Chapter Nine – The Intervention

The room smelled like roses and smoke.

Eira stood by the fire, the hem of her robe brushing the tops of her feet, its silk too thin to shield her from the chill burrowed deep in her bones. Candlelight licked the walls in soft trembles, casting long shadows across velvet and wood. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was expectant. Smothering.

She kept her hands clasped in front of her, trying to breathe past the ache in her throat.

When the door creaked open, she didn’t flinch—but everything inside her recoiled.

He entered like he owned the room. Like he’d been here before. Like he’d done this before.

He didn’t speak.

Not a nod, not a smile. Just the sound of expensive boots on old wood and the weight of his gaze as he stopped in front of her.

She could smell him—something sharp and spiced, beneath the overwhelming scent of expectation.

His fingers brushed the sash at her waist. Not tenderly. Not cruelly. Just efficiently. As if she were packaging to be opened.

The robe fell open with a soft sigh.

She gasped and instinctively tried to close it, but his hand caught her wrist.

He circled her once. Not looking at her—through her. Jaw tight. Hands poised. Like a man inspecting merchandise.

Then he gripped her arm and shoved her onto the bed.

"Wait—" she said quickly, her voice trembling as she lifted a hand between them. "You don’t have to—let’s just talk a moment. Please."

For a heartbeat, she thought he might pause. That the words had touched something human in him.

But his eyes remained flat, unreadable.

She tried to push herself up, but his knee pressed between her thighs, and one hand forced her down by the shoulder.

There was no rush. Just the terrifying patience of someone who had all the power and none of the empathy.

He unfastened his belt.

Outside, the brothel murmured with its usual music: soft laughter, footsteps on worn stairs, clinking glasses.

Cass sat at the bar, posture too still, a glass of wine untouched in her hand. Her eyes flicked to the door the moment it opened.

Caius entered like a shadow torn loose from a storm.

He paused just inside the threshold, scanning the room absently—until the scent hit him.

Not perfume.

Not flesh.

Something wild.

Honeysuckle. Daisies. Winter.

It slammed into his chest and spread through his limbs like fire.

His wolf surged forward.

He turned, slow and sharp, his nose flaring.

"Mate," he breathed.

Cass’s glass clinked as she stood too fast. “Caius, wait—”

But he was already moving.

He strode down the hallway, following the scent with brutal certainty. Every step pulled tighter at the invisible thread tying him to her.

A sound.

Small. Broken.

A whimper.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t hesitate.

The door exploded inward beneath his boot.

The man on the bed didn’t have time to react before Caius’s hand closed around his throat and yanked him off Eira like he weighed nothing.

The room erupted into chaos.

Eira scrambled backward into the corner, the robe forgotten, limbs shaking, vision swimming. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

Flesh met fist.

Caius roared—something inhuman, something ancient—and punched again and again until the man beneath him was nothing but bone and blood and ruin.

Cass appeared behind him, eyes wide with horror and something close to vindication.

But Eira was already gone.

She grabbed her dress, her pouch of coins, the breath she’d been holding since she walked into the room.

Then she ran.

Down the hall.

Down the stairs.

Through the foyer.

Into the night.

She didn’t stop until the trees swallowed her whole, the darkness greeting her like an old friend.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t collapse.

She just kept running, deeper and deeper, until all she could hear was her breath and the memory of her name falling apart in the silence behind her.

Back in the room, Caius knelt over the lifeless body, his chest heaving, hands soaked in blood. His fists were still clenched, as if his body hadn't yet realized the fight was over. His eyes were wild, unfocused.

Cass stepped closer, her voice soft but urgent. "Caius—he’s dead. You have to stop. You have to come back."

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t seem to hear her.

His jaw locked. His shoulders coiled tighter.

"Where is she?" he growled.

Cass flinched. "She ran—"

Before she could finish, Caius moved.

He surged to his feet, heading for the door like a beast unleashed. Cass tried to block his path.

"You can’t chase her like this—she’s scared out of her mind—"

He grabbed her.

One hand clamped around her throat and pinned her to the wall with terrifying force. Her feet left the ground. She gasped, clawing at his wrist, but he didn’t squeeze—just held her there, trembling with restraint he barely possessed.

His eyes were glowing.

His voice, when it came, was a guttural snarl. "Where. Is. She."

Cass’s gaze didn’t leave his. Her lips parted. "If you go after her like this… you’ll lose her before you even know her."

For a long, dangerous second, Caius didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he released her.

Cass collapsed against the wall, coughing.

And Caius stood there, shaking, trying to breathe past the rage clawing through him.

But all he could taste was her.

All he could hear was her running.

His muscles twitched. Bones cracked beneath skin as the shift took him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t clean. It was violent, like the thing inside him had been waiting for too long, starved too long.

Flesh split. Cloth tore.

What rose from the blood-streaked floor wasn’t the sleek, silver wolf of legends. It was black as pitch, massive as a nightmare, eyes burning crimson. A creature born from shadows and vengeance.

Caius’s wolf snarled once—deep and guttural—and bolted through the shattered door.

The brothel erupted into chaos behind him, voices shouting, glass breaking.

But he didn’t stop.

He tore into the forest, drawn by the only thing that mattered.

Her.