### Chapter Eight – The Curse of the Prince ###
(Bryan's POV)
Bryan's lungs burned with every breath. His chest felt like it had been crushed by a freight train, his arms shaking as he leaned against the cold brick wall of the alley. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, warm against his skin.
He hated the smell of blood.
Not because it made him sick. No—because it didn't.
Mayer stood a few feet away, wiping her blade clean with practiced movements, her eyes flicking toward him between strokes. She hadn't said a word since the last wolf fled into the night.
Bryan spat, the metallic taste of iron thick on his tongue. "What the hell was that?"
Mayer looked up, her expression calm, almost too calm. "You tell me."
Bryan blinked at her. "What—what do you mean?"
Her gaze was slowly dying on his eyes. He felt the weight of it, sharp and measuring. "The way they looked at you. The way they called you."
"Prince?" He spat the word like poison. His laugh cracked, brittle. "That's insane. I'm nobody. Just a guy with a crossbow and bad luck."
But even as the words left him, the memory of their snarls rang in his skull. The blood of Amark. The son of the monster.
His hands trembled. He fold them into fists.
Mayer stood and stepped closer, her boots crunching against the broken glass on the ground. "Your eyes changed," she said softly.
Bryan froze.
"No, you're imagining things." His laugh was hollow. "maybe I just shaked violently. Maybe I swallowed too much blood."
Mayer tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve. "I've hunted werewolves for three years. I know what I saw."
His stomach turned. He pushed past her, stumbling toward the mouth of the alley. "I'm not" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "I'm not one of them."
But his body betrayed him. Every sound was sharper, every shadow deeper. The night itself seemed alive, whispering, calling. His chest ached not from the blows, but from something inside clawing to get out.
He staggered, catching himself against a wall. His pulse pounded in his ears, too fast, too strong. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw fire. His mother's scream. Blood on the floor. And always, the shadow of the man he swore to kill.
Amark.
The name seared his brain like a curse.
Mayer's hand landed on his arm. Firm. Grounding. He jerked away.
"Don't touch me." His voice came out sharper than he intended, his throat raw.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't push. "Fine. But Bryan…"
He turned, anger and fear twisting his face.
She met his gaze with a look he couldn't read. "You can't run from what you are."
The words struck like a knife. He wanted to scream at her, deny it, break something, anything, but the truth sat heavy in his chest, pressing until he could barely breathe.
He shoved past her again, out into the open street where the city lights burned too bright.
Prince. Monster. Son.
All lies. They had to be.
And yet the word clung to him, wrapping chains around his heart.
He fold his fists, forcing the tremor in his hands to still.
If there were answers, he'd find them. If someone knew the truth, he'd drag it out of them, no matter the cost.
His mother's voice echoed faint in the back of his mind, as it always did in his dreams. Run, Bryan. Don't look back.
But tonight, he didn't want to run.
Tonight, he wanted to hunt.