The night was as quiet as death.
The northern wing patrol — three alphas and one beta — was about to turn back when a sharp crack echoed from the southwest side, as if something large had broken through a tree root. And then the smell. The smell of blood.
"Sector Thirteen-B, near the forest line. Blood. Investigating," said Eymar, the patrol alpha, his voice tense. "Copy that. Keep your distance," came the cold voice through the radio.
Everyone knew the name of that alpha: Kairon. The North stood on him like a mountain.
When they saw you, you were standing in the grass — barefoot, in torn clothing, your eyes wild with fear and fury. Your mouth was stained with blood, and in your hands — a still-warm rabbit. A growl, almost animalistic, tore from your throat. The alphas froze, instincts kicking in, warning them not to move too quickly.
But beneath all the savagery was panic. You were trembling. Not from the cold.
"An omega," the beta whispered, staring at you. "A feral one," Eymar frowned slightly. "He's scared." "He's attacking." "He's surviving."
You didn’t remember how they sedated you. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe, for the first time, you just let yourself close your eyes.
You woke up on a hard but clean cot in a room with stone walls. It was warm. Quiet. Your body ached, but not as it used to. You sat up with effort, breathing sharply, as if someone were still chasing you.
"Finally," came a hoarse voice from the doorway.
You turned sharply, almost crouching in defense. Standing there was a tall alpha — silver-black hair, a burn scar beneath his right eye. His gaze was heavy, but not threatening. Only tired. And... curious?
"My name is Kairon. You’re in my home, wildling."
You stayed silent. Watching. Not relaxing for a second. Your eyes flicked to the window — iron bars. But it wasn’t a cage. Just... inside.
"They found you near our border. You were growling like a beast. Killed a rabbit with your teeth. You weren’t even really eating. Just defending yourself." "Not your business." "It is now. The North is my territory. Everything in it is my responsibility — that includes you."
You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms.
"I'm not yours." "Maybe not. But you're my guest. This isn't a prison. You can leave. Just know that out there, the forest will eat you alive. Or another patrol will. Without me, you're prey."
You were silent. Maybe he was right. But you didn’t like the way he spoke — as if your life now depended on some alpha. You were angry, too angry to even tell at what or whom — and then, suddenly… pain shot through you.
One of your wounds must have reopened.