2 - Pulled to the Edge

Aria (continued)

The howl faded, but its echo lingered—settling under her skin like wildfire, scorching her from the inside out.

She shouldn’t be here. Not this close to the edge.

Her fingers tightened around the satchel at her hip, the weight of the herbs inside grounding her. This was supposed to be a quick trip. In and out. Avoid the border. And definitely avoid the Nightclaw Pack.

But here she was, with one foot practically over the line. The faint shimmer of the ancient boundary stone glowed beneath the fallen leaves, warning her in a language older than time. And still... still she stood there.

“Stupid,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “So stupid.”

Still, she didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Her wolf paced in the back of her mind—restless, ears perked, tail twitching. Not out of fear, but anticipation. As if something long dormant had finally awakened. As if something was waiting for her just beyond the trees. Something... someone.

Aria had never questioned her instincts before. As a healer, they were a part of her—second nature. They’d guided her hands during births, burning fevers, and even the fragile moments between life and death.

But this?

This wasn’t healing.

This was hunger.

Whoever had howled wasn’t just a wolf. He was the wolf. The one who had haunted her dreams for weeks now. Always distant, always watching. Silent. Waiting. And now, the call had finally come—not in sleep, but here, in the real world, as raw and vivid as blood.

It hadn’t called her name, but it hadn’t needed to. Her soul had answered anyway.

She could still feel the reverberation of that sound in her bones, like it had carved a mark deep into her spirit. Her wolf had risen to meet it, ears alert, heart racing, a low, eager whine echoing in the back of her mind.

It was more than instinct. More than curiosity.

It was fate.

A sudden gust of wind rustled the treetops, sending loose leaves spiraling around her boots. A storm was brewing. She could smell the coming rain, earthy and electric. The air buzzed with tension, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Aria took a half-step forward, her boot landing just shy of the shimmering border. Her pulse surged. Her wolf surged with it.

She should leave.

Her father would already be suspicious. Lyra would worry. The patrols might sweep this area soon, and if they caught her this close to Nightclaw territory, there’d be questions. Accusations. Consequences.

But something rooted her here.

Her fingers brushed the bark of the nearest tree, grounding herself with its roughness. She tried to draw comfort from the familiarity of the forest—Moonfang land, her land—but it offered no safety now. Not from the pull in her chest. Not from the ache that grew louder with each heartbeat.

Then came the rustle—soft, almost imperceptible.

She froze. Every muscle locked.

Her hand flew to the dagger strapped to her thigh. The blade was mostly ceremonial, an old family heirloom carved with the Moonfang crescent—but sharp enough to matter, if it had to.

Shadows moved between the trees—low to the ground, fast. Wolf-form.

A growl started low in her chest, instinctive and warning. Her wolf pressed forward, not snarling but alert, watching. Waiting.

And then—she saw him.

Golden eyes locked with hers through the thinning branches. Not curious. Not aggressive. Just... knowing.

Not a rogue. Not a threat. Not just any wolf.

Him.

The wolf’s eyes were luminous in the twilight, burning like twin suns. Power radiated from him, pulsing in waves she could feel in her bones. But there was no threat in his stance—no challenge, no hunger for violence. Only gravity. As if the force pulling her to him was mutual.

Her breath hitched. Her heart stumbled. Her wolf froze, utterly still.

Recognition flared between them—wild, ancient, unspoken. Her skin prickled, her senses sharpened. The connection stretched between them like a thread, invisible but unbreakable.

And then—he turned.

Vanished into the trees like smoke, swift and silent, as if he’d never been there.

Aria gasped, the tension in her chest snapping like a frayed rope. Her legs wobbled beneath her. The satchel slipped from her fingers and landed in the leaves with a dull thud.

“No,” she whispered. “Not him. Not a Nightclaw.”

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t spoken. That she hadn’t touched him. The mate bond pulsed in her chest, quiet but unrelenting, like the slow, steady beat of a war drum in the distance.

She didn’t know his name. Didn’t need to.

Her soul already did.

And for the first time in her life, Aria Moonfang wanted something she could never have.

Because wanting him meant betraying everything she’d been raised to believe. Her pack. Her Alpha. Her family’s sacrifices. The old stories whispered around fires—warnings of Nightclaw deceit. The way her father still limped from a border clash years ago. The way her mother’s voice had always gone tight whenever their name was spoken.

And worse—Lyra.

Her sister, already bound to Moonfang’s Alpha. Her sister, who still hadn’t completed the bond and cried into her pillow at night when she thought Aria was asleep.

How could she tell her this?

How could she even begin to explain?

Aria stumbled back from the border, her breath catching in her throat. Her knees trembled, her vision blurred. The forest around her seemed to close in—shadows stretching long and low, the wind pressing cold fingers along the nape of her neck.

“I can’t,” she whispered to the trees, to the border, to the wolf already too deeply etched into her soul. “I can’t want this. I won’t.”

But even as the words left her lips, she knew they were a lie.

Because her wolf had already chosen.

And in the depths of her chest, in that sacred, feral space she kept hidden from everyone else, she knew the truth:

She wasn’t just being pulled toward him.

She already belonged to him.

And that terrified her more than anything.