Chapter 65 The Symphony of Scent 2
"You—" Elara started, but her words died in her throat.
Draven’s eyes dropped, coming to rest on the silver necklace at her throat. His expression shifted from mockery to a sharp, dangerous recognition. He had seen that necklace before. It was the same one worn by the masked woman who had arrived at the Northwood ball at Ronan's side. It was the same one the masked fighter had worn while humilitating Pandora.
"That necklace..." he muttered, his eyes flashing with a sudden, jagged realization. "You... you little bitch. You were there. You were right in front of me the whole time."
With a violent, predatory snarl, his hand shot up and yanked the chain. The silver snapped, falling into the dirt with a dull thud.
The effect was instantaneous.
Elara’s true scent that was previously locked away behind a wall of ancient magic finally exploded into the air. It wasn't just the smell of a wolf; it was the intoxicating, high-frequency aroma of a Tribrid. Wild forest, cold ozone, and the sweet, dark lure of vampire blood flooded Draven's senses.
Draven staggered back, his eyes blowing wide as his wolf, Varkai, let out a deafening howl of hunger within his mind. He clutched his head for a moment, reeling from the sheer power of it. "What... what is this?" he gasped, his nose twitching as he inhaled the scent that filled the entire camp. "The necklace... it was masking you."
He clapped his hands, a manic, terrifying grin spreading across his face. "This is perfect! Now I must take you back. I will mark you and officially make you mine!"
Elara slapped him, her silver-red eyes glowing with a sudden, violent intensity. "I am not going with you! I am not your mate!"
Her aura exploded, a suffocating mix of energy that made the grass beneath their feet wither. Draven raised his hand to grab her again, but the air turned bone-chillingly cold.
Ronan stepped into the clearing, his eyes glowing a lethal mix of red and gold. "I would be very careful what you do with that hand if I were you, Draven," he said, his voice a low, vibrating promise of death.
Draven scoffed, though he took a half-step back as Ronan’s aura began to crush the air out of his lungs. Elara moved quickly, stepping toward Ronan and seeking the safety of his solid frame.
"It’s okay," she whispered, though she was still visibly shaking.
Ronan ignored Draven, his gaze falling to the red fingermarks on Elara’s chin and neck. The pressure he released became so overbearing that Draven actually coughed up a spray of blood.
"I'm okay, really," Elara squeaked, her voice small.
Draven smiled dangerously, wiping his lip. "She is my mate, Ronan. It is against the rules for you to—"
"It is also against the rules to wrongfully imprison and torture a shifter," Ronan countered. "What would the other Alphas think if Northwood’s secrets were presented at court?"
Draven’s jaw tightened. He knew he was trapped.
Elara, meanwhile, felt a tear finally roll down her cheek. This was the first time someone had ever truly stood up to her tormentor.
"People are looking," Elara whispered, nudging him again.
Ronan immediately withdrew the crushing weight of his aura. "Be careful, Draven," he warned. "You are in Lycan territory."
Draven stood up, his eyes burning with a promise of future revenge.
Ronan turned his full attention back to Elara, and for the first time, he realized she was standing in the middle of the camp wearing nothing but a thin night robe. His face heated up with a mixture of embarrassment and rage as his gaze swept over her.
"Why are you wearing..." He cleared his throat, unable to finish the sentence.
Elara looked down, her innocence suddenly replaced by a wave of mortification. "I wanted to find you," she said softly as she tried to cover herself. "To apologize for how I acted. I was willing to..."
She stopped, realizing how much skin was showing.
Liora immediately ran forward, draping the heavy robe over her shoulders. "Thank you," Elara muttered, her head hanging low.
Before she could say anything, Ronan turned to glare at Liora and Faye. "Why did you let her leave the tent like this?"
Ronan narrowed his eyes at the maids, and they fell to their knees. "We are sorry, Your Highness. We failed."
"No, no!" Elara interjected. "I ran out before they could stop me! It wasn't their fault."
In a swift, fluid motion, Ronan reached down and swept Elara up into a bridal carry, earning another yelp of surprise from her. "If you will excuse us," he said to the lingering Draven as well as the crowd, "I have to attend to my guest."
Liora and Faye followed in tow as Ronan strode back toward his tent.
Her fingers subconsciously brushed the skin of his neck. She gulped, her new fangs threatening to burst from her gums.
"Are you thirsty?" Ronan asked softly.
She blinked, startled. "Sorry, what?"
"Your eyes," he smiled, his voice gentle. "They are turning red."
"Oh... I'm not..." Elara immediately shut her eyes and turned her head away. "I’m sure they aren't pretty. Don't look at them."
Ronan paused in his tracks. He shifted his grip, holding her closer. "No matter the color of your eyes, Elara, they will always be pretty to me."
She blushed fiercely but kept her eyes shut, earning a low chuckle that she felt vibrate through his entire frame. She leaned into the embrace, realizing that now that Draven had seen her and she had shifted, the mask was gone forever. No more hiding.
But while Elara felt a fleeting moment of peace, a storm was brewing deep within Ronan’s marrow. Ever since her shift, the dark energy sealed within his bloodline had been scratching at the walls of its prison. His eyes flickered uncontrollably, dancing between gold, red, and a bottomless, abyssal black. He clenched his jaw, fighting to keep the beast contained, but a new, ancient voice rang through his mind.
It didn't belong to Fenrir.
"I am awake."