Seven years later.
Serena Vale had learned many things about survival, but the most important one was this:
wolves healed faster than hearts.
The tavern smelled like spilt ale, pine smoke, and lies. She liked it that way. Lies were predictable. Men, less so—but she'd learned how to handle those too.
"Another round?" the bartender asked, eyeing her empty mug.
Serena slid a coin across the counter. "Only if you promise not to water it down this time."
He grinned. "You wound me."
"Good," she said sweetly. "Builds character."
Laughter rippled nearby. Serena ignored it. Humor came easily now—it was easier than explaining why her smile never quite reached her eyes.
From the corner booth, a small voice hissed, "Mama."
She turned.
A boy with her dark hair and golden eyes glared at her over a chipped cup, arms crossed like a disapproving old man trapped in a child's body.
"What did I say about drinking?" he demanded.
Serena raised an eyebrow. "You said don't get drunk."
"And?" he pressed.
"I'm not drunk."
"You're smiling too much," he muttered. "That's suspicious."
She laughed, real this time, and reached out to ruffle his hair. He dodged her hand with a scowl that was painfully familiar.
"Eat your bread, little wolf," she said. "You need energy for tomorrow."
His nose wrinkled. "I hate when you call me that."
"You are little."
"I'm seven," he said with dignity. "That's practically grown."
Serena swallowed the ache in her chest and smiled anyway. "Of course it is."
Outside, the wind shifted.
Her spine stiffened.
Every instinct she possessed—every scar, every survival reflex—flared at once.
A presence pressed against the tavern like a storm waiting to break.
The laughter died.
Conversation thinned.
Then the door opened.
The man who stepped inside carried the weight of a crown without wearing one.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair streaked faintly with silver at the temples. His aura slammed into the room like a challenge, raw power curling through the air.
Serena's breath caught.
No.
Her wolf recoiled, then surged forward with a snarl so violent she nearly staggered.
Across the room, the man froze.
His head snapped up.
Golden eyes—his eyes—locked onto her.
The world tilted.
For one suspended moment, the noise, the scent, the years between them vanished.
Something ancient stirred.
Something broken.
Something furious.
King Alaric Nightfang frowned.
He didn't recognize her face.
But his wolf did.
It roared inside him, claws scraping bone, demanding—Mine.
He clenched his jaw, forcing control. His gaze swept over her slowly, lingering far too long. Dark hair braided loosely. Sharp eyes. A mouth shaped for trouble.
And anger.
Gods, she looked angry.
Interesting.
He turned to the bartender. "Wine."
The room held its breath.
Serena exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around her mug.
"Don't stare," the boy muttered.
She looked down. "What?"
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The murder thing," he said flatly.
She snorted. "Mind your bread."
Alaric took his drink and leaned against the counter, every movement controlled, predatory. His gaze drifted back to her again, pulled like a compass needle.
He frowned deeper.
Why did she feel… familiar?
Why did his chest ache?
He took a step closer.
Serena stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly.
"No," she whispered—to herself, to fate, to every cruel god that had ever laughed at her.
She grabbed the boy's hand. "We're leaving."
"Now?" he protested. "But I haven't finished—"
"Now."
They reached the door just as Alaric spoke.
"You."
The word hit her like a slap.
She turned slowly, fire lighting her veins. "Me?"
"Yes," he said, studying her openly now. "What's your name?"
Her smile was sharp enough to cut.
"None of your business."
A few gasps. No one spoke to the Alpha King like that.
Something like amusement flickered across his face.
"Funny," he said. "My wolf disagrees."
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Then you should teach your wolf some manners."
The boy tugged her sleeve. "Mama—"
Alaric's gaze snapped down.
Time shattered.
The child looked back at him with undisguised suspicion—and something else.
Authority.
Power.
Recognition.
The scent hit him then.
Alpha blood.
His blood.
The room spun.
Serena felt it too—the moment the truth crept too close. She moved instantly, placing herself between them like a shield.
"Don't," she warned quietly.
Alaric straightened, every muscle rigid. "That child—"
"Is not your concern."
His voice dropped. Dangerous. "Everything that carries my blood is my concern."
Her laugh was low and bitter. "Funny. You didn't seem concerned seven years ago."
The words landed like a blade.
Alaric stared at her, mind racing, memories clawing at locked doors.
Seven years.
A woman in shadows.
A scent he never forgot.
A night soaked in shame and fire.
His breath came shallow. "Who are you?"
She leaned in close, voice soft enough to hurt.
"Your worst mistake."
Then she turned and walked out into the night, dragging destiny behind her by the hand.
And for the first time in seven years, King Alaric Nightfang knew—
the hunt was over.
And the war was about to begin.