Tiberius's POV
Blood.
I smell it the moment I cross into the outer territories of my forest. Fresh blood, omega blood, and something else—fear so thick it coats the air like fog.
My wolf surges forward, alert. In 347 years, I've learned to trust my instincts. And right now, every instinct screams that something is wrong.
I shift mid-run, my massive Lycan form covering ground faster than any normal wolf. The blood trail leads deeper into the forbidden zone—the part of my lands where weak wolves come to die.
Most I let nature take its course. Survival of the fittest is law in the wild.
But this scent... there's something different about it. Something that makes my ancient wolf whine with urgency.
I find her by the frozen stream.
A young woman—omega by her scent—collapsed in the snow, barely breathing. Her face is battered, one eye swollen shut, lips split and bleeding. Her clothes are torn and frozen to her skin.
And she's pregnant. Maybe four months along, if I'm reading the signs right.
Most wolves would keep walking. Omegas die all the time in the wild. It's tragic but natural.
I kneel in the snow beside her.
She's not moving. For a horrible moment, I think I'm too late. Then I see her chest rise slightly—a shallow breath, but a breath.
"Please," she whispers without opening her eyes. Her voice is barely audible. "Just let me die."
The words hit me harder than they should.
I've heard dying wolves beg before. Beg for help, for mercy, for one more day. But never has one begged for death.
This omega isn't weak. She's been destroyed.
There's a difference.
Weakness is natural—some wolves are simply born smaller, slower, less dominant. That's biology.
But this woman? She was beaten down. Broken deliberately. I can see it in every wound, every bruise, the careful way someone aimed for her stomach to hurt her baby.
Someone did this to her. Someone wanted her dead.
And she came to my forest to finish the job they started.
"No," I say simply.
I shift to human form, the cold air biting my bare skin. I've lived through countless winters—temperature is an inconvenience, not a threat.
But this omega is dying from it.
I lift her carefully, and she weighs almost nothing. Too light. She's been starved as well as beaten.
My wolf growls with fury. Whoever did this deserves to suffer.
"Please," she whispers again, her one good eye cracking open. "Just make it quick."
She thinks I'm going to kill her. Of course she does. I'm the Lycan King—the monster from every bedtime story, the beast who supposedly murders trespassers on sight.
"I'm not going to kill you," I say quietly.
Confusion flickers across her battered face. "You're not?"
"No." I adjust my grip, making sure I'm not pressing on her injuries. "How far did you run?"
"From Shadowpine Pack. Since dawn."
Shadowpine. Alpha Cassian Greythorne's territory. I've met him at council meetings—young, ambitious, more concerned with image than substance.
If this omega ran from his pack, someone there hurt her badly enough to make death seem preferable.
"You have two choices," I tell her, studying those frightened gray eyes. "Die here in the snow, which is clearly what you came to this forest to do. Or let me help you."
She stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "Why would you help me?"
Fair question. Why am I helping? I should leave her to nature, like I've done with countless others.
But something about her quiet courage—walking hours through deadly forest, bleeding and broken, fighting to protect her unborn child—that's not weakness.
That's the kind of strength most warriors never find.
"Because I've lived 347 years," I say honestly, "and I've learned to recognize strength when I see it. You're not weak, little omega. You're a survivor. And I don't let survivors die on my lands if I can prevent it."
"I'm nobody. Nothing. Just an omega—"
"Who walked for hours through deadly forest, bleeding and broken, to protect her child." I stand, looking down at her. "That's not nothing. That's the kind of strength most warriors never find."
I offer my hand.
She stares at it with her one good eye, clearly torn between hope and fear.
"Choose," I say. "Die here, or live. What's it going to be?"
Her hand trembles as she reaches for mine. The moment our skin touches, something shifts in the air between us. Not a mate bond—I can sense she already has one, unfortunately tied to some fool who doesn't deserve her.
This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Or destiny showing me why I was drawn to patrol this specific section of forest tonight.
"Live," she whispers. "I choose to live."
I pull her to her feet, and immediately her eyes roll back. She's been running on pure willpower, and that just ran out.
