Chapter 4 Possessive Shadow
The next morning.
Elara jolted awake, gasping, her body trembling. The dream clung to her like smoke.
She had been a child again, running through the packhouse with Draven, Cierce, and Rylan. Draven tossed her into the air.
“Catch me!” she laughed, the sound light and free.
Cierce tripped over a rug and tumbled, giggling.
Rylan barked a laugh, chasing a stray stick across the floor.
Then it twisted.
Draven’s face darkened. His hand slammed down on her shoulder.
“No! Sit still!”
Cierce doubled over with laughter, clapping her hands.
Rylan froze, staring at her as though he had no part in it.
Her chest tightened until she could barely breathe. She screamed in the dream, thrashing and fighting for air but the nightmare refused to release her. Laughter and anger bled together, loud and merciless, pressing in from all sides.
Then she woke.
Tears slid down her temples into her hair. Her body felt heavy. Every muscle ached as if she’d been beaten again in her sleep. The wolfsbane still burned faintly in her veins, a dull, lingering fire, and when she shifted, old bruises flared awake, sharp and unforgiving. She curled in on herself, breathing through it, trying not to make a sound.
“Looks like someone had a… vivid morning,” Draven’s voice cut through the room.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t have the strength to. Instead, she traced the lines of her injuries with trembling fingers.
Draven’s jaw clenched. His fists tightened, then relaxed again. A memory surfaced, unbidden: the first day his father had brought her home. Silent, still, unblinking, she had looked at him with the same defiance, even then. He had felt something protective stir inside him. Back then, he had become the big brother she never had, shielding her when no one else would.
He shook the thought away, forcing a smirk. “Since I’m feeling generous today, you’ll have breakfast. Wouldn’t want my mate to starve, now would we?”
After a brief moment of silence, Elara’s voice came out small, almost a whisper. “Why… why didn’t you just kill me all these years?”
Draven froze. His fist lifted halfway, then hovered, trembling slightly. He didn’t answer at once. Her question hit him harder than he expected. Memories of her as a child, small and silent, flashed through his mind. He had never killed her. Never hurt her beyond what the bond demanded. He had cared, in his own way.
“I…” he started, voice low, clipped, unsure. “I don’t recall-” He swallowed hard. “-giving you permission to speak.”
Before he could continue, a sharp mind-link buzzed. Rylan’s tense voice cut through his thoughts.
“The Lycan King is at the border!”
Draven’s chest tightened. “I thought he rejected an audience with us earlier… why now?”
“How would I know?” Rylan’s reply was curt.
A cold unease crept into him. He muttered aloud, “Someone!”
A lady appeared instantly, tray in hand. Elara blinked in disbelief.
“No poison,” Draven said curtly, snorting. “Eat. Get cleaned. Now.”
She hesitated. Nine years of cruelty, and now this? He had been the devil incarnate for almost a decade, and suddenly… he was almost… human?
As Draven turned to leave, he called sharply, “Cierce”
——
Beyond the Northwood gates, the Lycan King’s convoy rolled across the muddy road, black and sleek under the rising moon. Inside the lead vehicle, Ronan sat still, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. His hands gripped the armrest hard enough to make the leather creak.
Matthew, his Beta, shot him a side glance. “You felt it again, didn’t you?”
Ronan’s gaze flicked toward the window. “Mild this time.”
“Pain?”
“No,” he murmured, his tone unreadable. “It’s… pulling at me.”
His wolf stirred restlessly under his skin, pacing and growling. The pull in his chest grew stronger with each passing mile.
When the car stopped before the Northwood mansion, the pull didn’t subside, it intensified.
Ronan exhaled slowly. “She’s here.”
Matthew frowned. “You’re certain?”
Ronan’s eyes glowed faintly gold. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
At the mansion gates, Draven stood waiting with Rylan. Both of them bowed so low it almost looked like groveling. Even from afar, Draven’s hands were trembling. When the Lycan King stepped out, the air thickened instantly. Power rolled off him in heavy waves. Every wolf present dropped their gaze instinctively, as though staring too long would burn them.
Ronan was everything the rumors promised. Tall, broad-shouldered, cold, divine. His aura didn’t merely command, it subjugated. And every wolf there felt the silent truth of the stories whispered through the realms: his bloodline was blessed directly by the Moon Goddess.
Draven forced a smile through clenched teeth. “Y-Your Highness… what an honor to-”
“Apologies for the sudden visit,” Ronan interrupted softly, his tone cutting like frost. “I was just passing by.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. No offense taken.”
Ronan gave a single nod and walked past him, Matthew close behind. The mansion doors opened on their own as servants scrambled out of the way.
Inside, Draven led them to his grand hall, where scented candles burned and trays of wine lined the table. But Ronan didn’t sit. He stood by the tall windows, golden eyes scanning the compound beyond. His aura pressed down like gravity itself, heavy and suffocating.
“Your pack seems smaller than I remember,” he said without turning.
Draven swallowed hard. “We… We've had a few territorial issues, Your Highness. Rogues-”
“Rogues don’t leave marks like these.” Ronan gestured at faint claw scars across the marble columns. “Those are from wolves. Your own.”
Draven’s throat tightened. “Just training accidents.”
Ronan finally turned his head slightly, enough for Draven to see the faintest twitch of amusement in his eyes. “Of course.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Finally, Matthew cleared his throat. “His Highness will like a tour of the environment while the rooms are prepared.”
“Ah, yes!” Draven said too quickly. “It would be my honor to lead the tour while you wait, but wouldn’t it be best if you actually rested in-”
“I’ll take the tour,” Ronan said flatly before he could finish. “Now.”
Draven blinked. “You… wish to see the grounds personally?”
“Yes.” Ronan’s tone left no room for argument. “A walk helps me think.”
His gaze shifted slightly, as though distracted by something far away. “There’s… something about this place.” He thought.
Draven forced a laugh. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll-”
Cierce stepped forward suddenly, her red gown glinting under the chandelier. Her smile was sweet poison. “If Your Highness permits, I’d be delighted to give you the tour myself. Alpha Draven is busy, and…”
Matthew’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “No.”
Cierce froze, startled.
“The Alpha,” Matthew said coldly, “will lead the tour himself.”
Draven’s stomach sank. He glanced briefly at Cierce, who lowered her gaze with a nervous flicker. Her confidence wilted under the Beta’s glare.
Ronan said nothing. He had already started walking toward the doors, his steps measured, silent.
Draven scrambled to follow, sending a quick mind-link to Cierce, “Did you hide her scent?”
Her voice came back smooth but tense. “The potion took effect an hour ago. The east wing smells like decay and ash now. Even the goddess herself wouldn’t recognize that space.”
Draven exhaled shakily. “Decay and ash? What the hell are you trying to do? He’s not someone we can play with!”
Cierce’s lips tightened as she watched the King disappear through the doors. “He doesn’t scare me.”
But that was a lie and they both knew it. Everyone in that house was terrified of him.
Outside, the tour began.
Ronan walked silently beside Draven, his gaze flicking from building to building. Every movement of his head was slow, deliberate. He didn’t speak, but his expression darkened the further they went.
The deeper they moved into the compound, the stronger the ache in his chest became. It pulsed beneath his ribs like a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.
He paused abruptly, glancing toward the eastern wing. “What’s below that hall?” he asked.
Draven’s steps faltered. “Below? Ah- ah, nothing important, Your Majesty. Old storage. We keep… training materials there. Chains. Silver restraints. Old relics.”
“Silver.” Ronan’s tone was soft but dangerous.
“F–for training, of course,” Draven stammered.
Ronan didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed as he looked toward the ground. The pain came again. For a heartbeat, his wolf pushed forward, desperate. She’s close. But when Ronan inhaled deeply to track the scent, what he caught was wrong. It wasn’t the soft sweetness that had haunted his dreams for months, it was rot. Ash. Poison. A stench that clawed at his senses.
He frowned, stepping back slightly. The confusion in his expression was brief but visible. “Something reeks here.”
Draven’s heart leapt into his throat. “Ah, yes, my lord, the lower quarters are under renovation. It could be mold, perhaps…”
Ronan turned his head toward him sharply, golden eyes glinting. “You think mold smells like blood and decay?”
Draven froze. Sweat dripped from his brow. “I-I beg your pardon…”
The King’s aura flared briefly, washing over him like pressure from a storm front. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“N-no, Your Highness!” Draven bowed quickly, trembling. “Forgive me… I spoke poorly.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Matthew shifted uneasily, ready to intervene if his King’s temper broke. But Ronan simply inhaled again, long and deep. The scent stung, unnatural. It hid something beneath it. Something faint and painfully familiar but every time he reached for it, the rot choked it away.
He stepped back, letting the tension fade from his posture. “Your pack needs cleansing, Alpha.”
Draven blinked. “C–cleansing?”
“There’s corruption in the air,” Ronan said quietly, still staring at the eastern hall. “I can smell it.”
His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. “And something beneath it is crying.”
The words made Draven’s blood run cold.
Matthew stepped forward. “Your Majesty, perhaps we should retire until the rooms are ready.”
Ronan’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the east wing, his wolf still growling inside him, restless and hungry. Finally, he turned away. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
As soon as the King and his entourage disappeared into the mansion, Draven’s mask cracked. His hands shook. He spun toward Cierce, who had been waiting in the corridor. “You nearly got us killed!” he hissed.
Cierce crossed her arms, feigning calm. “You’re overreacting.”
“He is not dumb,” Draven snapped. “He felt something. That man’s tied to the goddess herself. If he ever finds out what we’ve been doing, Northwood will be dust!”
“He won’t find out,” Cierce shot back. “The potion worked. He didn’t even flinch at her scent. Besides, I don’t see how it is his business what we do to that bitch.”
Draven dragged a hand down his face. “You don’t understand. His kind doesn’t need a scent. They feel through the bond of the moon. If he’s here, it’s not a coincidence. And it is against the shifter laws to wrongly imprison another shifter.”
Cierce’s lips curved slightly. “Then maybe fate’s on our side. She’s still alive, isn’t she? Besides, she’s not entirely a shifter.”
He glared. “Barely.”
“Then, we’ll keep her that way,” she said, turning on her heel. “At least until the King leaves.”
Draven didn’t respond. His wolf was pacing, ears flat. Something deep inside him whispered that they had just danced too close to death.
—
That afternoon, sunlight slanted through the tall windows of the Northwood mansion, casting long patterns across the polished floors. Ronan stood silently by the window, shoulders rigid, golden eyes fixed on the east wing. The ache in his chest hadn’t faded. It was faint now, like a ghost of pain echoing from a bond strained yesterday.
“She’s close,” he murmured to himself.
Matthew stepped in quietly. “You still feel it?”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. “Yes. But… It's distorted. Weak. I can’t find her.”
“Perhaps the bond’s being dulled,” Matthew suggested carefully.
Ronan’s gaze flickered gold in the sunlight. “Dulled? Who would dare touch the bond of the Moon Goddess?”
He turned his eyes back toward the east wing, expression unreadable, tense.
“Wherever she is,” he said softly, almost to himself, “she’s reaching out. She’s… calling.”