### Chapter Thirteen – Blood on His Hands ###
(Bryan POV)
The rain hadn't stopped since Bryan left Clever's bar.
Sheets of water blurred the city into a smear of neon and shadows. His hood was pulled low, but every drop that hit his skin felt like a needle. He wanted the sting. He wanted the cold. Anything to numb the fire inside his chest.
Amark. His father.
The name roared in his head like thunder.
Bryan shoved his hands into his pockets and walked faster, his breath steaming in the air. Every memory of his mother's screams, every nightmare of Bruno's death—they burned hotter now, poisoned by the truth. All this time, he had cursed werewolves, hunted them, sworn to kill the beast who ruined his life… only to learn he carried the same cursed blood.
He stopped at a corner, gripping a rusted railing until it bent under his fingers with a groan of metal. He let go quickly, heart pounding. His hand throbbed, but not from pain. From strength.
The kind of strength he shouldn't have.
He pressed his back against the wall, dragging in shaky breaths. His senses were too sharp tonight—he could hear a dog barking three blocks away, smell gasoline from the street below, taste the metallic tang of rain on his tongue as if the sky itself had bled.
It made him sick.
It made him alive.
And that was the problem.
He wandered without aim, streets blurring beneath his boots. At last he found himself in a narrow alley, walls dripping, dumpsters reeking of rot. A stray cat hissed and dashed away as he passed.
Bryan stopped, closing his eyes.
Mom, he thought, gripping his head. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you hide him from me?
His nails scraped his scalp until it hurt. He wanted to tear the blood out of himself, rip it free, anything to erase the word echoing inside him: Prince.
A laugh Burst out of his throat—harsh, broken. He sounded like Clever when the old man had drank too much gin.
"Prince Bryan," he muttered bitterly. "Son of the almighty Alpha. What a joke."
That was when he heard it.
The scrape of claws on wet brick.
Bryan froze. Slowly, his eyes scanned the alley. At first he saw nothing but dripping gutters and puddles glittering with pale light. But then—shadows moved where they shouldn't. Shapes peeled themselves from the walls, tall and lean, eyes glowing faint gold in the dark.
Werewolves.
Three of them.
Bryan's stomach clenched. His hand went instinctively to his belt for the silver knife Clever had given him.
One of the wolves stepped forward. Its fur was dark, wet from the rain, but its eyes… they locked on Bryan's face like he was prey. Or something more.
"Prince," the wolf growled, the word dragging from its throat like gravel.
Bryan's blood ran cold.
"I'm no prince," he said, blade flashing in his grip. His voice cracked on the lie.
The wolves didn't flinch. Another stepped closer, lips curling in a twisted smile. "Blood doesn't lie."
Bryan's chest heaved. Rage lit his veins, burning away the fear. "I'll show you blood."
With a roar, he lunged.
The alley exploded into violence.
His blade sliced across fur, hot blood splashing the rain. A wolf snapped at his arm, teeth grazing his sleeve before he drove the knife into its shoulder. His body moved faster than it should have—muscles surging with a strength that felt both alien and terrifyingly natural.
Every strike he landed, every dodge, every roar—something inside him answered.
This is what you are.
He slashed the knife upward, sending sparks as it clipped brick. The wolf staggered, but didn't fall.
Another lunged from behind. Bryan twisted, slamming his elbow into its jaw. Bone cracked.
For a moment, he almost laughed. A wild, broken laugh that sounded too much like his father's legacy.
Then claws raked his back, tearing cloth, skin burning. He stumbled forward, knife clattering against the ground.
The first wolf pinned him, jaws snapping inches from his face. Its breath stank of blood and soil.
Bryan shoved upward with all his strength, and something in him snapped.
His vision turned red. His fingers curled like claws. He felt power surge through his limbs, raw and vicious. With a roar that wasn't human, he violently threw the wolf off him forcefully, sending it crashing into the wall hard enough to crack brick.
The alley fell silent for one stunned heartbeat.
Bryan stood in the rain, chest heaving, hands trembling—not from fear. From power.
The wolves stared at him. Not with hatred. Not with hunger.
With recognition.
The leader bowed its head, blood dripping from its jaw. "The Prince returns," it whispered.
Bryan staggered back, horror twisting his gut. "No," he rasped. "No, I'm not!"
But the wolves weren't listening. They circled him slowly, not to kill, not to tear, but to herd. To capture.
A trap.
Bryan's knife was gone. His body trembled between exhaustion and awakening.
The wolves closed in.
And for the first time in years, Bryan—the hunter—felt like prey.