The tavern was too loud, too hot, and reeking of sweat and ale — perfect for disappearing. Aria didn't belong here, not with her scholar's robes smelling faintly of parchment and ink, but tonight, she didn't want to belong. She wanted to forget.
Forget the months of grief. Forget the ache of being invisible to the world around her. Forget how many times she had swallowed her own rage just to survive in a city that offered no mercy to anyone without a pack or name.
She downed her third drink. The burn was sharp. Good. Her vision swam. Even better.
Then he walked in.
The crowd parted around him like wolves sensing a stronger predator. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a dark coat that smelled of night rain and pine, his eyes a sharp silver that cut through shadow. Aria felt it before she saw him—his presence, curling through the smoky air like a challenge.
He didn't look at anyone. He didn't need to.
He moved like he owned the ground he walked on.
"Who the hell is that?" someone whispered near her.
"Alpha Ryker. From the southern borderlands. Rogue, they say."
"A killer."
Aria's pulse jumped.
She should've looked away. Should've slipped back into the crowd. But her gaze held his like a dare.
And the moment their eyes locked, the air thickened—tangible, electric, wrong and right all at once.
His nostrils flared. His attention sharpened.
She'd seen men like him before, or thought she had — arrogant, brooding, used to obedience and blood. But Ryker looked like he'd burned through kingdoms just for fun and didn't care if he had to do it again. He looked like the kind of man a girl should never want.
Aria couldn't look away.
Neither could he.
He didn't walk to her.
He stalked.
People faded from around her as he came, every step a question she couldn't answer. Her fingers tightened around the empty glass.
When he reached her, he didn't speak.
He just looked at her with those storm-gray eyes and said, "Come."
Her breath caught. She should've said no.
But her body didn't obey logic. It obeyed heat. Hunger. Recklessness.
She stood and followed him.
No one stopped her. No one dared.
The inn upstairs was cheap and badly lit, the bed creaking under even the weight of a breath.
She didn't care.
The door slammed shut. He leaned against it, watching her with that unreadable expression, as if tasting her scent on the air and finding it maddening.
"You're not from here," he said finally.
"No."
"You're not afraid."
"Should I be?"
A flicker of something passed over his face. Not amusement. Something darker.
"Always," he said.
Then he was on her.
The kiss was not gentle. Not sweet. His mouth claimed hers like a storm breaking across dry land, his hands gripping her waist, sliding into her hair, fisting it hard enough to sting. She gasped into him, and he took that too — every sound, every hesitation, swallowed whole.
He smelled like pine and smoke and something wilder — something inhuman.
He wasn't holding back.
Neither was she.
Clothes tore. Her shirt was gone before she even realized. His coat hit the floor. Her fingers dragged down the hard planes of his chest, his scars like raised stories beneath her palms. He bit her lower lip, and she arched into him, nails raking down his back.
"You don't even know my name," she whispered against his mouth.
"Don't need it." His voice was gravel and hunger.
And somehow, that made her want.
The room was cold. He was hot. Fire branded her where he touched, his hands rough, commanding, cruel in the way only someone holding themselves back too long could be.
He shoved her against the wall, lifted her with a growl, and sank his teeth into her throat — not enough to break skin, but close. Her entire body clenched.
"You're burning," he muttered. "What are you?"
"None of your damn business."
A dangerous smile spread across his face. "Oh, little girl. You made it my business the moment you looked at me like that."
She slapped him. Hard.
He laughed. Actually laughed.
Then slammed her against the wall again and kissed her like punishment.
She moaned, melting and raging all at once.
And when he buried himself inside her — gods, so deep she saw stars — it wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful.
It was war.
Every thrust was a battle, a dare, a promise and a curse. She clawed at his shoulders, bit his throat, wrapped her legs around him like shackles. He pinned her wrists above her head and snarled something in a language she didn't recognize. His eyes had gone full wolf — silver and glowing, unearthly.
She welcomed it. Welcomed him.
They didn't break the bed.
