Lyra Thorne had never believed in fate.
She believed in survival. In the ache of empty pockets, the sting of rain on cracked skin, and the way the world narrowed when you were alone. At twenty-three, she had learned to move quietly through the edges of towns, taking odd jobs, avoiding eyes that lingered too long.
Tonight, the mist clung to her like a second skin as she hiked the old logging trail toward Blackthorn Ridge. The village below Harrow's End had finally run out of patience with her. "Trouble follows you," the innkeeper had snarled, tossing her last wages into the mud. "And trouble's got teeth up there."
He meant the mountains. The forbidden stretch where no one went after dusk. Stories of wolves bigger than horses, of eyes that glowed like dying coals, of people who vanished and returned… changed.
Lyra didn't care about stories. She cared about the strange pull in her chest that had started three nights ago—a low hum, like distant thunder inside her ribs. It grew louder the closer she got to the ridge.
She stopped at the treeline, breath fogging. The mist swirled thicker here, almost alive. Shadows stretched unnaturally long despite the half-moon overhead.
Then she heard it.
Whispers.
Not wind through leaves. Not her imagination. Words. Soft, layered, overlapping like a choir of ghosts.
Come… closer…
Lyra froze. Her hand tightened on the strap of her worn satchel. The whispers weren't loud, but they were inside her—sliding along her nerves, warm and insistent.
He waits… the one who is yours…
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She should run. Back down the trail, back to the village, back to pretending she was normal.
Instead, she stepped forward.
One step. Two. The mist parted like silk, revealing a narrow path that hadn't been there moments ago.
And then she saw him.
A man—no, not quite a man—stood at the edge of a moonlit clearing. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark leather that seemed to drink the light. His hair was midnight black, falling past his shoulders. But it was his eyes that stopped her breath.
Golden. Glowing. Predatory.
He turned slowly, as if he'd felt her before she arrived.
The whispers exploded.
A thousand voices at once, ecstatic, desperate, hungry.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Lyra staggered, clutching her chest. Heat flooded her liquid fire racing through veins, pooling low in her belly. Her skin prickled as if invisible fingers traced her arms, her throat, her lips.
The man alpha, her mind supplied unbidden took one step toward her.
The world tilted.
Something snapped into place between them, invisible but unbreakable. A thread of shadow and starlight, binding heart to heart.
Mate.
The word echoed in her skull, not hers, but his. Deep, gravel-rough, furious.
"No," he growled aloud. His voice carried power, the kind that made trees shiver. "Not possible."
Lyra's legs trembled, but she lifted her chin. "What the hell did you just do to me?"
He stalked closer, every movement controlled violence. Up close, he was devastating sharp jaw, high cheekbones, a scar slicing through one brow. But those eyes… they burned with something darker than desire.
"I did nothing," he said, voice low and lethal. "The Goddess did this. And she has a twisted sense of humor."
The whispers softened, coiling around them like smoke.
Touch him… taste him… claim him…
Lyra's fingers twitched. She hated how badly she wanted to obey.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Kael Voss." He spoke the name like a curse. "Alpha of the Shadowfang Pack. And you… are a mistake."
The word stung more than it should.
Lyra laughed, sharp and bitter. "Story of my life."
Kael's gaze raked over her dirty boots, threadbare cloak, tangled dark hair. Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Pity?
"Leave," he ordered. "Now. Before the bond settles."
"I didn't ask for this," Lyra snapped. "I was just trying to"
A howl shattered the night distant, but closing fast. Not Kael's pack. Rivals.
Kael's head snapped toward the sound. "Shadowclaws," he muttered. "They scent the bond already."
He grabbed her wrist. Electricity arced between them, sharp and sweet. Lyra gasped.
"Run," he commanded. "Or die."
But he didn't let go.
Instead, he pulled her deeper into the mist, shadows swallowing them whole.