Page 5 of To Carve A Wolf

Cloying sweetness, heavy and ripe, coated the air like too much perfume. My wolf growled low in my chest, restless, irritated. I sat up, the silk sheets sliding from my bare skin, and ran a hand through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots. My head throbbed, not from the alcohol—I could handle that—but from the scent. Her scent.

Tanya.

She lay sprawled beside me, tangled in the dark crimson sheets, one perfect leg thrown over the edge of the mattress. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Glossy brown hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled wine. Full lips, flushed from use. Dark eyes still closed in sleep. She was beautiful. Of course she was. One of the Blood Night pack's prized Omegas. Trained to please, bred to obey. But now that the night was over, she mademy skin crawl.

The room was wide, high-ceilinged, cold. Stone walls draped in tapestries, velvet too old to be rich anymore. The hearth burned low, casting a dim orange light across the marble floor. My armour hung on the chair, forgotten in last night’s haze, and the scent of wine, sweat, and sex clung to every surface.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, exhaling sharply. I should have sent her away last night.

But I had been drunk, distracted, riding the high of blood and power. She had been eager, pliant, everything I needed in the moment. But now?

Now I needed her gone. Her scent was in my sheets, on my skin, clawing at my lungs like a sickness. I stood, naked and unbothered by it, and walked to the basin. Cold water splashed over my face, a shock that cleared my head. In the mirror, I looked like myself again. Sharp. Controlled. Alpha.

Behind me, she stirred.

“Andros?”

I didn’t answer. Let her feel the silence. Let her understand what she was: temporary.

She sat up, the sheet slipping down to reveal the curve of her shoulder. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No.” I turned, slow and deliberate.

Her face fell, just slightly. She nodded and began to gather her things.

Good. Let her leave quietly. Let the scent fade. I needed air. And distance.

As I pulled the last strap tight, the scent of leather and steel wrapped around me like a second skin—familiar, grounding. But it was the memory of last night that truly stirred my blood.

Victory.

Not the hollow kind, not the tame declarations of banners raised or treaties signed. No. This was conquest, raw andabsolute. The Crescent Moon alpha—Arlen—had finally broken beneath my heel. For too long, that self-righteous mongrel paraded himself like some noble beast, cloaking weakness in tradition, hiding behind treaties and ceremony. But his fortress burned last night. His men—his legacy—were reduced to mangled corpses and black ash.

We stormed his mountain stronghold like a divine plague. My warriors howled through his halls, red with bloodlust, claw and blade ripping flesh from bone. The stone walls still wept with the blood of his pack, and the fire hadn’t stopped smouldering. I made him watch. Made him listen as I tore his legacy apart.

And now Arlen rots in chains in the deepest pit of my dungeon. Broken. Beaten. Silent.

His land is mine. His pack will kneel or die. But it wasn’t enough. He had four sons. Three of them I ended myself.

The first—oh, the arrogant little bastard—thought honour was a weapon. He challenged me in the great hall, sword drawn, chin raised like some storybook hero. I carved him open mid-sentence, spilled his guts across the marble while his own men watched. They didn’t cheer. They didn’t move. They knew what I was.

The second lunged at my Beta in the chaos of the siege. Brave, I’ll grant him that. But bravery means nothing without power. I caught him by the throat and crushed his windpipe with one hand. He gurgled like a hog before he died, eyes wide, the scent of his fear sour in the air.

The third ran.Coward.

He tried to vanish into the forest, thinking shadows would save him. But I am the shadow that stalks the trees. I hunted him myself—felt his heartbeat from a mile away. I waited until he thought he was safe, then took his head beneath the moon, bathed in silver light and fresh blood. I left his body for the crowsand brought his severed head back as a gift.

But the fourth…

The fourth slipped through the cracks. Too young. Too clever. Too lucky. No name on the wind. No scent on the air. A ghost.

Arlen refuses to speak of him. But I will tear the truth from his throat if I must. Bone by bone, I will break what remains of him until he begs to tell me.

This isn’t about territory anymore. This is about dominion. Legacy. Eradication. There will be no one left to challenge my claim. No son to avenge a fallen father. No name spoken in rebellion.

I will find him.

And when I do, I will make his end so absolute the gods themselves will avert their eyes.

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