Bound to the Enemy’s Bed

The smell of blood filled the cool evening air long before the scouts came back.

Elaria Veyne stopped moving at the healer's table, and her fingers tightened around the pestle she was using to crush. The familiar metallic taste made her stomach turn. Blood always signaled terrible news.

The mist outside hung to the pine trees like a suffocating veil, and the pack's meeting place was filled with the low buzz of scared voices. The Veyne Pack was used to the heavy, exhausted silence that came over the wolves when they were too hungry, hurt, or broken to talk. But tonight, there were whispers. Nervous, restless whispers that meant something had happened.

“Elaria!”

Rhyven Solace stormed into the tent, and the flap flew open. His normally placid visage was now rigid with worry. Sweat saturated his bronze-brown hair, which was plastered to his forehead, and his green eyes were burning with rage.

“You need to come. Now.”

Her heart sank. She dropped the pestle and rubbed her hands on her apron to calm down. “Who’s hurt? Is it bad?”

It took him a moment to consider it, long enough for her healer to notice.

At last, he said behind his back, "He is not one of ours." The only person who can assist him, though, is you.

She blinked at him. “Then why would I care? You know the rules, Rhyven. We don’t waste herbs and time on strangers when our own wolves are starving.”

His jaw flexed. “This isn’t just a stranger.”

Irritation flared in her chest. “If you’ve dragged me away from my work for some wounded rogue”

Rhyven’s hand shot out, catching her wrist. His hold was strong but not rough, and his emerald eyes searched hers with such intensity that it felt her stomach tighten. "You might want to see this.”

His voice worried her for some reason. She did it anyway, when fully aware she might be doing the wrong thing.

Outside, the mist enveloped the camp, blotting out what little sunlight remained. The air was heavy with tension, and she saw that the other wolves did not look at her as they moved across the field. Rather, their gaze continued to wander uneasily toward the huddle of fighters on the camp's perimeter.

“Rhyven,” she said, her steps quickening. “Who is it?”

He didn’t answer.

As they got closer, the crowd moved aside, and Elaria's breath caught.

A man lay on the ground with Veyne soldiers all around him, holding their weapons fiercely. Despite being hurt and unconscious, he looked strong. His clothing was torn and soaked in blood, and muck covered his big shoulders. There were claw marks on his strong chest.

But his face made her stop in her tracks.

The sharp cut of his jaw. The dark lashes on skin that has been tanned by the sun. The way even in unconsciousness, he looked… dangerous.

Elaria’s heart slammed against her ribs, fury rising so fast she could taste it.

Draven Kaelith.

The name was a curse, a poison.

The Alpha who had destroyed her family. The ruthless leader of the Kaelith Pack who had burned their future to ash and slaughtered her father in the war. The reason her people starved every winter.

Her voice was sharp when it finally tore free. “Kill him.”

The warriors murmured their appreciation, but Rhyven's jaw stiffened.

He answered, "We can't.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say.”

“He’s unconscious. And…” Rhyven glanced at the men watching them, lowering his voice. “He’s not himself, El. The scouts found him like this, ambushed by rogues. He’s… weak. Disoriented. He doesn’t even smell like an Alpha right now.”

Her hands curled into fists. “And you want me to save him? After what he’s done to us? To me?”

“I want you to buy us time,” Rhyven countered, his tone hard. “If he dies, we learn nothing. But if you keep him alive, maybe he talks. Maybe we find out why the rogues are getting bolder, why Kaelith patrols are moving closer to our borders.”

Elaria glared at him, anger crackling under her skin. “So I’m supposed to keep the devil alive for the sake of strategy?”

Rhyven’s gaze softened for a moment. “You’re the only one who can. Please, El.”

Her throat tightened, not with sympathy, but with rage she didn’t know how to release.

She turned her gaze back to Draven, her hatred colliding with… something she didn’t want to name.

He emanated power, even while he was hurt and bloody. Her wolf moved about under her skin in a way that made her stomach turn, as if it knew he was there.

No. No. He’s the enemy. He killed Father.

Even though she was upset, Elaria's healer instincts took over and she knelt beside him. Feeling for a heartbeat, she put her palm on his chest. Her contact made his skin hot and sweaty, and his heart pounded steadily but weakly.

His eyelids began to flicker suddenly.

When the molten gold's eyes opened, they were blurry and unfocused. They gazed at her as though she were the sole object in the universe.

He said in a raspy, low voice, "Mate..." and then dozed off once more.

The word hit her like a physical blow.

With her palm shaking and her heart racing as quickly as it could, Elaria jerked back.

No. No, no, no. Not that guy. Not this.

“Elaria?” Rhyven’s voice was cautious. “What is it?”

She made her face look frigid to hide how much her heart was pounding and how much it hurt.

“Nothing,” she said, getting up. Her speech was firm, but her heart was pounding in her ears. “Get him tied up and moved to my quarters. If he’s going to live, he’s doing it where I can watch him.”

Rhyven frowned. “Your quarters? That’s too dangerous”

She gave him a frown, and he stopped talking. "If he wakes up, I want to know first. I will murder him first if he does anything.

The soldiers lifted Draven's unconscious body in obedience.

Elaria's fingers moved across her apron as they took him away, and her heart was still beating from hearing that one phrase.

Mate.

And no matter how much she loathed him, her wolf kept saying the same thing over and over.