The ghost-scent hit him first—a phantom from a decade-old nightmare. Woven into the damp forest air was the same arrogant, dominant musk of the Alpha who had stood over his father's dying body. For a frozen second, the world dissolved into smoke and screams. Then adrenaline, cold and sharp, shattered the memory. There was no time for rage, no time for the past. There was only the hunt.
Connall grabbed her arm, his grip a bruising iron band, and dragged her into the moon-drenched forest. He was no longer just running; he was fleeing a ghost. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit were a promise of death—the snap of a twig, the displaced scrape of a boot on stone. He moved with a grim, relentless purpose, a wraith flowing through the undergrowth, every instinct screaming to put distance between them and that impossible, remembered scent. Althea stumbled, her lungs burning, her mind torn between fighting his hold and the raw terror of the Hounds at their heels.
The sound grew from a distant murmur to a steady roar, a physical force that swallowed the noise of the hunt. A waterfall. Connall's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes catching the glint of moonlight on a curtain of white water crashing into a rocky pool below. It was a desperate, insane gamble born from a ghost-fueled panic.
Without breaking stride, he veered, yanking a protesting Althea off the game trail and straight toward the cascade. "No!" she tried to gasp, but the word was a useless puff of air, devoured by the thunder of the falls.
He didn't listen. He didn't slow. He shoved her, hard.
For Althea, the world ended. One moment she was being dragged, the next she was airborne, propelled into a churning, ice-cold sheet of water. The shock was a physical blow, an explosion of cold that stole her breath and drove the air from her lungs in a silent scream. The deafening roar wasn't just a sound; it was a physical pressure that blanked her thoughts, a liquid wall that slammed into her, blinding and disorienting. She landed hard on her hands and knees on a slick, moss-covered floor. Water streamed from her hair and clothes, pooling around her in an icy puddle. The space was a cramped, shallow cavern hidden behind the falls, barely large enough for two, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and ancient, undisturbed decay.
Before she could recover, Connall was through the curtain beside her, a dark, dripping shape in the gloom. He pressed them both back against the weeping rock wall, his body a solid shield in front of hers. He was hyper-aware of her against him—the frantic, bird-like flutter of her heart against his back, the sharp scent of her fear mixed with wet earth and ozone. The sheer proximity ignited the low, insistent thrum of their volatile bond, a dull, radiating ache that was both agony and a strange, unwelcome anchor in the chaos. He shoved the feeling down, walled it off. His entire being was focused outward, his head tilted, listening with preternatural stillness. He raised a single, wet finger to his lips, a silent, absolute command for an oblivion she didn't possess.
Althea was frozen, trapped. Cold, weeping stone pressed into her back, and the solid, radiating heat of Connall's body pinned her from the front. The vibration of the waterfall resonated through his bones into hers. She hated the feeling of utter dependence, hated that this ghost, this last remnant of a murdered pack, was her only shield against her own people. The nearness of him was a unique torment, a cocktail of terror and a confusing, traitorous spark that flickered to life from their cursed bond. It was a warmth deep inside her she wished would stay cold, a treacherous hum of rightness in a world gone entirely wrong.
Heavy boots crunched on the gravel of the stream bank just outside. The sound cut through the roar of the water, chillingly close. Their shadows flickered and danced against the watery curtain, distorted and monstrous silhouettes against the moonlight.
In a momentary lull in the waterfall's thunder, their voices sliced through the air.
"Trail's gone cold," one of them growled, his voice rough with frustration. "The stream must've washed away her scent."
A second voice gave a cruel, low chuckle. "She can't have gone far. Don't worry, when we find the 'lost Luna', Lord Guntram said we can have our fun before we deliver her head. I want to hear what a Bloodfang bitch sounds like when she begs."
"Just don't damage the face too much," a third voice added, bored and callous. "The bounty is for proof."
Althea flinched violently against him, a silent gasp of horror and utter humiliation caught in her throat. The words were stones, striking her with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't justice for a crime. This was a license for violation. Her eyes were wide, staring at the monstrous shadows, the vile words painting a future more terrifying than a clean death.
Connall's body went rigid. A surge of pure, protective fury coiled in his gut, so primal and unexpected it almost buckled his knees. His hand, still on her arm, tightened—not to restrain her, but in an involuntary clench of possession. He saw their hulking shapes, pictured their leering faces, and imagined the visceral, bone-deep satisfaction of tearing them apart. The raw, possessive instinct shocked him to his core, a violation of the hatred he had nurtured for a decade. *His* mate. The thought was a poison he hadn't known he'd swallowed, and it was spreading through his veins, burning away everything he thought he was.
The assassins argued for another moment, their voices fading as they decided to move downstream, following the path of least resistance. The shadows moved on. Connall and Althea remained frozen, two statues carved from ice and fury. The tension in the small space was so thick it was almost suffocating. They were safe. For now.
Just as a sliver of relief began to dawn, one of the shadows stopped. The silhouette turned back toward the waterfall.
The voice was closer now, laced with a thread of canine uncertainty. "Wait."
The other shadows paused, their irritation palpable even through the watery veil.
"The water… it masks everything," the first voice said slowly, testing the air. "But I swear… for a second… I smelled silver."
Another assassin scoffed, a loud, dismissive sound. "You smell wet rock and your own fear, you idiot. The Silvermoons are all dead. Let's move!" A heavy shove accompanied the words. Their footsteps finally crunched away, receding into the night.
They were gone. But in the deafening gloom of the cavern, the word hung in the air, more dangerous than a drawn blade. *Silver*.
Connall's gaze locked with Althea's. Her eyes were wide, reflecting not just fear, but a dawning, chilling comprehension. She saw it now. It wasn't just a pack hunting a framed traitor. It wasn't just a usurper cleaning up loose ends. She was trapped with the last Silvermoon, the one man Guntram Volkov had every reason to want dead, and one of their hunters was suspicious. He had been recognized. They weren't safe. And the hunt had just become terrifyingly personal.