The grey stone walls of the castle mirrored the somber mood of the onlookers.
Eleanor Barclay's funeral had taken place under a thin, persistent rain that seeped into the bones of those attending the ceremony.
The last mourners had just left, and Michael stood by the window, watching the waves crash against the cliffs, white foam spraying upward in millions of droplets that mingled with the falling rain.
The green meadow gleamed like emerald against the dark stone.
He had always loved these landscapes—desolate, inhospitable, and yet capable of bringing calm and peace even to the most tormented souls.
Here, in the midst of heather-covered hills, it didn't matter who or what you were.
The real and the fantastic had always blended together in these places—lands of fairies, goblins... and werewolves.
At the sound of footsteps behind him, Michael turned.
Alex was approaching. She had not attended the ceremony—her presence as a human would have been hard to explain in such a formal setting.
Silently, she stepped beside him, and together they stood, watching the sky grow ever darker until night fell, laying its cold blanket over sea and hills.
"We leave tomorrow," he told her. "You'll go to Leeds. You'll be safe there. Some pack members will protect you. Everything's arranged—we have an apartment, and I'll open a bank account in your name."
Alex looked at him. "And you?"
"I'm going back to Oldgrove. Time to set things right."
"Good. Then I suppose I'll accept a ride there."
Michael held her gaze. "You're not going back to Oldgrove. Not until things settle down."
"I don't think you can stop me."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Okay—let's say I don't think you will."
"I won't put your life at risk again."
She shrugged. "It's not your decision—it's mine."
"Why do you want to go back?"
"I have things to take care of."
The moment she said it, Alex wondered what those "things" actually were—and why she was so determined to return to Oldgrove after everything that had happened, and despite all that might still happen.
No one was waiting for her there, and her few belongings had either been left behind in her old apartment or destroyed in the fire at Barclay House.
But even if she didn't want to say it aloud, she knew why she wanted to go back:
She didn't want to leave Michael.
Not yet.
Despite the rift with his mother, she could feel his pain. She didn't know what awaited him in town, what his plans were—but she wanted him to know he could count on her.
She owed him that—after everything he'd done for her.
But more than that...
She wanted him to.
In any case, she had no intention of accepting his hospitality in Leeds.
When she left, she would choose the destination—and it would be her choice alone.
"What time do we leave?"
Michael looked at her.
"I'll go with you—or without you," she warned him.
Resigned, he shook his head. "We leave at eight."
"Good. See you tomorrow."
And with that, she turned and headed upstairs to her assigned room.
---
Christopher approached his brother holding two glasses of Macallan. He handed one to Michael.
"It went well."
"Yeah," Christopher replied, his voice weary. It had been a long, exhausting day. The chieftains who had come for Eleanor's memorial had accepted the succession of her eldest son, but from now on, they would scrutinize his every move. And the situation waiting for them back home was far from easy to manage. Christopher had assured them he would quickly regain control, put the rebels back in line, and capture Nereus. Easier said than done. But he couldn't afford to show hesitation in front of those old wolves, who would happily exploit any weakness to seize the Barclays' territory.
Michael placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Go get some rest."
Christopher nodded and left the vast stone hall, its walls covered with ancient tapestries.
Michael remained behind. He still didn't know exactly what Christopher had planned, but he knew battles were coming—and with them, losses. He was determined that Alex wouldn't be among them. Even if he had to charm her, he'd need to lock her up to keep her from leaving Leeds. And that definitely wasn't his plan.
He climbed the granite staircase and stopped outside Alex's room. For a moment, he hesitated—then knocked.
"Would you like to take a walk?" he asked when she opened the door.
She nodded and followed him out of the castle.
They walked in silence to the cliffs and sat on a wide, flat rock. The moon was nearly full, and the sky had finally cleared. The grassy field around them shimmered like a blue sea rippling in the wind. Below, waves crashed against the rocks in a steady, sombre rhythm.
"Can I see you transformed?" she asked quietly, meeting his eyes.
He didn't answer right away. Then he nodded. "I'll need to undress," he said.
She turned toward the sea.
Alex heard the soft rustle of clothing, then a faint whoosh beside her. When she looked again, a wolf stood there—larger and sturdier than a normal one, with tawny fur that glowed in the moonlight. But his eyes were unmistakably Michael's. The gaze was the same.
She slowly reached out, letting her hand glide over his coat. The wolf closed his eyes as her fingers stroked his neck and back. His fur was soft and silky. She smiled—it was a strange sensation, touching a creature that wasn't truly an animal.
