The morning light was a flat, watery grey that seemed to cling to the high wooden beams of the guest room.
Margot sat at the edge of the large, dark-timbered bed, her boots already laced, her canvas satchel resting on her knees. She had slept for several hours, a deep, dreamless sleep that had left her body feeling lighter, her mind clear of the chaotic static that had plagued her since the silver wards had first bitten into her skin.
She reached up, her fingers tracing the tarnished brass locket around her neck.
I swear to you... you will never have to shift.
Dorian’s promise still echoed in her mind, a warm, solid weight that she carried like a shield. She had spent her whole life believing that the world was governed by strict, unbreakable numbers—by facts that could be calculated and balanced in a ledger. But last night, in the quiet glow of the library hearth, she had realized that some equations couldn't be balanced with ink and paper.
She rose to her feet, her knees popping in the silent room. She felt different today. Not because she was turning into a beast, but because she had stopped running. She was still Margot Miller, the accountant who balanced the county highway fund, but she was also the granddaughter of Elena, the exile who had carried the old magic of the mountain.
She walked out of the guest room, her boots making soft, rhythmic squeaks on the polished wood floor of the long corridor.
As she neared the grand staircase, she heard a commotion from the foyer below.
It wasn't the quiet, respectful murmurs of the household staff. It was a heated, rapid exchange of voices, carrying a sharp, electric tension that made the hair on her arms stand up.
"He left it at the northern gate," Cole’s voice rose, deep and gravelly, rich with an intense, defensive anger. "He didn't even try to hide his scent. He wanted us to find it."
"Where is Dorian?" Maeve’s voice followed, sharp and rising in a panic that set Margot’s teeth on edge. "He needs to see this. The yearlings are already whispering, Cole. They saw the blood on the gate."
Margot didn't hesitate. She ran down the wide timber stairs, her hand sliding along the smooth wood of the banister.
The foyer was cold. A draft of freezing air had followed someone inside, bringing with it the sharp, clean scent of fresh snow—and something else. Something heavy, metallic, and foul.
Cole stood in the center of the room, his heavy shearling jacket splattered with mud and frozen slush. Beside him stood Maeve, her sharp, angular face pale, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.
Between them, resting on the heavy oak table, was a package.
It was a crude, ugly thing. It was wrapped in a piece of rough, dark hide that had been torn from a fresh kill, the hair still coarse and grey. The hide was bound with a thick, rusted iron wire that had been twisted together with a brutal, careless strength.
But it was the smell that made Margot stop dead at the bottom of the steps.
It was a rancid, suffocating odor that instantly made her stomach churn—a smell of rotting wood, wet fur, and the thick, copper-sharp tang of fresh blood. The hide was wet, a dark crimson fluid dripping slowly from the bottom of the package onto the polished wood of the table, where it pooled in a thick, sticky circle.
"Margot," Cole said, his eyes tracking her as she approached. He stepped between her and the table, his broad chest blocking her view. "You shouldn't be down here. Go back to the library."
"No," Margot said, her voice clear and hard. She stepped around him, her hazel-gold eyes fixed on the dripping hide. "That package was left for me, wasn't it?"
"It was left at the boundary line," Maeve spat, her sharp eyes flashing with a dangerous, amber light in the dim foyer. "But it carries your scent, human. Or what's left of it."
Before Cole could stop her, Margot reached out. She didn't have her iron poker today, but she had the quiet, steady strength she had found in the library. She grabbed the rusted iron wire, ignoring the sharp prickle of the metal against her skin, and twisted.
The rusted wire snapped with a dry, metallic ping.
The rough hide fell open, revealing the contents.
Margot’s breath caught in her throat. She took a stumbling step back, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Resting in the center of the blood-soaked hide was a heavy, circular piece of silver, carved with intricate, twisting knots that looked like ancient briars. In the center of the silver ring was a polished piece of jade—a deep, dark green stone.
But the jade was barely visible.
The pendant was entirely coated in a thick, dark crust of fresh, smelling blood. The silver chain was tangled, matted with strands of coarse, dark grey wolf fur that looked like it had been ripped from a living beast.
It was her mother’s pendant. The sister piece to her brass locket. The heirloom that had been stolen from her bedroom while she was at the office.
"My god," Margot whispered, her eyes wide with a sudden, icy terror. "It’s... it’s mine."
"Look at the note," Maeve said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper as she pointed to a small piece of scraped deer hide that had been tucked beneath the silver chain.
