"Zora, this tastes like dirt."
"It is dirt," Zoraide replied without looking up. "Boiled dirt. Drink it."
The young warrior groaned but swallowed anyway. Around them, the healer's hut buzzed with low complaints and the sharp scent of crushed herbs.
"You call yourself a healer?" he muttered. "My wolf is offended."
"Your wolf also ate three skewers of spiced meat at dawn," Zoraide shot back. "Tell him to be grateful I am saving his stomach."
A few snickers filled the room.
Zoraide kept her head down as she ground bitter leaves into paste. The smell rose thick and sharp, coating her tongue and nose. Perfect. It drowned everything else.
Including her.
Old Mother Ilya shuffled closer. "More bitterroot again?"
"Yes."
"You will pickle yourself one day."
Zoraide finally looked up, offering a thin smile. "Better pickled than claimed."
Ilya's eyes softened. "You are too young to talk like that."
"I am old enough."
The door creaked open. Cold air rushed in, carrying pine, smoke, and something else.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Her spine stiffened before she could stop it.
A deep voice filled the hut. "Which one of you calls this medicine?"
Several heads turned.
Zoraide did not.
She knew that voice.
Alaric.
Future Alpha of the Crescent Fang pack. Golden boy. Arrogant. Impossible to ignore.
"I do," she said calmly. "If you are here to complain, stand in line."
Heavy boots thudded across the wooden floor.
The scent hit her like a wave. Cedarwood and fire. Dominance wrapped in heat. It pushed against her bitter herb mask, searching.
Her wolf stirred.
Alpha.
No.
She forced the thought down.
Alaric stopped beside her table. She could feel him looming without looking.
"You gave my best scout swamp brew," he said.
"I gave him something to stop him from vomiting on your boots."
A few more snickers.
Alaric did not laugh.
"Look at me when you speak."
Slowly, Zoraide raised her eyes.
Gold met dark brown.
The air thickened.
His gaze swept over her face, then paused. His nostrils flared.
He leaned closer.
"You smell wrong."
Her fingers tightened around the pestle. "That is because I work with herbs. It is called hygiene."
"No." His voice lowered. "You smell like nothing."
The room went quiet.
Zoraide forced a shrug. "Perhaps your nose is broken."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. Then it vanished.
"I have never met an Omega who smells like nothing."
There it was.
Omega.
The word sat between them like a chain.
She tilted her head. "You have met many Omegas, then?"
Murmurs rippled through the hut.
Alaric's jaw flexed. He leaned closer, close enough that she could feel his breath near her ear.
"Enough to know they do not hide behind bitterness."
Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.
The mate bond pulsed.
She ignored it.
"I hide behind nothing," she said evenly. "I simply prefer not to advertise myself like fresh meat."
His eyes flashed brighter.
"Careful."
"Or what?"
The silence stretched.
The young warrior on the bed cleared his throat. "I can still hear you, you know."
Zoraide stepped back first. She hated that she did.
She grabbed a cloth and wiped her hands. "If you are done intimidating my patients, Alpha, I have work."
He did not move.
"You will report to the council hall tonight," he said. "We are increasing patrols."
"I am a healer."
"You are pack."
She met his gaze again. "And yet your wolves treat me like I am glass."
"Because you are Omega."
The word grated.
Before she could stop herself, her power flickered.
Just a pulse.
The air shifted.
Alaric went still.
His eyes darkened.
That was not Omega.
He stepped closer again, invading her space.
"What was that?" he demanded softly.
Zoraide forced her shoulders to relax. "You are imagining things."
He reached for her wrist.
Instinct took over.
She caught his hand midair.
Gasps filled the hut.
For a second, they were locked together. His fingers were warm and strong. Her grip was firm.
Too firm.
An Omega should not match him.
His brows drew together.
"Let go," she said quietly.
He did not.
The bond snapped between them like a live wire.
Heat surged up her arm.
Her wolf pressed forward, snarling.
Claim him.
She shoved it back down.
Alaric's voice dropped to a growl. "You are not weak."
