Chapter 42 42
MARIGOLD POV
I honestly thought I was being dramatic. Really. I mean, who wouldn’t? Alpha Gregor expensive villa, private chef, silk sheets, Alpha Gregor himself hovering like an oversized storm cloud whenever I so much as blinked… it should’ve been paradise. And for the most part, it was. Except for that.
That feeling.
Call me naïve, call me paranoid, call me whatever you like, but my wolf doesn’t lie. Wolves don’t do subtle. When something’s wrong, the hackles rise and the world smells like copper and shadows. And for the past few days, the villa had been a festival of copper and shadows.
It started small — a ribbon on my sleeve that I didn’t remember tying. A seedpod in my jewelry box. A spoon set at the wrong angle at breakfast. Little things. Annoying things. Creepy things. Things that would make a normal girl roll her eyes and blame clumsy staff.
But my wolf? She wasn’t rolling her eyes. She was growling.
The air had changed too. Heavy. Thick. Like someone had boiled the night down into a broth of stale breath and killing intent. I’d step out onto the balcony at dawn and feel it brushing my skin, sticky and invisible, like spider threads. Whoever it was — whatever it was — they were good. Very good. Because even with my heightened senses, I couldn’t pin it down. No scent. No face. Just a watching.
I tried to laugh it off. Honestly. I even told Sugar, “Maybe we have a ghost gardener? Some lovesick horticultural poltergeist leaving me seedpods as a courtship ritual.” She didn’t even blink — just smirked, flicked her tablet, and said, “If it’s a ghost, I hope it knows how to do laundry.” Classic Sugar.
But inside? My wolf was pacing. Snapping. Pushing at the edges of my mind like a caged storm.
Last night was the breaking point. I’d woken up in the middle of the night — you know, the witching hour, the one where shadows look like hands. My curtains had been drawn tight when I went to sleep. When I woke up, they were open. Wide open. The moonlight hit my bed like a spotlight. And on the nightstand? A single dried rose petal.
Nope. Absolutely not.
That morning I marched straight to Gregor. Not walked. Not glided like a proper future princess. Marched. Silk robe swishing, hair unbrushed, wolf practically howling in my skull because I know, King’s people were hovering around like bees. I still have to act like Margaux.
He was in his office going over some papers with that scowl of his. It’s his default expression, but today it went from thundercloud to full-on hurricane the second he saw my face.
“I’m not saying there’s a stalker,” I started, hands on hips. “But there’s definitely a stalker.”
His eyes snapped up. “What?”
I launched into the whole story — the ribbons, the seedpods, the spoon, the creepy curtains, the petal. “I mean, if it’s your idea of a romantic theme for the villa, Gregor, ten out of ten for effort, but minus a million for execution. You’re giving me haunted gothic novel, not royal bride.”
His jaw flexed so hard I swear the desk creaked. “No one touches what’s mine,” he growled, voice low enough to vibrate through the floorboards.
“Oh, good,” I said, throwing up my hands. “We’re in possessive Alpha mode. Great. Love that for us. But while you’re posturing, can you fix it? Because if I find one more mystery seedpod in my jewelry box I’m going to start sleeping with a crossbow.”
He didn’t even snap back. That’s how I knew he was serious. Gregor snapped at everything. He was already reaching for his phone, his eyes gone icy with command.
Within an hour the entire villa was crawling with his men — every guard double-checked, every servant interrogated, every window inspected. Sugar was relocated to my side like a tiny, sassy bodyguard. Gregor personally prowled the halls like a storm, scenting the air, snapping questions, and looking like he’d personally tear the roof off to find whoever was messing with me.
And I… watched.
Because as much as I wanted to pretend this was all in my head, it wasn’t. My wolf was practically snarling into the walls. I could feel it — a presence, male, sharp, obsessive, like a thorn under my skin. Whoever was doing this, they weren’t just watching. They were planning.
And that made me furious.
They thought I was still Margaux — the pampered brat, the naive little royal pawn. They thought they could creep around my villa leaving their weird breadcrumb trail and I wouldn’t smell blood in it.
Oh, honey.
I’m Marigold.
I’m the Dark Warrior Wolf whose name they’re too scared to even say in my own family.
If this stalker thinks they’re hunting prey, they’re about to learn what it feels like to be the one hunted.
And when Gregor finds him — oh, I’ll be right there. Watching. Smiling. Maybe even thanking him for the seedpods before I let my wolf show him exactly what she does to creeps in the dark.
GREGOR POV
The second she told me what she felt, my wolf went wild.
Not the restless kind of wild. Not the pacing and huffing that came whenever Leon got too close to her. This was deeper. Primal. Protective. A snarl rising straight from the marrow of my bones.
Someone was watching her.
I’d tasted enough hunts, enough battlefields, enough war to recognize the signature of killing intent when it lingers in the air. The bastard had cloaked his scent well—too well. Herbs, ash, maybe even wolfsbane rubbed into his skin. Whoever it was knew what he was doing. That narrowed my list of suspects by a dangerous degree.
I stalked the villa like a storm with teeth.
Every corridor, every balcony, every garden path. Maids ducked their heads as I passed, their hands trembling on trays. Guards stiffened like they’d swallowed spears, desperate not to draw my fury. Sugar had the nerve to smirk and mutter, “Alpha Gregor in prowling mode, better hide your favorite teacups.”
I ignored her. For now.
The gardens drew me the most. Too neat. Too new.
I crouched in the rose beds, running a hand over the soil. Freshly turned. Not by my men—they were trained not to disturb the grounds unless I ordered it. And the gardeners? All loyal wolves vetted by my pack.
Except one.
My eyes narrowed.
Two weeks ago, we’d taken on an extra hand for the villa expansion. A transfer from another pack—or so the papers claimed. He’d been quiet, efficient. Too quiet. Too efficient. He wore gloves in the summer heat, always kept his head down, never lingered near the others.
And the soil here—this wasn’t pruning. This was hiding.
I rose slowly, my wolf pressing against the surface of my skin, fur rippling just beneath. My claws ached to extend. My teeth itched to bare.
The bastard was here. Somewhere close. Masking his scent, blending in, thinking he could outmaneuver me under my own roof.
I followed the trail around the villa’s outer walls, eyes scanning. A faint indentation in the earth. Too heavy to be a rabbit. Too light to be a guard on patrol. But deliberate. Careful. The kind of careful that comes from stalking prey.
Her.
Every instinct in me roared. Whoever this was, they weren’t just curious. They weren’t just lurking. They were obsessed. Hunting her the way a starving wolf hunts its last meal.
My wolf snapped its jaws in my skull. Kill. Tear. Rip.
Not yet. Not until I knew who. Not until I dragged him into the open.
But a memory hit me then, sharp as a knife. A name. A face.