Chapter 4: The Scent of Consequence
The first thing Nyrielle felt was warmth—deep, dangerous warmth, pressed against her spine.
The second was breath. Steady. Slow. Exhaled just beneath her ear like a whisper.
She opened her eyes.
The ceiling above her was wooden, unfamiliar. The bed was too soft, too wide. Her body was sore in places that had never known touch. And that warmth behind her—gods, that heat—
She didn't have to turn. She remembered.
Every kiss. Every gasping breath. Every moment she'd let her body choose something her mind had feared.
A Stranger.
The scent of pine, of wolf musk and night air, still clung to her. Her skin bore him. Her lips felt bruised from him. And his arm—he had an arm wrapped loosely around her waist, hand resting low, thumb brushing against her navel in sleep.
She didn't move at first.
Couldn't.
She stayed still, breath caught, the full weight of what she'd done sinking into her chest like a stone.
She'd done it.She had given herself to him. All of herself.
And now morning had come, and the light was far too cruel.
Nyrielle eased his arm away with trembling hands, careful not to wake him. His fingers twitched, but he didn't stir. Thank the stars. She rose silently from the tangled sheets, gathering her dress from the floor. The fabric was wrinkled, the neckline stretched slightly, and she felt exposed even as she pulled it on.
A floorboard creaked.
Her heart seized—but he didn't move.
The room was bathed in gold, soft light slipping through the cracks in the shutters. It was beautiful, peaceful. She hated it. She didn't belong in that peace. Not really.
Not with her father's name.
Not with her wolfless blood.
Not with what she had done.
Nyrielle didn't look back as she fled.
The village had barely woken when she slipped into the streets.
Mist clung to the stones, curling around her ankles like ghosts. Her hair whipped in the morning wind, loose and wild. Her slippers were soaked from the dew, and her steps faltered more than once.
The world smelled like earth and waking fire.
And her.
She could smell him still—on her.
His's scent clung to her skin, soaked into her dress, wound through her hair like thread. It filled her nostrils every time she breathed. Sharp, masculine, primal. A scent that would not lie.
She didn't know what horrified her more—that someone might notice…Or that a part of her wanted to keep it.
Her shame was stitched with exhilaration. Her fear, with a terrible kind of pride. She'd lived, last night. For once.
She had chosen.
And now the world would make her pay for it.
The gates of the Veyne estate loomed into view.
She slowed.
The carriage was already there.
A dark one, lacquered with the sigil of a wolf devouring a crescent moon. Her father's crest. Black iron and gold.
Her blood turned cold.
He was here.
No letter. No warning.
He knew.
Or he suspected.
Her breath shortened as she darted toward the side entrance, heart hammering. The heavy door creaked open, and the silence that greeted her inside the manor was too complete. No servants bustling. No guards pacing.
Only silence.
And tension.Thick and waiting.
Earlier That Morning…
The door slammed open with a crack like splitting ice.
Renna startled, nearly dropping the tray in her hands as Lord Veyne stormed into the manor. The air seemed to still around him. He stood tall, draped in a travel-worn cloak, his silver hair damp with morning mist, eyes as sharp and cold as forged steel. Guards flanked him, but they were mere shadows beside his commanding presence.
"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice low, cutting through the silence like a drawn sword.
Renna's breath caught. "She's… with the seamstress," she said quickly, her tone carefully steady. "A last-minute fitting. She insisted she be ready for your arrival."
Lord Veyne didn't blink. His gaze bore into her, calculating, assessing.
Too smooth. Too quick.
Still, he said nothing. Just a long, tense pause. Then:
"I'll wait in the study."
He turned without another word, boots echoing on polished stone as he disappeared down the corridor.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Renna exhaled sharply, the false calm shattering from her face. Her hands trembled as she set the tray down and moved to the window, scanning the fog-thinned morning light.
"Nyrielle," she whispered, "you'd better hurry…"
Now
Nyrielle moved quickly, her breath shallow as she approached the hall toward the study. Just before she reached the archway, a tall figure stepped into her path.
Her older brother stood like a wall in her path, arms crossed over his chest, his amber eyes narrowing.
She stumbled back, caught off guard. "Get out of the way," she hissed, trying to sidestep.
But he stepped with her.
A wolf's grace. A predator's intent.
"Well," he said, voice too smooth. "If it isn't the little ghost."
"I don't have time for your dramatics," she snapped. "Move."
"You disappeared." He stepped closer. "Do you know how angry Father was when he realized you weren't here to greet him?"
Nyrielle gritted her teeth. "It was one night."
"Exactly," Eryx said darkly. "And you come back wearing that."
He eyed her gown with slow, deliberate disgust. "Looks slept in."
Her pulse jumped.
He stepped closer. So close she could see the faint flare of gold in his irises, the way his nostrils flared.
And then… his expression shifted.
His head tilted slightly.
A pause.
A wrinkle of the nose.
And a smirk.
"Oh gods," he murmured.
Nyrielle's stomach dropped.
He stepped around her slowly, like a wolf scenting prey. "Do you even realize?" His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "You're drenched in it."
She froze. "Eryx—"
"His scent is all over you," he said, with a kind of cruel amusement. "Your neck, your hair. Even your thighs. Subtle. But not to me."
Her mouth went dry.
"Who was it?" he asked, pretending to be thoughtful. "Let me guess. One of the villagers? Someone low enough that you thought it wouldn't matter?"
"You don't know anything," she whispered.
"Oh, I know exactly what you've done," he growled. "And if I can smell it, Father will too."
"Please," she said, voice cracking. "Don't."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then he laughed—quietly, almost pityingly. "You really are stupid, aren't you?"
"Eryx—"
"You had one job, Nyrielle," he said, stepping closer. "Smile. Behave. Stay pure. You're the last thread tying this bloodline to the old vows. And now you've gone and soiled it."
"You're the daughter of Lord Veyne. Unmated. Unclaimed. Supposedly untouched. And yet here you are, reeking of some stray.
She clenched her jaw, tears rising.
"I'm not a possession."
"No," he said, softly, "you're worse. You're a disappointment."
Her hand flew before she could stop it.
The slap echoed through the corridor.
Eryx didn't flinch.
His eyes turned cold as winter. Slowly, he reached up to touch his cheek, then looked at the blood beneath his fingernail. She'd grazed him with her ring.
Then, he smiled.
"Oh, sister," he said. "You've already burned the house down. But by all means… keep striking matches."
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her trembling in the hall.
"Make yourself presentable," Eryx called after her. "You'll owe me for this one."
She didn't look back. Her hands clenched into fists as she walked away.
She had tasted freedom. Brief, bright, intoxicating.
And already… it was burning at the edges.