The mountains didn't care that she was bleeding.
Calla Rowen pressed a hand to her ribs, warm blood leaking between her fingers as she stumbled through the thick underbrush. The Appalachian air was sharp this far up—thin and wild, the way wolves liked it. She wasn't supposed to be here. Hell, most people didn't even know this part of the ridge existed.
But she was out of options.
Behind her, the trail she'd covered was gone—swallowed by wind and shadows. Ahead, the path twisted up toward a ridge shrouded in mist. She could feel it. Something was watching. The hairs on her arms rose even though her body was flushed with sweat and panic.
One wrong step, and she'd be hunted like prey.
She took it anyway.
A branch cracked behind her.
Calla froze, heart thudding in her throat. Not a twig. Not the snap of bark under her own feet.
Something was following her.
She didn't scream. Screaming meant you thought someone might come.
No one was coming.
Instead, she ran.
Her boots slipped on damp moss, lungs burning as the wind sliced through her. She knew how to run—had done it all her life—but this was different. This was primal. The forest was alive, and whatever was chasing her didn't move like a man.
It moved like it belonged here.
And she didn't.
The howl came seconds before she fell. It was low and guttural, the kind of sound that made the bones under her skin vibrate. She hit the ground hard, shoulder first, dirt and blood smearing across her arm as she scrambled to her feet.
A shadow lunged from the trees.
She turned too late.
It slammed into her, knocking her down again, this time face-first into the earth. She choked on dirt, coughed, tried to flip over—only for a heavy weight to press against her back. Claws—no, fingers—dug into her shoulder.
Then a voice, deep and feral, cracked through the air like thunder.
"Don't move."
She went still.
The weight shifted. Not gone, but hovering. Watching.
"I said, don't move," the voice repeated, quieter this time. Dangerous in a new way. Too steady.
Calla swallowed, tasting blood. "Not moving."
She was flipped like a doll, her spine dragging across the dirt. She blinked through the sudden blur of motion and found herself staring up into eyes that weren't human.
Amber, glowing, wild.
The man above her wasn't just a man. His skin was streaked with dirt and shadow, muscles tight and coiled like a predator ready to strike. His face was half-shadowed by the hood of a jacket—jagged stubble along a sharp jaw, lips curled into something close to a snarl.
He wasn't breathing hard.
She was.
"You don't smell like pack," he said.
"No idea what that means," she rasped.
His head tilted slightly, studying her with a predator's calm. "You're bleeding."
"Thanks for the update."
He didn't smile. Didn't even blink.
Then he leaned closer.
Calla's breath caught.
He sniffed her.
What the actual hell?
"Your scent," he said slowly, like the words confused him. "It's… wrong.
"Wow, charming." She glared. "Are you done sniffing me, or—?"
His eyes flared. One hand gripped her arm, claws barely retracted. "Who sent you?
"No one." Her voice cracked. "I wasn't trying to trespass. I was just passing through."
"No one just passes through Ravenridge." His voice lowered, rougher now. "This land is protected."
"By who?"
His grip tightened. "By me."
Calla's heart dropped.
Oh.
Oh, hell.
This was him.
The rumors whispered through the black market and back-alley safehouses. The rogue Alpha who ruled a ghost pack in the mountains. The man they said had gone feral after the war, who tore apart anyone stupid enough to cross into his land.
Elias Vexley.
The Butcher of Valescar.
She looked up at him and saw the truth in the stories. The shadows clung to him like a second skin, and the beast inside him lurked too close to the surface.
"Listen," she said carefully. "I didn't come here looking for trouble. I didn't even know where I was until—"
"That's a lie," he snapped.
Calla winced. "Okay. Fine. I knew I was cutting through dangerous land, but I didn't know it was yours. Happy now?"
He didn't look happy.
"You crossed two border wards," he said. "Either you're stupid… or you're hunting."
"Hunting?" Her laugh came out bitter. "I'm the one bleeding.
His gaze dropped to her ribs.
He saw it—the crescent-shaped scar.
Everything changed.
He blinked once. Slowly. And for the first time, he looked unsure.
"Where did you get that?" he asked.
Her throat went dry.
"I've had it since I was a kid. It's just a scar."
"No." Elias's voice turned dark. "That mark is older than you. It's… ancient."
"You're crazy," she said.
But her fingers drifted to it anyway.
The scar was warm. Warmer than it should be. Like it was waking up.
Elias stood abruptly. "You're coming with me."
"The hell I am."
He didn't even look back. "You step off that ground, you die. My wolves are already circling."
Calla looked around.
She hadn't even noticed them—but now, between the trees, she saw them.
Eyes. Glowing. Dozens.
She exhaled shakily and pushed to her feet.
He glanced back only once. "What's your name?"
She hesitated. Then: "Calla."
"Calla," he repeated, like it meant something.
Like it terrified him.
"Welcome to Ravenridge."