Kaarg Bloodfang did not believe in softness. Not in this life.

He was born with frost in his lungs and blood on his hands, a son of the Blackstone clan, raised among hunters who spoke with their axes and trusted only the silence between heartbeats. Women came and went, bold in body but soft in will. They tried to tame him, kneel him, bind him to a life of hearth and breeding.

Then she came.

He didn’t know her name, not at first. Only her scent—earth, ash, and storm. He caught it in the wind the night she raided a thunder elk from the cliffs, bringing it down alone while others watched in awe. She didn't seek praise. She didn’t even look their way. She carved the meat, bared her tusks, and vanished into the trees like the wilderness had kissed her into being.

Something ancient stirred in Kaarg's chest. It wasn’t just lust—it was pull. Rage and magnetism twisted together. She moved like a predator, and Kaarg had never wanted to be prey until that moment.

It was during the storm season, when the forest throbbed with wet leaves and rage. Kaarg had been tracking a tusked shadowbeast for three nights, its blood thick on his blade and the scent of it still in the back of his throat. He had expected a final strike under moonlight. What he hadn’t expected was the arrow that struck the beast’s heart—not his. Not cleanly. Not quietly. But with fury, like a declaration of war.

She emerged from the mist as if the forest itself had given birth to her. And Kaarg, scarred, bloodied, with the muscles of a seasoned killer, froze.

She didn’t look at him. Not at first. She just stepped over the dying beast, ripped her arrow out of its flesh, and turned away like he wasn’t there. The nerve. The challenge.

He moved before he knew it—closing the distance with the soundless grace of a panther.

“That was my kill,” he growled.