Soul: Bound by blood

I don’t belong here. I never have.

The gathering is stifling. Loud voices, sharp glances, forced smiles—none of it is for me. They talk of treaties and alliances, power plays disguised as peace talks. I’m just another face in the crowd. A name no one bothers to remember.

Even my pack expects little from me—a Mooncrest with no bite.

I’m supposed to sit quietly, to observe, to blend into the background. As expected from a Beta’s daughter.

A sigh leaves my lips and I am looking around all while fixing the silver dress I borrowed from my sister for this event.

I’d have to return it in the morning.

People are walking around, eyeing me, probably judging why a girl is standing all by herself in the corner.

But that’s how it’s always is.

Nerya Mooncrest never blends in. She is like a sore thumb.

I never feel this way at parties even though I loathe them with everything I have.

But tonight, something feels off. The air is thick, and heavy with tension.

The infamous Nightclaw pack is here, and their Alpha is among them.

Valen Nightclaw.

I’ve never seen his truth to be told, but I’ve heard the stories. Ruthless. Arrogant. Untouchable.

Some even believe he is cursed.

The tales say that no one gets close to him—not without paying a price. That price often is death.

His pack fears him, and outsiders whisper about the blood on his hands. The weight of his power is enough to make most wolves tremble.

But it’s not just his strength they fear.

They say there’s a darkness in him, something wild and uncontrollable, something even he can’t fully suppress. Those who cross him don’t live to tell the tale. And those who challenge him... vanish without a trace.

It’s said that the moon refuses to shine on the Nightclaw lands when he’s in a rage.

I, however, believe no such tales.

I think fear has a way of growing in the shadows, twisting truth into something unrecognizable. The more terrifying the story, the more eager people are to tell it.

A barking dog never bites, and even the darkest night must give way to dawn.

Valen Nightclaw might be ruthless, but no one is as invincible as the stories make them out to be.

I take another sip of my drink—something bitter, something I didn’t ask for but didn’t refuse. The taste lingers, sharp on my tongue, as I try to calm the growing unease in my chest. The room spins slightly, and my thoughts feel distant as if they're not my own.

I need air.

Whatever the tales were, I’d leave this place soon.

I slip away unnoticed. No one stops me. No one ever does. Outside, the moon hangs low in the sky like a pale crescent casting soft light over the trees. The cool breeze feels good against my skin, and I breathe deeply, trying to steady myself.

But the dizziness doesn’t fade. If anything, it gets worse.

Maybe I pick up the alcohol instead of the mojito I wanted.

Well.

I wander, trying to find somewhere—anywhere—quiet.

Bunching the train of the dress in my hand, I walk towards the stairs. The lower portion of the venue must be full, I need to find a quiet place where I can rest for a while before the dizziness goes away.

The music and the chatter dull into silence as my steps lead me to an empty room down a narrow hall, far from the noise of the gathering.

I notice the wall. Paint in beige shades, and photos of our ancestors.

Just as I am about to stumble, my hazy gaze shifts to the door adjacent to the hall. And to my relief the door was open.

Maybe I should go to the room and rest there. It is closer to the stairs and even if I pass out, someone would find me.

The dizziness grows as I step inside, just for a moment. Just to breathe.

That’s when I feel it.

The air shifts. A strange, intoxicating scent fills the room—heady, overwhelming, like nothing I’ve ever smelled before. My pulse quickens. It’s not just the drink. It’s something more. Something primal.

Pheromones. Strong, undeniable. The pull is immediate, so sharp it’s dizzying. Instinct claws at me, whisper to me to stay. To wait.

But I can’t. I need to leave. I don’t know who it is, but I know what will happen if I stay. My heart hammers in my chest, and I turn to go.

Then I feel it.

A hand. Strong, firm. It wraps around my waist, pulling me back, and stopping me before I can take another step.

“Leaving so soon?” The voice is low, a growl of amusement.

A male.

I freeze. His breath is warm against my neck, his body pressed against mine. Heat floods my skin, and I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. Panic flares in my chest, and I open my mouth to speak, to tell him to stop, but the words catch in my throat.

