The trees of Lugh's Claw here were taller, their branches gnarled and twisted, as if they'd borne witness to centuries of bloodshed and defiance. Declan's grip on her arm was firm but not cruel, guiding her through the undergrowth with a purpose that left no room for argument. His warriors, Conall and Niall, had vanished into the shadows, their presence marked only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the snap of a twig.
Saoirse's legs burned with exhaustion, but she forced herself to keep pace. She had no choice. The howls of Cillian's warriors were a relentless tide, drawing ever closer.
Declan didn't speak as he led her deeper into his territory, his silence a wall she couldn't breach. She stole glances at him, trying to read the man fate had bound her to. His profile was sharp and unyielding, like the cliffs she'd once seen along the western coast of Ireland. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed ahead, but she could feel the tension radiating from him. The mate bond thrummed between them, a thread of fire and instinct that neither could ignore, though it was clear he wanted to.
They reached a clearing dominated by a towering oak, its roots sprawling across the ground like the veins of the earth itself. Declan released her arm, stepping back to survey the area. His gaze swept over her briefly, assessing, before he turned to the shadows.
"Conall," he called, his voice low but commanding.
A figure emerged from the darkness-a man with auburn hair and a lean, wiry frame. His eyes, sharp and golden, flickered to Saoirse before settling on Declan. "They're close," he said, his tone clipped. "Six of them, maybe more. Moving fast."
Declan nodded, his expression darkening. "Take Niall and hold the eastern flank. Buy us time."
Conall hesitated, his gaze darting to Saoirse again. "You sure about this, Declan? She's-"
"Go," Declan snapped, cutting him off. Conall pressed his lips into a thin line but obeyed, disappearing back into the forest.
Saoirse shifted uncomfortably under Declan's scrutiny as he turned to her. The weight of his presence pressed against her, and the bond flared, urging her closer. She resisted, crossing her arms over her chest. "I didn't ask for your help," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I just needed to get away."
Declan's eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. "You didn't ask, but you've got it now, whether you like it or not. And you've dragged my pack into your mess." His voice was low, dangerous, but there was something else beneath it-something raw. "Do you even know what you've done?"
She bristled at his tone, her omega instincts warring with her defiance. "I know exactly what I've done. I refused to be a trophy for Cillian MacCarthy. I chose my freedom over his chains."
"Freedom," Declan repeated, the word dripping with bitterness. "You think running into my territory makes you free? You've just traded one set of problems for another, omega."
The way he said "omega" sent a shiver down her spine-not dismissive, but possessive, as if the bond between them had already marked her as his. She hated it. And yet, a part of her, the part she'd spent years suppressing, yearned for it.
Before she could respond, a howl split the night, closer than before. Declan's head snapped toward the sound, his body tensing. "They're here," he muttered, more to himself than to her. He grabbed her wrist again, pulling her toward the oak. "Stay behind me. And don't make a sound."
Saoirse obeyed, pressing herself against the rough bark as Declan positioned himself in front of her, his stance wide and ready. The air grew thick with anticipation, the forest holding its breath. Then, they emerged.
Six wolves burst into the clearing, their fur dark and matted, their eyes glowing with feral intent. Cillian's warriors. They shifted as they approached, their forms rippling into men-broad, scarred, and bristling with aggression. The leader, a hulking figure with a jagged scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Saoirse.
"There you are," he growled, his voice a guttural rasp. "Cillian's been looking for his bride."
Declan stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Saoirse and the warrior. "She's not his," he said, his voice calm but laced with steel. "She's in my territory now."
The scarred man sneered, his lips curling to reveal sharp teeth. "You think you can keep her, O'Rourke? She's promised to the Fomorian Fang. Hand her over, and we'll leave your pack in peace."
Declan didn't flinch. "You're on my land, threatening my pack. You don't get to make demands."
The tension crackled like a storm about to break. Saoirse's heart raced as she watched the standoff, her hands trembling against the tree. She hated being the cause of this, hated the way these men spoke of her as if she were a possession to be traded. But she couldn't deny the surge of relief she felt with Declan standing between her and them.
The scarred man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You're a fool, O'Rourke. Cillian won't let this go. He'll burn your territory to the ground to get her back."
"Then let him try," Declan said, his voice a low growl. "But you won't be alive to see it."
The words were a spark, igniting the clearing into chaos. The scarred man lunged, shifting mid-air into a massive wolf, his claws aimed at Declan's throat. But Declan was faster. He sidestepped, his own shift seamless and instantaneous, his form exploding into a wolf of midnight black, larger and more powerful than any Saoirse had ever seen. The two collided in a blur of fur and teeth, snarls echoing through the trees.
The other warriors charged, and the clearing became a battlefield. Conall and Niall burst from the shadows, their own forms shifting as they joined the fray. Saoirse pressed herself harder against the oak, her breath shallow as she watched the violence unfold. She'd seen fights before-pack disputes, dominance challenges-but nothing like this. This was raw, primal, a clash of wills and strength that shook the ground beneath her feet.
Declan fought with a ferocity that took her breath away. He was a force of nature, his movements precise and deadly. The scarred man was no match for him, and within moments, Declan had him pinned, his jaws closing around the warrior's throat. A sharp yelp, a gurgle, and it was over. The scarred man went limp, his body shifting back to human form as the life drained from him.
The remaining warriors faltered, their aggression wavering as their leader fell. Conall and Niall made quick work of two more, their teamwork honed and ruthless. The last three turned tail, fleeing back into the forest with whimpers and snarls.
Declan shifted back, his chest heaving as he stood over the fallen warrior. Blood streaked his arms, his face, but his eyes burned with a fire that made Saoirse's knees weak. He turned to her, his gaze locking onto hers, and for a moment, the bond between them flared brighter than ever.
"You're safe," he said, his voice rough but steady. "For now."
Saoirse nodded, unable to find her voice. She wasn't sure if she was safe-not with Cillian still out there, not with the war she'd just ignited. But as Declan stepped closer, the heat of his presence grounding her, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just crossed a line she could never uncross.
And neither could he.