Chapter 2 Den of Wolves
2\. Den of Wolves
When I woke up, it wasn’t to the sweet comfort of my memory-foam pillow, or the familiar hum of my crappy ceiling fan, or even the guilty reminder that I’d fallen asleep mid-scroll again.
No.
I woke up to the sound of wolves.
Real wolves. Growls that rumbled through the floor and rattled my ribs, deep and unrelenting, like the speakers of a horror movie set to MAX. My eyelids fluttered open and—yep. No ceiling fan. No glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. Instead, there was stone. Cold, black, jagged stone arched overhead, carved with runes that shimmered faint silver under flickering torchlight.
My first thought: Oh cool, I’ve been kidnapped by the set decorators from Game of Thrones.
My “bed” was basically a giant slab, barely disguised by a layer of fur. The fur smelled faintly of pine, smoke, and wet dog. Chains dangled from the walls, which—just to be clear—were not in a fun, Fifty Shades way but more of a people-probably-died-here way. And looming over the slab was a massive wolf’s head carved into obsidian, its teeth bared eternally, as if the room itself wanted me dead.
I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. “Worst Airbnb ever.”
The door creaked open.
I shot upright, clutching the blanket to my chest like it would protect me. My bunny slippers—miraculously intact—dangled off the edge of the slab. And then he entered.
Lucian Drevane.
The Tyrant Alpha.
Every wolf in Lunareth feared him. Every reader of Blood Moon Requiem (aka me) knew he was the Big Bad destined to be defeated by Rowan Hale, the golden boy Alpha hero. Cold, merciless, bound to no one. That was Lucian’s entire brand.
And now here he was, standing in front of me.
No mud this time. No wild hunt in the woods. Just full black leather armor, polished buckles gleaming like fangs, a long coat draped across his shoulders like a mantle. He didn’t walk—he prowled. His every step said: I own this fortress. I own this world. I own you.
Three wolves padded at his heels, their pelts black as midnight, their eyes molten gold. They sat obediently at his boots, watching me with unnerving patience.
“Good,” Lucian said, voice like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “You wake.”
I squinted at him. “Congratulations, you’ve mastered observation. Gold star.”
One of the wolves growled.
Lucian didn’t even glance at it. “Leave us.”
The wolves obeyed, slinking out in silence. The door shut with a heavy thud, leaving me alone with him.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“Like a sardine in a murder dungeon, sure.”
His head tilted, silver eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were studying some strange new creature. “Still you think this is dream?”
“Yes,” I said way too quickly. “Obviously. Because if it’s not, then I’ve been isekai’d into a werewolf fanfic where the villain thinks kidnapping is foreplay. And frankly, my therapist doesn’t get paid enough for that.”
His lips curved. Not a smile. Not human. More like a wolf baring its teeth. “You speak much. Too much.”
“It’s a coping mechanism,” I shot back. “Some people stress-eat. I stress-sass.”
Lucian closed the distance between us with the patience of a predator. My back hit the wall, breath catching. He leaned in until his face was inches from mine, shadows clinging to him like armor.
“You are not wolf. Not human. Not dream.” His hand shot out, fingers gripping my chin, tilting my face up to his. His touch was rough, but not cruel. “You are mine.”
There it was again. Mine.
“I’m sorry,” I croaked. “Do you mean ‘mine’ as in adopt-a-pet program? Because let me warn you, I shed a lot and I don’t fetch.”
His thumb brushed my jaw. Sparks shot down my neck, burning, electric. My breath stuttered.
Nope. Nope nope nope. Not real. Couldn’t be.
“Why?” I whispered before I could stop myself. “Why me?”
Lucian’s gaze burned hotter, sharp with obsession. “The Moon marked you.”
The Moon? Oh no. Oh hell no. Creepy divine plot device, you and I are going to have words.
A knock rattled the door. “My king. The council awaits.”
Lucian’s grip lingered a beat longer before he straightened. “Do not leave this room. The pack hungers for your scent. They will tear you apart.”
Comforting.
Then he turned and swept out, the door slamming shut behind him.
Silence crushed me.
And in that silence, the truth I’d been dodging finally sank in.
“This isn’t a dream,” I whispered.
The words echoed against the stone, final and cruel.
I wasn’t waking up. This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t my world.
And Lucian Drevane had just claimed me.
I don’t know how long I sat there, knees hugged to my chest, listening to the torchlight crackle. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Long enough for panic to lose its edge and survival instinct to kick in.
And survival instinct said: Run.
I crept to the door, pressed my ear to it. Nothing but the faint, distant howls of wolves. Slowly, I twisted the handle. It gave. The door creaked open.
Hallway. Empty.
Black stone walls stretched endlessly, lit with torches. The air was heavy with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
“Great,” I muttered. “Creepy corridors. Just like Hogwarts, if Hogwarts had less charm and more homicide.”
Slippers squeaking faintly, I tiptoed into the hall. My every step echoed too loud. Every shadow looked alive. I turned a corner—
And froze.
Two guards. Towering. Armored. Their eyes glowed faintly, wolf and man stitched together.
Panic snapped through me. I darted sideways into the nearest doorway, heart in my throat.
The room beyond was vast, lined with tall windows draped in crimson. A long table stretched across the center, littered with maps, scrolls, silver goblets. War council vibes.
I ducked behind a pillar, peeking out. The guards didn’t follow. Thank the Moon.
“Okay, new plan,” I whispered. “Find exit. Run like hell. Pretend none of this ever—”
“Stay low.”
The voice came from right behind me.
I yelped, spun—only for a hand to clamp over my mouth and drag me fully behind the pillar.
“Quiet,” the stranger hissed.
And then I looked up.
Rowan Hale.
The noble Alpha of Silvermoon. The hero chosen by prophecy. My supposed mate in the original story.
My jaw nearly unhinged itself.
His storm-blue eyes were sharp, haunted. His hair, chestnut brown, tousled perfectly like some medieval shampoo commercial. His cloak was travel-stained, his scar catching the light, making him impossibly handsome in that tragic-prince way readers loved.
“Oh my god,” I muffled into his hand.
Rowan blinked, confused. He released me, eyes scanning quickly over my body. “Are you hurt?”
“Uh, emotionally? Yes. Physically? Not yet.”
His jaw tightened. He glanced toward the hall. “You shouldn’t be here. Do you know who holds you?”
“Tall, broody, serial-killer chic? Yeah, I noticed.”
For a moment, his eyes softened with concern. “You’re not safe. Lucian will not let go of what he claims.”
That word again. Claims.
“Good news,” I whispered. “I don’t exactly plan to stay for the murder-castle tour.”
Rowan extended his hand. His eyes locked with mine, steady, resolute. “Come with me. I’ll get you out.”
For a dizzy moment, I almost laughed. Here I was—Kiera, bookworm extraordinaire, sarcasm queen, allergic to cardio—and the story’s hero was offering me his hand like some knight out of a fairy tale.
But the echo of Lucian’s voice clawed at my mind. Mine. The sparks on my skin still burned faintly where he’d touched me.
Rowan was the mate fate gave me. Lucian was the mate fate rewrote.
And suddenly, I realized something horrifying:
I wasn’t just Aria Quinn anymore. I was Kiera-slash-Aria. Bonded to Rowan. Marked by Lucian.
The Luna of two alphas.
Which—last I checked—was not how the prophecy was supposed to go.
I stared at Rowan’s outstretched hand, heart racing.
Do I trust the hero? Do I run from the villain? Or has fate already rewritten the story around me?