Chapter 3 I Want Her

(Hilda)

My eyes lock with Soren’s. 

I wait. I wait for him to say no. 

For him to step between us. For him to remember he loved me.

But all I get is silence. Then, quietly—too quietly—he speaks.

“Fine.”

That word. That word detonates inside my chest. 

A simple syllable, and my world collapses.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Doesn’t care.

Damon steps forward and grabs my arm. His touch is branding. 

I try to yank free, but I’m too weak.

“You see?” Damon hisses in my ear. “Nobody’s coming for you. You’re mine now.”

“No,” I whisper. “No, I’m not.”

His grip tightens. “Oh, but you are. And I’m going to enjoy breaking that defiant little spark.”

I twist back to Soren. “You’re really going to let him do this?” I ask, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. “After everything? After us?”

Soren doesn’t flinch. “This is what’s best. You need to let go, Hilda.”

Let go?

I let go alright.

Of him. Of Alec. Of any illusion that I was ever anything but disposable to them.

The warriors lead me away like a prisoner. 

As I’m dragged toward the edge of the celebration, I look back one last time.

Cerelia is radiant in her ceremonial dress. 

Soren stands beside her, stoic and unbothered. 

Alec’s already walking away.

The music swells again. Laughter rises.

And I disappear unnoticed, unmissed.

Damon leans in close, his voice thick with venom. “You’re going to wish you died on that battlefield.”

I don’t answer. I can’t trust myself not to scream.

***

The air in the cabin Damon threw me in is damp and stifling, filled with the scent of old blood and rotting wood.

Damon looms above me, smug and unhurried, like a man who knows his power is absolute at the moment. 

He crouches in front of me, and I meet his eyes, daring him to strike the first blow. 

He doesn’t. That would be too easy. Too merciful.

Instead, he leans in close, his voice smooth and sickening. “Still holding onto that pride, huh? That’s fine. I’ll enjoy watching it break.”

I spit on his face.

His expression darkens, and he grips my jaw, not hard enough to bruise yet, but enough to show he could. 

“You’re not one of your pack anymore. There’s no one here who will protect you.”

I twist my head away, but he laughs and lets go. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t mark you. You’re not good enough for that. But you’ll be useful. I have plans for you.”

Damon slams the door shut behind him, the sound echoing like a sentence. 

My breath catches in my throat, the rage, pain, and horror boiling together like acid in my veins. 

I scream. Not because I think anyone will hear me, but because I need to feel something other than helplessness. 

The sound tears from my throat, primal and broken, and still it isn’t enough.

I rock forward, my arms wrapped around my knees as I try to keep myself together. 

This isn’t the end. It can’t be.

My heart pounds, not from fear, no, I won’t give Damon that satisfaction. 

Outside, the sounds of celebration fade into laughter and music. 

Cerelia's Luna coronation. 

The perfect ending to a nightmare. 

Everyone rejoicing while I’m dragged into hell.

***

When the door finally creaks open again, it’s not food or mercy that greets me. 

It’s two of Damon’s men, wearing grins that make my stomach turn. 

They grab me without a word, dragging me out into the night and throwing me down onto the icy ground.

At first, I savor the open air. After so long inside, even the wind feels like freedom. 

But that illusion shatters the moment I look up.

More than a dozen of Damon’s warriors stand in a semi-circle around me, bows in hand, arrows already notched. 

Their eyes gleam with bloodlust.

A sick feeling crawls up my spine.

“What… what is this?” I ask, though I already know.

One of them steps forward, sneering. “Alpha Damon thought the King might enjoy a little entertainment before his arrival. Said you’d make a fitting tribute. An old warrior shewolf with nothing left but her pride.”

Laughter echoes through the trees, but I’m too horrified to speak.

“He said King Arlo used to hunt rogues for sport,” another one adds, eyes shining. “Thought he’d appreciate the gesture. A nice warm-up before the coronation banquet.”

They’re not just trying to kill me.

They’re giving me as a gift. Like meat thrown to a beast.

My heart races, and my limbs tremble. Not just from the cold, but from sheer, primal fear. 

I know I can’t outrun them, not like this. Not after a year locked away. 

But some stubborn, furious part of me refuses to die on my knees.

“We’ll give you a head start,” a third man says, drawing his bow. 

“Be a good dog and run.”

The moment the word “run” leaves his lips, I shift. 

Bones snap, fur explodes across my skin, and I dart into the woods like a shadow.

The forest blurs around me as I race through the night, my paws barely making a sound against the frozen ground. 

Arrows whistle past me, slicing through branches and bark. 

One grazes my shoulder, another lodges in my thigh. 

But I don’t stop. I can’t.

“Don’t let her escape!” A voice shouts from behind me. The urgency in their voices spurs me on. 

Somewhere behind me, I hear them whooping and shouting like children chasing a wounded animal.

“This one’s for Arlo!” someone yells.

Tears sting my eyes as I run. That name used to sound like a war drum—Alpha King Arlo, a creature made of rage and battlefield scars.

But right now, all I can think is: if that’s true… if the legends are real… I’m already dead.

Still, I run.