Before I can react, his lips are on mine.

Whatever intoxication is wrapped around me, quickly fades and I am rendered still.

The kiss is hard, and demanding. And something tells me he is not a random male but someone powerful.

My mind screams at me to fight, to push him away, but my body betrays me or whatever intoxicating follicles are causing all this.

His scent fills my senses, clouding my thoughts, and dulling the edges of my panic.

He tastes like danger, like something forbidden, something I shouldn’t want but can’t resist.

I try to pull away, to find the strength to stop him, but his hands are everywhere—sliding up my back, tangling in my hair, claiming me in a way that feels both terrifying and inevitable.

My breath hitches as his lips trail down my neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch ignites something deep inside me, something raw and uncontrollable. I feel my body responding to him, even as my mind rebels.

“Don’t,” I whisper, though my voice lacks conviction. I want to mean it. I should mean it. But his touch drowns out reason and replaces fear with need.

He pulls me closer, his breath ragged, and I can feel his heart pounding against my back. My pulse quickens in response, a wild rhythm that matches his.

This is wrong. Every instinct in me screams that it’s wrong.

But then why can’t I move?

His lips find mine again, more urgent this time, more insistent. His hands roam lower, pulling me against him, and I feel the heat of him, hard and unrelenting. A part of me knows this is madness, knows that I’ll regret this moment for the rest of my life. But the rest of me is already lost—lost in the heat, the desire, the overwhelming pull that binds us in this moment.

The stranger. The scent. The madness.

It all happens so fast. My head spins, and my body yields. My hands, trembling, reach for him, even though I know they shouldn’t. I grip his arms and feel the raw strength beneath his skin. His muscles tense under my touch, and he groans, low and guttural.

And just like that, the world disappears.

There is nothing but him. His body pressing into mine, his hands sliding over me, his mouth claiming every inch of skin he can find. Heat pools low in my belly, and I gasp as he lifts me, pressing me against the wall, pinning me there like I’m something he can’t let go of. His lips trail fire down my neck, his breath hot and ragged in my ear.

I don’t know who he is. But gods, I feel like I’ve known him forever.

His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me closer, harder. I feel the sharpness of his need, the raw hunger in every movement. My body responds, traitorously, with a matching need of my own. Every touch, every kiss, every breath sends sparks of pleasure racing through my veins. I can’t stop it. I can’t control it.

And for one fleeting, reckless moment, I don’t want to.

I let go. I give in.

His mouth finds mine again, and this time, I kiss him back. Hard. Fierce. A kiss that shatters the last of my resistance. A kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

Whatever this is, it’s more than just desire. It’s something ancient, something beyond logic or reason.

But as quickly as it begins, it’s over.

The world snaps back into focus. I pull away, breathless, and confused, my heart racing in my chest. I look up, my vision clearing—and I see him.

Eyes as dark as a moonless night, hooded and red-rimmed, like he’s fighting something. Something he can’t control. There’s an edge of madness in them, a hunger that chills me to my core.

His gaze pierces me, predatory, like a wolf sizing up its prey. He is danger made flesh.

My wolf stirs at the sight of him. She doesn’t cower. She rises, her hackles raised, instincts flaring, something I feel for the first time.

A silent challenge. She knows. She recognizes him. Mate. The word reverberates through me like a whisper on the wind, undeniable, inescapable.

But my body rebels. My mind struggles to make sense of it. Whoever this male was, he wasn’t just a threat. He was a reckoning.

Fire in the heart, blood in the veins.

An old saying echoes in my mind, the warning my grandmother once whispered. And right now, I’m caught in both—burning and bleeding, helpless before him.

His lips curl into the barest hint of a smirk, sharp as a blade, cutting through the silence between us. His voice, when he speaks, is low and rough, like gravel scraping over stone.

“Run,” he says, eyes glinting with dark amusement. “If you can.”

My wolf howls in defiance. There’s no running from this. Not anymore.