bond flared—hot, sharp, undeniable.
It was close now.
Not just a whisper in her blood.
She could feel him.
His pain.
His fury.
His loneliness—vast and cracked, like a ruin stripped of light.
And beneath it all… something empty. Something hollowed out.
Something that had survived too much.
"I'm coming," she breathed, voice shaking.
The forest leaned in around her.
She moved faster.
Her senses sharpened with every step—too sharp, almost painful. She could hear roots shifting beneath the soil, feel the slow pulse of the land's ancient heart. The herbs in her satchel thrummed like living things, glass vials warming against her hip.
One vial began to glow faintly.
Moonwort essence.
Her mother's favorite.
Memory slammed into her chest.
Marla Fairmoor's voice, low and melodic, singing in a language older than the pack. Fingers weaving through Beatrice's hair as she hummed lullabies beneath the stars.
"You were born of the broken moon, my little Bea. Not meant for collar or chain."
At the time, Beatrice had laughed.
Now, the words sank their claws in.
She crested a rocky rise, breath hitching as the forest parted ahead of her.
The clearing was wrong.
Perfectly circular. Too smooth. Too deliberate. Stone pillars jutted from the earth like old teeth, each etched with runes worn smooth by time. The shadows here clung to the ground, thick and unmoving.
At the center—
A pit.
Deep.
Black.
Chained.
Her knees nearly gave out.
Heat roared through her veins as the bond snapped taut—no longer a cord, but a chain pulled tight between two living things that refused to break.
He's here.
Her wolf surged beneath her ribs, snarling for the first time in her life. Not half-formed. Not distant.
Present.
Demanding.
She took one step forward.
Then another.
The world shattered.
Power slammed through her like lightning—raw, feral, unfiltered. Her vision exploded into silver and red. Her bones sang. Her skin burned as something ancient tore awake inside her.
She collapsed to her knees, gasping, clutching the dirt as the forest howled in response.
And through the bond—
Through the fire and pain and need—
She heard his voice.
Cold.
Savage.
Broken.
"You're too late."
Her head snapped up.
The shadows around the pit stirred.
And Ronan Stormfang stepped forward from the dark like a curse given flesh.