The den reeked of blood, piss, and fear. Lucian moved through it without hesitation, boots crushing broken stone and bone alike. His warriors cleared each chamber with ruthless precision, dragging rogues into submission or slaughter.

This wasn’t justice. It was cleanup. And he preferred it that way.

He stepped into the final room, expecting more filth. What he found made him stop cold.

Three survivors huddled in the shadows. One stirred when he entered, dragging herself upright with a barely-suppressed wince. Small. Dirty. Blood-streaked. Her left leg—useless, mangled long ago. Her silver eyes locked on his.

And something inside him snapped.

A weight he didn’t ask for settled in his chest. Familiarity without logic. Recognition without memory. His wolf lunged forward before he could stop it, snarling one word that made his stomach turn.

Mine.

No. No, this was wrong. A trick. A mistake.

“She’s injured.” One of his men said behind him. “Probably won’t—”

“She’s mine!” Lucian growled, cutting him off before the words could finish. His jaw clenched the moment they escaped.

He hated how true they felt. Hated that the bond chose for him. Fate was for fools, and yet here it was, carved into his bones without permission. He stepped forward, slow and looming. She didn’t cower. Her scent was laced with pain, not fear.

“You were theirs.” He said quietly. “Not anymore.”

She stared at him, unblinking. No gratitude. No hope. Just silence and exhaustion.

He extended his hand.

“Get up. We’re leaving.”

She took it without a word. And the moment their skin met, heat flared under his palm like a brand.

Lucian bit back a curse. Not because she was weak. But because she was his. And he hadn’t chosen this.