The wolf tilted his head, amused. "You can get dressed again, if you want," she told him.
He barked once in reply and padded over to his clothes. Alex turned back to give him privacy, then waited as he sat beside her once more.
"Not bad, your lupine form."
"Doesn't it scare you?"
Alex shook her head. "No. Not really."
"Now that you know my secret," he said, "can you tell me yours?"
"What secret?"
"What happened to you the night you came back injured?"
She looked away. Michael saw her jaw tighten and wondered if she would answer. "Extreme underground fighting," she finally said.
"What?"
"You know Fight Club?" He nodded. "Well… this is the version with swords and knives."
Michael's eyes widened. That explained the perfectly sharpened weapons in her flat. "Extreme because…?"
"Because there are no rules."
"Who wins?"
"Whoever doesn't give up… or whoever survives."
Michael fell silent, trying to absorb the information. At last, he asked, "Have you ever killed anyone?"
Alex shook her head. "I don't go there to kill."
"Why?" It was a simple question, but not an easy one. What could drive someone to risk their life in such brutal fights?
Why? How could she explain something so vast with just one word?
Her mind flashed back to memories: fights, blood, adrenaline.
She was sixteen when she started entering challenges thrown around by boys in her neighborhood. They'd gather in an abandoned shed, betting on who would win. The first time she challenged a boy, he laughed in her face—he was two years older and much taller. She had mocked him into accepting the fight… and although he beat her that first time, she didn't back down. She returned. And she won.
She'd grown up in a rough orphanage, where being a girl wasn't a blessing—it was a disadvantage. Strength meant survival. She learned early on how to defend herself. Families had tried to foster her, but none kept her. Her golden curls and round face had fooled them into expecting a sweet child. What they got instead was closed-off, angry, restless.
By fifteen, she had run away to London. Found work in a pub. Squatted in an abandoned building filled with addicts and outcasts. Eventually, she managed to rent a tiny flat. Then came yoseikan budo, the martial art that taught her control, balance, how to turn an opponent's strength against them. All of it had helped in the fights—where most of her opponents were stronger, larger men.
When she looked back at Michael, he was still watching her, patiently waiting for an answer he knew might never come.
How could she explain the fury inside her? The need to unleash it? The pain that had never truly quieted… until perhaps now?
Michael stayed silent, reading her face—her stormy eyes flickering with sadness, anger, and fierce resolve. What kind of darkness did she carry?
Finally, Alex shrugged. "For the money. And to keep the anger from making me hurt someone else."
Michael wondered how much rage she carried if she'd rather face death than let it spill elsewhere.
"I didn't think a werewolf could be upset by something like that," she said.
"I'm not upset… just surprised." And he was. He'd never thought of Alex as sweet or cheerful, but he hadn't imagined she was a warrior either. Now he pictured her with a blade in her hand, dressed in dark clothes like the night he'd first seen her fight—fierce, wild, determined.
His gaze traced the strong line of her jaw, the moonlit edge of her nose… and he found her even more beautiful.
Sensing his eyes on her, Alex turned. His hand slipped behind her neck, drew her close, and kissed her.
Her eyes widened in shock. His lips were warm, soft. Her defences dropped, and she closed her eyes, lips parting. It was the gentlest kiss she had ever received—or given. His tongue brushed hers, slow, searching. She kissed him back, savoring his taste: fresh and clean like the night air.
Then he pulled away. "We'd better head back," he said, standing.
She nodded. "Let's go."
They walked back in silence. Alex focused hard on the path ahead, eager to reach the privacy of her room. Michael watched her closely, searching for a sign—any sign.
At her door, she turned to him. Their eyes met briefly.
"Goodnight," she said, then stepped inside and shut the door.
Leaning against it, she raised her fingers to her lips. She could still feel the kiss. Dizzy and confused, she crossed the room and sat on the bed, back against the tall headboard.
What was happening to her? Why had she run away like a girl after her first kiss?
Because it was your first real kiss.
She shoved the thought away. She couldn't fall in love. She didn't want to. Years in institutions had taught her that trusting someone gave them power—the kind that hurt worse than any blade.
She wouldn't take off her armor. Not now.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe she shouldn't go back to Oldgrove. Maybe she should reconsider London. But… she didn't feel that familiar surge of excitement she always felt when planning a new escape.
She curled under the blanket and stared at the window, at the night sky—until the kiss came back to her again, in sensation and memory.
She didn't know when she fell asleep. But when the alarm rang, it felt like she'd only just closed her eyes. Stretching stiff muscles, she rose and headed to the bathroom. A hot shower was desperately needed.