I catch her before she hits the ground, lifting her into my arms. She's unconscious now, which is probably better. The journey to my castle will hurt less if she doesn't feel it.
"I've got you," I say, even though she can't hear. "You're safe now."
I shift back to Lycan form carefully, holding her secure in my jaws by her clothes. Then I run.
My castle is an hour away at normal speed. I make it in twenty minutes.
The guards at the gate snap to attention when they see me approaching with a body.
"Alert Rhiannon and the healers," I order through the pack link. "Medical emergency. Omega female, beaten, pregnant, hypothermic. Move!"
The castle erupts into organized chaos. By the time I reach the main entrance, my second-in-command Rhiannon is already there with three healers.
"Moon Goddess," Rhiannon breathes when she sees the omega's condition. "Who did this to her?"
"Unknown. Shadowpine Pack exile, from what she said." I shift back to human form, still holding the unconscious woman. "Can you save her?"
"The baby too?"
"Both of them."
Rhiannon's expression hardens with determination. "Follow me."
They take us to the medical wing—a room I built centuries ago for emergencies exactly like this. The healers work quickly, cutting away the omega's frozen clothes, checking vital signs, calling out medical terms I barely understand.
"Broken ribs, fractured cheekbone, severe bruising to abdomen," one healer reports. "Multiple signs of targeted violence. Someone tried to kill this woman and her child."
"Will they survive?" I demand.
The head healer—an older woman named Mira—examines the omega carefully. "Maybe. She's strong, fighting hard. But she's been through severe trauma. The next few hours are critical."
"Then save her." It comes out as an Alpha command, brooking no argument. "Whatever resources you need, use them. She doesn't die. Not after surviving this long."
Mira nods and returns to work.
Rhiannon pulls me aside. "Tiberius, do you know what you're doing? Bringing a pregnant omega exile into our castle? If her old pack finds out—"
"Let them find out," I say coldly. "If Shadowpine Pack wants her back, they can explain why they beat her nearly to death first."
"And if she's lying? If this is some kind of trap?"
I look at the small, broken woman on the medical table. At healers fighting to save her life and her baby's life.
"She's not lying. No one could fake those injuries. Someone wanted her dead." My jaw clenches. "Someone is going to answer for that. But first, she survives. Clear?"
Rhiannon studies my face, then nods slowly. "You're already attached to her."
"I'm attached to justice. There's a difference."
But we both know I'm lying.
Hours pass. The healers work tirelessly, using every healing technique we have. Slowly, painfully slowly, the omega's vital signs stabilize.
"She's out of immediate danger," Mira finally announces. "But she needs rest. Lots of it. And she'll wake up terrified—beaten wolves always do."
"I'll be here when she wakes," I say.
"Tiberius—"
"I'll be here," I repeat. "She chose to live. Someone should be present to honor that choice."
Rhiannon sighs but doesn't argue. She knows me too well.
The healers leave. Rhiannon leaves. I pull a chair beside the bed and settle in to wait.
The omega—I don't even know her name yet—sleeps fitfully. Her face twitches with nightmares. Once, she cries out a name: "Cassian, please—"
Cassian. Alpha Cassian Greythorne. The bastard who's supposed to protect his pack members, especially omegas.
My hands clench into fists.
Tomorrow, I'll get answers. Learn exactly what happened. Find out who's responsible.
But tonight, I keep vigil.
Because in 347 years, I've learned one fundamental truth: how you treat the weakest among you reveals who you truly are.
And this omega—broken, beaten, left to die—she deserves better than what she got.
Hours later, her eyes flutter open.
Gray eyes, clearer now without the swelling. They focus on me slowly, confusion giving way to recognition, then terror.
"The Lycan King," she breathes.
"Yes."
"You're going to kill me."
"No," I say firmly. "I'm going to save you. Whether you want me to or not."
Her eyes fill with tears. "Why?"
"Because you deserve to live," I say simply. "And because I want to know the name of the woman brave enough to walk into my forest seeking death and choosing life instead."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly I almost don't hear it:
"Elowen. My name is Elowen Thorne."