Wolves don't ask twice

Steam curled around the marble tub as rose petals floated lazily across the surface. Eira sat still, spine straight, long hair cascading down her back like liquid fire. The warm water lapped at her collarbones, her skin flushed from the heat. Around her, three Omegas moved silently, washing her limbs with lavender-scented cloths and murmuring blessings meant to purify her.

She hated this part.

"You’ll make such a radiant Luna," one Omega whispered, brushing the back of Eira’s hand reverently. "The Goddess herself must’ve carved you from moonlight."

Eira gave a soft smile. Practiced. Polite. Hollow.

She’d been raised for this—pampered, protected, promised. The first daughter born under a blood moon in two generations. The prophecy child. The gift. The future Luna of the most powerful northern pack.

Promised to Alder.

The golden son of Alpha Thorne. Perfect in posture and principle. He had kissed her hand once at the summer solstice gathering. His lips were cold, his eyes colder.

She would be his in six days.

The Omegas began to hum a ritual hymn, the soft melody making her skin crawl. She glanced down at her wrists, pale and bare, soon to be marked by Alder’s claim. A part of her wanted to scream. Another part—a darker, hungrier part—ached for something else entirely. Something wild. Something wrong.

But that wasn’t allowed. Not for her.

So she sat still, let them finish their worship.

Later that night, when the halls were quiet and the candles burned low, Eira stood at her balcony window with the moonlight painting her in silver. She pressed her palms to the cold stone rail and let her breath fog in the night air.

She wasn’t running away. She never had. She was the good girl. The golden child. But sometimes—just sometimes—she needed to disappear. To slip out when no one was looking. To be unseen.

Her chamber door remained closed behind her. No one stirred. No one watched.

She slipped into a simple cloak, pulled the hood over her head, and padded softly down the hidden servant’s hall, her bare feet making no sound.

Outside, the night air bit at her skin, sharp and clean. The scent of pine and damp earth filled her lungs, steadied her. She crossed the edge of the village unnoticed and found the narrow trail that led into the trees. A path she’d taken a dozen times under moonlight.

Not to run.

To breathe.

The forest was her only refuge. The only place no one followed.

She moved slowly, fingers trailing over the bark of ancient trees, heart slowing with every step. Moss grew thick along the rocks, and small white flowers bloomed in secret patches like the forest’s whispers kept just for her.

Here, she wasn’t the Luna-to-be.

She was just Eira.

She reached the clearing—a small circle of soft grass surrounded by birch and cedar. A place she’d found as a child and never told anyone about. Moonlight spilled down like a blessing through the gaps in the canopy, turning the air to silver.

She sat in the center of the grass and tipped her head back to look at the stars. Her fingers dug into the soil beside her. She whispered the names of constellations beneath her breath.

Her body had been acting strange lately. Hot. Restless. She told herself it was nerves. Wedding jitters. But there were moments—usually in dreams—when she’d wake up gasping, thighs clenched, skin damp with sweat, and the sense that someone had touched her lingered.

Someone she’d never seen.

Someone her soul remembered even if her mind didn’t.

She’d stopped telling the priestess about those dreams weeks ago.

Now, she kept them locked inside. Sacred. Shameful.

Her fingers curled around a small rock by her knee, grounding herself. The wind shifted.

She paused.

Her breath caught, not from fear—but from that strange, humming feeling. Like something ancient brushed against her ribs. Like something just beyond the trees had opened its eyes.

She shook it off. Told herself it was nothing. Just the wind. Just the night.

But still, she didn’t leave. She stayed. Until the moon had climbed high and the chill had soaked into her bones. Only then did she rise, brush the leaves from her cloak, and quietly return home.

Unaware that far beyond the trees, something had stirred.

Something old.

Something waiting.

Back in her chambers, Eira lit a single candle and sat at her vanity, staring into the mirror. Her cheeks were pink, her pupils still dilated from the forest’s touch. She pressed her fingers to her lips as if she might find an answer there, in the tremble of her breath or the dryness of her mouth.

She didn’t understand what was happening to her. The priestess had spoken of sacred unions, of becoming one with her mate, of surrender. But none of it matched what she felt.

What she felt was hunger.

Not for Alder.

Not for safety or status or the future she’d been promised.

But for something untamed. For something that would ruin her before it saved her.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and whispered a name she didn’t know.

Not yet.

But her bones knew it. Her blood knew it.

And the forest, silent and watching, knew it too.

Eira didn’t sleep. She lay on her side in bed, the thin linen sheets tangled around her legs, her skin prickled with memory. She still felt the grass beneath her knees, the hush of trees overhead, the pulse of the earth pressed against her palms. The stillness here—within stone walls and carved ceilings—felt like a cage by comparison.

A single moth fluttered against the glass of her bedroom window. She stared at it, transfixed. Drawn to the way it longed for the light. Fragile. Desperate. Reckless.

She knew that kind of yearning.

When she finally closed her eyes, she dreamed again. But this time the dream was clearer. No faceless shadow. No vague ache.

He was there.

A man standing in the clearing she loved. Tall. Bare-chested. The glow of moonlight etched his body in silver. His eyes didn’t glow, but they held hers like they burned. He said nothing. Just reached for her.

And she went to him.

She woke with her lips parted and the faintest sound escaping her throat. Not a name. Not a word.

A whimper.