The hide was dry, but the message written on it was dark and thick, written in the same fresh, smelling blood that coated the jade. The handwriting was large, jagged, and brutal—the script of a man who wrote with a claw rather than a pen.
The blood of the first-born belongs to the wild. She is not yours to cage, Thorne. The Ridgeback will burn, and she will run with my wolves. Tell her Vane is coming for his mate.
"His mate?" Maeve turned to Cole, her face flushing with a deep, furious red. "I told you, Cole! I told you he wanted her! He’s going to use her to claim the territory! He’s going to challenge Dorian for the alpha seat, and he’ll use her blood to do it!"
"Shut up, Maeve," Cole growled, his hand dropping to the heavy knife at his belt. "Vane is a rogue. He’s trying to provoke us. He wants us to make a mistake."
"A mistake?" Maeve laughed, a high-pitched, frantic sound that made Margot’s heart hammer against her ribs. "He just left a blood-soaked warning in our courtyard, Maeve! He’s already crossed the river! He’s at our gates!"
"He is not at our gates."
The voice was a low, vibrating rumble that made the heavy timber beams of the foyer rattle.
Dorian walked down the long corridor, his massive frame instantly dominating the space. He was wearing his heavy canvas trousers and a clean black shirt, but his silver-grey eyes were glowing with a brilliant, terrifying light that made both Cole and Maeve instantly drop their gaze.
He walked to the table, his eyes tracking the dark, dripping circle of blood on the polished wood. He looked at the hide, the blood-soaked jade, and the jagged message written on the scrap of deer skin.
His jaw clenched, his facial muscles tightening until his strong, square jaw looked like it had been cut from the mountain stone. The air in the foyer instantly grew colder, thick with his scent—that rich, wild mixture of cedar, ozone, and a fierce, protective fury that made Margot’s skin prickle with an intense warmth.
"He took it from her cabin," Dorian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, flat register. "He wanted her to see it."
"He wants her blood, Dorian," Cole said, stepping up to stand beside his alpha. "He’s claiming her. He’s telling the pack that she belongs to his rogues because of her grandmother’s bloodline."
"She belongs to no one," Dorian growled, his silver eyes flashing with a sudden, wild light that made his inner beast stand at attention. He reached down, his large, warm hand wrapping around the silver chain of the pendant.
He didn't care about the blood. He picked up the silver-and-jade piece, his fingers squeezing the cold metal until the fresh red fluid squeezed through his knuckles.
"Vane is a dog," Dorian spat, his voice rising in a command that made the front door of the estate rattle in its frame. "He thinks he can use her to break my pack. He thinks because she has the first-born blood, she is a prize to be won."
He turned to Margot, his expression softening slightly when he saw her pale, terrified face, but the fury was still there, simmering just beneath his skin.
"You are safe here, Margot," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper that she could feel in her bones. "I told you I would protect you. I meant it."
"But he has my pendant, Dorian," Margot said, her voice shaking but carrying a fierce, defiant strength. She took a step toward him, pointing to the blood on his hand. "And he has my scent. He was in my bedroom. He knows where I live, and he knows what I am."
"He knows nothing," Dorian said, stepping closer to her until his heat wrapped around her like a physical shield. "He only knows what he can steal. He has no claim on you, Margot. Not by blood, and not by law."
"But the pack is afraid," Maeve said, her voice rising again as she looked at the blood on the table. "They see the blood on the gate, Dorian. They see the warning. They’re going to think we’re harboring a threat. They’re going to think Vane has a right to challenge you."
"Let them think what they want," Dorian said, his voice flat and unyielding as he turned to face his beta and the young female. "The boundary lines are secure. We double the patrols on the northern ridge. If any rogue crosses the river, they do not get a warning. They get a grave."
He looked back to Margot, his silver eyes locking onto her golden-hazel gaze with an intensity that seemed to draw the air from her lungs. He reached out, his warm, blood-stained hand hovering just inches from her cheek, though he fought the urge to touch her.
"Come back to the library, Margot," he whispered. "Let me clean this."
Margot looked at the pendant in his hand, the dark green jade nearly hidden by the crimson crust of fresh blood. She felt a deep, cold dread settling into her bones—a realization that her mother's secrets and her grandmother's exiled bloodline had drawn her into a war that she could no longer run from.
Vane was coming.
And she knew that before the snow melted, the mountain would run with more than just water. She turned and walked back toward the library, her boots heavy on the stone floor, the scent of the blood-soaked jade following her like a shadow in the dark.