When I was little, there was a hidden waterfall I visited almost every day.

  It was not grand or impressive. There were no roaring cascades or sweeping views, just a narrow spill of water tumbling over smooth stone into a shallow pool. But it was quiet. Safe. It felt like it belonged only to me.

  I was always curious about it. There was no visible river or stream feeding it, yet even in the height of summer it never ran dry. I used to wonder where the water came from and why it felt different there, cooler somehow, calmer. As if the place itself was alive and breathing.

  One afternoon when I was nine, I followed the familiar path through the trees and nearly turned back the moment I reached the clearing.

  At the edge of the pool lay a dark mound of fur.

  As I crept closer, my breath caught. It was a bear cub, no bigger than a large dog, curled up and fast asleep. He must have wandered down for a drink and decided to rest in the shade. He looked peaceful. Harmless.

  I hesitated, my mother’s warnings echoing in my head. Baby bears were never alone. Mothers were fiercely protective. I told myself to leave quietly, to back away slowly.

  I turned.

  And found myself face to face with his mother.

  She was enormous. Taller than me even on all fours, her dark eyes blazing with fury. I froze, my mind scrambling uselessly through half remembered instructions.

  Do I run?

  Not run?

  Play dead?

  No. Do not play dead.

  My heart pounded so loudly I was sure she could hear it. My knees threatened to buckle, but my body refused to move. I stood there, small and helpless, staring into the eyes of something that could end my life in seconds.

  The bear reared up and roared.

  A scream tore from my throat before I could stop it. Her paw slashed through the air. