CHAPTER 3: THE DETOUR OF SHADOWS
LEYLA
We have barely entered the Southern Pass when a storm breaks over us. The rain lashes the wooden roof of the carriage with such force it feels as though it might puncture through at any moment. I cling to the leather handle, feeling every jolt of the wheels as they pass over the uneven terrain. The cold is no longer just environmental; it now feels like a physical presence seeping through the cracks, heavy with the scent of damp pine, wet earth, and something else... something musky and wild.
"Keep formation!" I hear the captain's voice shout, nearly drowned out by the howling wind. "We are crossing the Southern Pass! No one stop! Move fast!"
I wipe the condensation from the glass with my palm. Outside, the darkness is absolute. The trees do not look like plants, but rather sinister, twisted claws, appearing as if they are trying to ensnare the carriage. Dammit, I knew we should have waited for the elven arrival instead of bypassing the terrain. Had we done that, we wouldn't be traversing this nightmare gorge.
Suddenly, a harrowing howl pierces the air. The sound doesn't seem to come from an ordinary wolf; it is deep, vibrating, and it makes my entire body tremble. My breathing quickens and, for the first time, I feel a strange and treacherous heat begin to radiate from my womb—a physical reaction I cannot comprehend. I feel confused, but I have no time to analyze it before chaos erupts outside.
A violent impact against the carriage makes it lurch wildly. I scream as I am thrown against the opposite wall, my back taking the hit. Amidst my daze, I can hear the agonized neighing of horses and steel clashing against something harder than metal.
"Wolves!" I hear a guard scream before his voice is silenced by a sickening crack that makes me gag.
The carriage door is ripped from its hinges by an inhuman force. I press myself as deep as possible into the farthest, darkest corner, trying to stay hidden, but I know it's futile; the compartment is ridiculously small. I pull the silver dagger from my boot and grip it tight. My heart hammers against my ribs like a hummingbird in a cage.
A massive figure appears in the doorway, filling the entire frame. He is not a wolf, but he doesn't look like an ordinary man either. He is a wall of muscle wrapped in dark furs and leather. His silver hair is drenched by the rain, and his mere presence seems to drain the oxygen from the small space. I knew I had zero chance of making it out alive, but I wouldn't die without a fight. I raise the dagger with trembling hands.
"Back! Get away from me!" I threaten, though my voice sounds more like a pathetic plea. "I am the Princess of Arandhia, tribute to the Elven Kingdom. If you touch me, there will be war."
The man lets out a low chuckle, a guttural sound that travels through the carriage and vibrates in my chest, sparking a sudden moisture between my thighs that makes me gasp in pure confusion. What the hell is wrong with you, Leyla? Control your damn body, I reprimand myself mentally. But it's difficult when this man emanates an aura of pure, raw sexual power that is almost offensive.
"The elves have nothing here, human," he tells me. His voice is like velvet dragged over stones. "You have entered my territory. You have brought armed men into Vargheim. That does not make you a tribute... it makes you prey."
Vargheim? I was told we were in no-man's-land. That damned captain. Though deep in my gut, I knew we were passing through the domain of the wolves.
He steps into the carriage, forcing me to recoil, but I have nowhere left to go. The man is so large he has to stoop. His eyes, a liquid and glowing gold, rake over my body with a predatory intensity that makes me shudder. They settle on my neck, where my pulse throbs violently.
"You smell of fear," he whispers, leaning close to my face. I can feel the scorching heat radiating from him, a violent contrast to the cold of the storm. "But you also smell of something else... something sweet. You smell of repressed desire."
"You lie!" I shriek, lunging at him with the dagger.
He catches my wrist mid-air with supernatural speed. His grip is like an iron shackle. With a slow, deliberate movement, he twists my arm, forcing me to drop the weapon, which hits the floor with a metallic clang. Then he uses his other hand to tilt my chin up, forcing me to look at him.
"I am Krul, the Blood Alpha," he declares. The name strikes me like lightning; I recognize him as the alpha of monsters. "And you, little princess, have just become the most precious thing I've held in my hands in a long time. Perhaps ever."
Krul leans in and, to my horror and secret delight, buries his nose in the hollow of my neck, inhaling my scent with animal greed. I should feel disgusted, I should be fighting, but instead, my muscles turn to jelly. An electric shock runs down my spine as I feel his lips brush against my skin, and my hair stands on end.
"No..." I whisper weakly, though my hands—which should be pushing him away—close over his massive shoulders. Stupid, treacherous body; I blame my virginal libido for reacting this way.
"Your mouth says no, but your scent..." Krul pulls back barely a few millimeters, his golden eyes fixed on my lips. "Your scent says you want me to mark you right here, over the blood of your guards."
I feel my world stop and spin. The hatred I feel for him fights against a physical need never before experienced. It is a magnetic attraction, dark and dangerous, from which I feel I cannot escape. Krul releases me abruptly, but before I can catch my breath, he yanks me by the hand, pulling me out of the carriage and hoisting me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Put me down! I am Princess Leyla of Arandhia!" I scream at him, pounding on his back, but he ignores me.
"Take the rest of the loot," Krul orders the other men waiting in the rain. "The woman comes with me to the Fortress. If the elves want her, let them come find her in the maws of my mountain."
I continue to strike Krul's back with my fists, but it's like hitting a rock. As I am carried through the forest like a sack of grain toward the unknown, I make myself a promise: I would resist. No matter how much my treacherous body sabotages my will, I would not surrender to the monster who had killed his own mate in the past.
A hand closes firmly over my thigh, snapping me out of my thoughts, and the heat sears through the fabric of my dress, burning me in a way that makes me want to scream for more of his touch.
This is going to be a complete shitshow.