"Did someone say I was?"
"The entire pack does."
"Then perhaps the pack should mind its business."
He leaned closer, eyes burning. "I always mind my business."
"And I am your business now?"
His lips curved slightly. "You confuse me."
"Good."
The tension was unbearable.
Finally, he released her wrist.
She stepped away, pretending her pulse was not racing.
"I expect you tonight," he said.
"And if I do not come?"
His gaze swept over her slowly. "I will come fetch you."
A shiver ran down her spine.
"I would like to see you try."
A dangerous smile touched his mouth.
"I would enjoy that."
Old Mother Ilya coughed loudly. "If the flirting is over, my tea is getting cold."
Zoraide shot her a look. "We are not flirting."
Alaric did not deny it.
He turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"Wash less," he said without looking back. "Your scent deserves air."
Her breath caught.
Before she could reply, he was gone.
The hut buzzed immediately.
"He looks at you too long," one of the younger girls whispered.
"He looks at everyone too long," Zoraide replied sharply.
But she knew that was not true.
She lifted the jar of bitterroot and inhaled deeply. The sharp scent burned her nose.
Good.
Safe.
Her wolf paced restlessly.
He knows.
No.
He suspects.
She crushed more leaves than necessary, grinding them into thick paste.
The afternoon passed in a blur of patients and complaints.
Every time the door opened, her body tensed.
It was never him.
By dusk, the hut was nearly empty.
Mother Ilya lingered.
"You cannot hide forever," the old woman said quietly.
"I am not hiding."
"You mask yourself like prey."
Zoraide met her eyes. "Prey survives."
"And what of when the hunter is your mate?"
Her chest tightened.
"He is not my mate."
The lie tasted bitter.
Ilya sighed. "Be careful, child. Alaric is not a fool."
Zoraide packed away her herbs. "Good. I prefer smart enemies."
"Enemies?" Ilya repeated.
Zoraide hesitated.
The bond pulsed again, faint but present.
Not enemy.
Danger.
She slung her satchel over her shoulder.
"I will go to the council hall," she said. "Before he decides to drag me there."
Ilya smiled faintly. "Do not let him see fear."
"I do not feel fear."
That part was true.
Outside, the sky glowed orange.
Wolves patrolled the village edge. The air felt tense.
Zoraide paused.
Something was off.
The forest was too quiet.
No birds.
No wind.
A distant howl echoed.
Not one she recognized.
Her wolf bristled.
That is not ours.
Another howl answered. Closer.
A shout rang out from the northern watchtower.
"Rogues!"
The word sliced through the evening.
Zoraide's heart slammed.
More howls erupted, wild and unrestrained.
The ground trembled.
She turned toward the forest line just as figures burst from the trees.
Dozens of them.
Eyes glowing.
Teeth bared.
Fenris's mark burned on their shoulders.
Rogues.
The earth shook harder as they charged.
A massive wolf stepped forward from the shadows.
Larger than the rest.
Silver scar cutting across one eye.
His gaze locked onto hers across the distance.
He shifted midstride, bones snapping into human form without slowing.
Tall. Broad. Smiling.
"Found you," he said, voice carrying across the chaos.
Zoraide's blood went cold.
Behind her, the council hall doors burst open.
Alaric stormed out, eyes blazing gold.
"Inside!" he roared.
But the rogue Alpha did not look at him.
He kept his gaze on Zoraide.
"You cannot hide your scent from me," he called.
Her bitter herbs suddenly felt useless.
The ground cracked beneath her feet as the first rogue hit the village barrier.
Wood splintered.
Wolves clashed.
Alaric reached her side in a heartbeat, grabbing her arm.
"Stay behind me."
She met his gaze, heart pounding.
The rogue Alpha laughed, stepping closer as flames rose along the village edge.
"You protect what is mine?" he taunted.
Alaric's growl shook the air.
"She is Crescent Fang."
The rogue's eyes gleamed.
"No," he said softly. "She is not."
And then the barrier shattered.