Page 16 of To Carve A Wolf

Their eyes turned to me in perfect, choreographed unison. Narrowed. Assessing. Disgusted. As if I was something feral, something unwashed and rabid dragged in from the snow. Their lips curled, but none of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

I met their stares without flinching. I had seen those eyes before. On my sisters. On my mother. On the mirror, once.

They were everything I had fled. Everything I had refused to become.

Pretty cages wrapped in perfume and pearls. I could almost hear the voices of my sisters in the lilts of their posture—soft and simpering, trained to purr when spoken to, to preen and bow and smile sweetly when offered a collar. Taught that heat was their worth. That submission was safety. I didn’t hate them because they were weak. I hated them because they chose it.

And then there was him.

The man standing among them, just slightly apart—an Alpha, clearly, but lower in the packs rank than Andros. He wore deep crimson with silver accents, his coat lined in dark wolf fur, one gloved hand resting lazily on the hilt of a ceremonial dagger. His hair was dark, swept back and tied with a strip of fine leather, but what caught my eye—what burned it into memory—was the thin, silver ring pierced through his right eyebrow. A strange, deliberate choice. One I wouldn’t forget.

He didn’t look at me like the Omegas did. He smirked. Amused. Curious. Like he’d just spotted something weak and thought it might be fun to destroy it.

The Beta beside me chuckled, catching the edge of my scowl. “Not one for polite company, are you?”

I didn’t answer. But my fingers itched for a blade.

“I’ve never cared much for pets,” I muttered.

He laughed, deep and genuine. “Oh, he’s going to like you.”

As the great doors at the end of the hall loomed closer—carved with wolves in mid-hunt, jaws open, teeth bared—I felt the pressure in the air change.

The Alpha was near. And whatever waited behind those doors would not be kind. The doors groaned open, and the war room swallowed me whole.

Warmth wrapped around me like a false promise—thick and fragrant, heavy with the scent of firewood, cured leather, and roasted meat. Braziers lined the walls, casting golden light over polished stone and fur-covered floors. A map stretched across the centre table, littered with blood-red markers and metal figurines. A fire roared behind the Alpha’s throne—because that’s what it was, no matter how much he pretended it was just a chair. And there he was.

Andros.The Alpha of the Blood Night Pack. He stood with his back to me at first, one hand resting on the edge of the war table, the other gripping a goblet. When he turned, I felt it. That same pressure.

He was tall—taller than I remembered, though I’d only seen him for a few heartbeats before he’d wrapped his hand around my throat. Broad shoulders wrapped in dark fur, a tunic of deep crimson stretched tight over his chest, the fabric moulded to muscle built for war, not ornament. His belt was black leather, adorned with silver buckles and a sheathed dagger that glinted like it missed blood. Scars peeked from the edges of his collar. He didn’t hide what he was. Heworeit.

And his eyes… dark blue, like storm-lit oceans and midnight skies—depthless, unreadable, watching me like I was something already half-devoured, and he hadn’t yet decided if he was done.

“Alpha,” the Beta said, bowing his head slightly. “She’s here.”

Andros didn’t speak right away. Just stared. Like he was trying to pull the truth from my marrow with sheer will.

“Sit,” he said finally, his voice a low command wrapped in velvet and blade.

A single chair waited for me, positioned directly across from him. It looked almost comfortable—carved wood, wolf pelts draped across the back, warm from the fire. I didn’t move.

“You’d rather stand?” the Beta asked, a brow raised.

“I’d rather starve,” I muttered.

Andros smirked and took a slow sip from his goblet. “That can be arranged.”

I sat. But I didn’t relax. I didn’t care that it was warm, or that food was close enough to smell. I didn’t care that the furs were soft or the air didn’t bite. Luxury was just another kind of trap. Andros set his goblet down with a quiet clink.

“Who sent you?” he asked, tone deceptively casual. “Crescent Moon? One of the southern packs? Someone playing at politics in my territory?”

“No one sent me.”

He raised a brow, leaned forward slightly. “You expect me to believe you wandered into my land byaccident?”

“I didn’t wander. I was surviving.”

He chuckled, dark and low. “You fight like a soldier. Mask your scent like a spy. And yet you expect me to believe you’re just some poor, starving bitch on the run?”

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