THREE

The moans of pain grow louder the deeper into the forest I travel. They say you know when one of your own is hurt. It’s like their pain is your pain. You feel it in your veins, with each beat of your heart.

And it hurts like hell.

My heart feels as if it’s being pulled from my chest, my lungs burning with each breath I take.

But I know I am getting closer.

The trees envelope me in their canopy overhead, and the sky is starting to grow dark. But nothing will make me turn back and head for home. Not when one of my own is in pain and needs my help. I could never live with the guilt if I left them out here to die.

But the air is growing cold. I shiver, goosebumps littering my flesh.

I’m not sure what I plan to do when I find whoever is injured. With nothing but a knife and my bow, I’m almost as helpless, but I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

I cannot be the one to bring death to the pack for my own recklessness. We knew the threat of the rogues was in the air, and I still sent my pack out into the forest in groups that were too small to take them on.

Tears sting my eyes as I think of what I will have to say to Hunter when I return to the pack house. I cannot have their blood on my hands unless I have done everything in my power to save them.

I pray I wasn’t too late.

Light starts to seep in through the canopy ahead. The trees part in front of me and I force my way through the undergrowth into a moonlit clearing. The dew-covered grass appears to be covered in a layer of silver as the light from the moon above reflects off the dewdrops.

I almost sigh in relief at the sight of it.

But a shadow flickers on the ground and I freeze, my bow already poised and ready to shoot.

The all-too familiar black leather with the silver raven emblem of the rogues stitched into the back comes into view, making my head spin.

A rogue called me here. . .

It’s clearly a male from the broadness of the shoulders and the cropped dark hair. Blood soaks his left arm, and I could see from the way the shoulders heave with each breath that he is in pain.

I can’t seem to move. All I have to do is release the silver arrow and it would land in his back, piercing his heart. He would be dead in seconds.

But I can’t shake the ache in my chest at the sight of him bent double in pain from the visible wound in his arm.

But why? I should feel nothing for this male before me. If anything, the sight of him injured should make me sigh with relief that I am in no danger.

Yet relief doesn’t show itself.

It is said that whether you are a gamma, beta, or alpha, your pack’s blood is your blood. They bleed, you bleed. That was why I had been so certain it was one of us who lay injured in the forest somewhere. That I was being pulled by one of my own.

Not a rogue. Not the enemy.

I had left my pack to fend for themselves, betrayed by what I thought was an instinct.

I almost vomit at the thought of what Hunter will do if I ever make it back to the pack house and he learns of what happened here.

It seems my own body had been tricked.

My knees buckle beneath me as I realise what I have done. I manage to put my hand out in time to break my fall, but the gasp that escapes my lips echoes throughout the clearing and the rogue is on his feet in an instant.

He is tall, perhaps even taller than Hunter, and just as broad. Even with the leathers, the muscular physique was very visible. His dark hair sticks to his forehead with sweat, his breath coming in heavy pants. There are multiple slashes in his leathers along both of his arms, blood soaking them red. He is more wounded than I thought. It will be an easy kill if I could gather myself enough to knock back an arrow.

As I raise my head and take him in, I cannot miss the confusion on his face at the sight of me here, so far away from everyone else.

My head feels light, my limbs heavy. I stumble as I climb to my feet, almost falling once more. My bow lies beside me, almost forgotten from where I collapsed – the silver arrow glistening in the light of the moon overhead.

Everything in me is screaming to stop as I reach for my bow and grab the last arrow in my quiver. Every instinct I have is telling me to walk away, to not harm the man before me.

It is my duty to protect my pack. To protect my own.

I repeat the words over and over in my head as I knock the arrow and take aim at the lone rogue.

But as I let my eyes fall to his face, his eyes lock with mine and it’s as if the world stops.

I can’t hear, can’t smell, can’t see anything but him.

Him.

My hands shake, but I can’t bring myself to look away, the arrow rattling against the wood of my bow.

My body is numb. Not even my heartbeat rings in my ears as I grip the arrow tighter between my second and third fingers.

He raises his hands, eyes widening as he realises I’m not going to lower my weapon. His lips part, to speak the word that I knew in my heart to be true the moment his eyes met mine.

“Mate,” I whisper, a silver arrow still aimed at his heart.