Lucian’s expression hardens. “It’s not your place to agree or disagree, Kieran. Daciana is just your liaison. She is nothing to you.” His words are deliberate, cutting. “If you don’t want her, then there are other men who do.”
My body shakes with the effort of keeping my wolf caged. All my instincts are shrieking at me to deny it, to claim her, to tell the King exactly what Daciana means to me.
But I can’t. I won’t.
“I need to go,” I manage, my voice strained.
I force myself to turn and leave with unhurried steps, though my control is fraying with each breath I take. By the time I reach the corridor, my wolf is a snarling, furious presence in my mind, demanding I go back and end this conversation the way I should.
But I keep going, because staying would mean admitting truths I can’t afford to speak.
I’m walking down the corridor, still reeling from Lucian’s words, when there’s a shift in the air. I freeze mid-step, and the scent hits me—ancient, wild, laced with magic that shouldn’t exist anywhere near the capital. My wolf stirs instantly, hackles rising. One of the windows is open, and that’s where it’s coming from.
Without thinking twice, I leap through the window and land in the gardens below with hardly a sound. The moment my feet touch the ground, I’m running.
The scent pulls at something deep and primal in my chest. I know this magic. I’ve known it for centuries. But it shouldn’t be here.
As soon as I hit the tree line, I transform. My body explodes into fur and muscle, and I tear through the forest at a speed that would terrify most shifters. The scent trail is strong, deliberate, as if whoever left it wanted me to follow.
An hour passes. Maybe more. Time loses meaning when I’m like this, chasing something I shouldn’t want to find but can’t ignore.
The trees start to thin. I slow down, then shift back, my body reforming as I step into the human city at the forest’s edge.
There’s a large market going on. Various stalls dot the streets, and colorful banners are strung between buildings. The magic thrums stronger here, weaving through the crowd like a living thing.
I follow it to a small tent tucked in a corner, away from the main shopping area. My hand pushes aside the fabric entrance before I can reconsider.
The woman inside is alone, sitting at a simple, wooden table. She’s not young, but she’s not old, either—somewhere in between, with long, dark hair highlighted with silver. When she looks up at me, my breath catches.
Her eyes are completely white. Blind.
“So, the cursed one comes,” she says, her voice all smoke and honey. “Do you seek answers, Wolf King?”
That face. I know that face. But from where?
“What is a gypsy witch doing here?” I demand, my tone harsher than I intend.
She smiles slowly, knowingly. “Hold out your hand.”
I should refuse. Should turn around and leave this tent, this market, and this entire situation behind. But my hand extends anyway, palm up.
She pulls out an old knife. The handle is wrapped in leather, the blade darkened with age and use.
I recognize gypsy magic when I see it. She needs my blood.
The woman takes my hand in hers. Her grip is surprisingly warm. The knife slices across my palm quickly and efficiently. I don’t flinch.
Using my blood, she draws a symbol on the table between us. Complex. Ancient. My wolf prowls restlessly as I watch the blood form patterns I half recognize.
Then, she stops. Says nothing.
“What?” I snap, impatience flooding through me.
She laughs, delighted. “The gypsy witches will soon leave your territory.”
I frown. “Why? Your kind has been there since—”
“Since you first took our daughter.”