They destroyed it
And when they collapsed in the ruins of it, sweat-slicked and gasping, his hand still tangled in her hair and her legs still trembling from aftershocks, the silence between them was not peaceful.
It was tense.
Because even sated, his eyes were cold again.
The wolf was retreating.
And the man underneath was all teeth.
"You should leave before dawn," he said.
She sat up slowly, heart still hammering. "You always throw your conquests out before breakfast?"
He looked away. "I don't make room for things that stay."
Aria stood, naked and furious. "You could've fooled me. With all that 'I'm going to ruin you' energy, I thought maybe you actually gave a damn."
"I don't," he said.
And maybe he meant it. But his jaw was too tight. His hand too clenched.
She dressed in silence.
When she left, he didn't follow.
Two moons passed.
Aria didn't look for him. She didn't even whisper his name. Not once.
But the ache lingered — not in her body, but in the strange weight below her ribs. Something off. Something wrong.
The sickness started small — dizziness, nausea in the morning, an odd smell sensitivity. At first, she blamed stress. Or magic. She worked in the Archive, buried in ancient texts and relics that hummed with energy.
But then the dreams began — dreams of silver eyes and teeth, of forests and the sound of howling.
And then her heat came. Early. Fierce. Wrong.
Her friend Mira noticed first.
"You smell different," she said. "Like soil. Like… wolf."
"I'm not a shifter."
"Maybe not. But something's changed. Are you—?"
"No."
Mira's brow arched. "When was your last cycle?"
Aria didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Mira's face softened. "You need to see the healer."
"I know."
The healer confirmed it. Quietly. Kindly.
"You're with child," she said. "It's… early, but strong. But there's something else."
"What?"
"She's not fully human."
Aria's hands went cold.
She.
The healer nodded. "There's a latent power in her. Ancient. Wild. Like the old packs."
Aria stood too quickly. "Thank you."
"Aria—"
But she was already out the door.
She didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
She ran.
Not to him. Never to him.
But to the place where it happened. The tavern. The room.
She stood in its shadow, breathing hard.
It had been one night.
One stupid night.
And now—
A growl ripped through the air.
She spun, hand glowing with defensive magic.
He was there.
Ryker.
Leaning against the corner of the alley, watching her like he hadn't moved in days.
She hadn't felt him approach.
But his scent hit her like a punch to the chest — pine, smoke, something darker.
He looked the same. No, worse. Wilder. Unshaved. Unclean. Eyes like ash and fury.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
He stepped closer.
"I could ask you the same."
She narrowed her eyes. "You followed me."
"I didn't have to. I could smell you a mile away."
"Great. You've got a sensitive nose. I'm not in the mood, Ryker."
But he kept walking until they were inches apart.
And then he said it.
Low. Gruff. With something almost like shock in his voice.
"You're carrying my child."
She froze.
Her body knew it before her mind accepted it. Her pulse pounded, magic coiling tight.
"I didn't tell you."
"I didn't need you to."
His hand hovered — just inches from her belly — but didn't touch.
"I can smell her," he murmured. "She smells like you. And me."
Aria stared at him. "So what? You came to kill it?"
The snarl that tore from him made the bricks shake.
"Never," he growled. "You think I'd hurt something that's mine?"
"You made it very clear you don't care about things that stay."
He flinched.
Good.
"I didn't know," he said. "If I had—"
"What? What would you have done, Ryker?"
He didn't answer.
But his eyes burned with something new.
Possessiveness. Rage. Fear.
And… wonder?
"Leave," she said.
"No."
"I don't need you."
"But the baby does."
Aria's lip curled. "Don't pretend you give a damn."
"I don't pretend," he said. "But I'm not leaving."
She turned to walk away.
He followed.
She whirled. "I said—!"
"I heard you." His voice was low. Controlled. "But I felt her. Inside you. And something in me won't let me walk away."
Aria stared at him, her heart cracking.
And in that silence, the truth between them finally bloomed.
Something had already changed.
And it was only the beginning.