Raven
The sun was blinding as I cracked my eyes open, but was quickly blotted out by a tall form stepping into view. I squinted, shielding my eyes with my arm as I looked up at him.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I began. “I-I think my helicopter crashed—”
“I can see that.”
The tall form’s voice was gruff, deep. He crouched, and the first thing I saw was an all-too-familiar symbol tattooed on his chest. Three claw marks across a wolf’s eye.
My gaze traveled up, and I saw that it wasn’t just one person, but several who were surrounding me; warriors, it seemed, judging from the spears clutched in their hands.
“Take the intruder to the cells,” the man ordered, drawing my attention back.
I could hardly speak, too enthralled by his face—a face I’d only ever seen once or twice on the news, but one that had seared itself into my mind. In person, he was even more roguishly handsome and terrifying all at once, with a chiseled jaw coated in stubble and a head of jet black hair pulled back into a bun to reveal shaved sides.
This was Neil.
The prince of the Lycans.
The barbaric military nation that hated us Werewolves.
“Stop! I’m not an intruder!” I cried out. “Does it even look like I’m an intruder?”
His black hair moving in the breeze. Cold blue eyes looked me up and down, taking in my skinny jeans and soaked crop top—so different from his shirtless torso and leather trousers. “You are one of those Werewolves from across the border. Your kind aren’t welcome here. You should know that.”
My eyes widened as three of those barbaric warriors advanced on me. Their hands were rough and callused as they hauled me to my feet, ignoring my pleas.
“Quiet, outsider,” one of the warriors grunted, then jabbed me in the ribs with the butt of his spear.
…
The Lycan cells were exactly what I expected: cold, damp, musty, and not at all like the jails and prisons in the Werewolf world.
It felt like stepping back in time. Torchlight flickered from braziers lining the cobblestone walls, bars made of iron, nothing but a straw-filled mattress and a bucket on the floor. I could already imagine what it would be like to die in here, although I tried to push the thought away.
I wouldn’t die here. I was famous back home—people would come looking for me. Once they realized that my helicopter went down so close to the Lycan lands, they’d know what had happened.
After all, Lycans were known for their warmongering society and their hatred for us Werewolves.
And everyone knew what they did to outsiders who wandered into their territory.
“Sit,” Neil commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
For a moment, I considered refusing his command—but I knew it would only make matters worse for me, so I obeyed and sat in the rickety wooden chair. Neil was silent as I took my seat, and if he noticed me shivering from my wet clothes, he didn’t mention it.
“State your true purpose for coming here, and maybe I’ll let you live,” he said plainly. His accent was thick and rolling, like velvet dragging across sand. It would have been an attractive sound, had he not been keeping me prisoner.
“I already told you,” I said, making no attempt to hide my exasperation. “I was going on vacation in the tropics. My helicopter got caught in a storm, we got thrown off course, and then crashed in the ocean. I must have washed up on your shore.”
I shuddered at what might have happened to the pilot. I wanted to think that he survived, but… Maybe that was a bit too hopeful.
Neil stared at me for a moment, considering. His blue eyes, narrowed beneath thick black eyebrows, seemed even more intense in the light of the torches.
His dark hair was down now to frame his square jaw, and he was wearing some kind of black fur cloak—although he was still shirtless beneath it, displaying those chiseled pecs and that strange tattoo in the center of his chest.
Damn, I thought. He was born into the wrong world; could have been a successful model back home.
“I don’t believe you,” he finally grunted.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You can look me up online,” I said, growing a bit desperate. “Like I said, I’m a model and entrepreneur. I’m not a spy or whatever you seem to think I am.”
The prince of the Lycans was silent for several long moments. Those blue eyes raked over me, studying me, appraising me.
When they flicked down to my chest and lingered there for a beat too long, it was only then that I realized my shirt was almost entirely see-through from the water. My face heated, and I quickly covered myself with my arms.
“We don’t have your ‘internet’ here,” he finally said, rising from his chair. If he looked enormous on the beach, then he looked even bigger now—almost as if he hardly even fit in this small interrogation room. “I cannot ‘look you up’. So how should I believe what you say?”
I flushed again, recalling the things I’d heard about the Lycans—that they were off the grid, no internet or electricity and no apparent desire for any of those things. Apparently, they hated us for having those things; saw us as frivolous and shallow for them.
“Look, I don’t know what to tell you,” I said. “But it’s the truth. I am who I say I am.”
“You may fabricate your identity all you want,” he continued, taking slow strides as he rounded the table, “but I know you are a spy.”
“Then you must be just as paranoid and out of your mind as they say,” I retorted, even though I knew I shouldn’t. “But I have no interest in indulging your paranoia. Do I even look like a spy?” As I spoke, I gestured down to myself again.
Neil paused once he reached my side of the table, his gaze roaming over me once more.
His eyes lingered on my jeans, my dainty white Lululemon crop top, the delicate little gold necklace that had somehow stayed on during the crash, the platinum blonde hair that was usually flowing in soft waves down my back but was now matted and dripping with saltwater, the mascara running down my cheeks.
I even let myself shiver a little harder just to drive the point home.
“I’m a peace lover,” I said, standing to meet his gaze. “I’m not interested in your brutish society. I just want to be lounging by the pool right now with a cold drink with one of those little umbrellas in it, not ‘spying’.”
The prince scoffed—or chuckled, it was hard to tell—and suddenly reached out to grab my chin. I tried to jerk away, but it was no use; he was too strong.
“Indeed,” he said, his face mere inches from mine now as he turned my head this way and that to inspect me. “You do look rather frail and delicate. Your kind truly did waste their time in sending a pathetic little thing to spy on my people.”
“Prick,” I snarled under my breath.
A low growl rumbled in the prince’s throat at that. He forcefully turned my head to make me look at him, eyes flashing. I willed my fangs to release, but they only dropped a little—my wolf was too weak after the crash.
But she wasn’t too weak to sense what he was to me.
And if the sudden look of shock in those blue eyes was any indication, then he felt it, too.
This brute was my fated mate.
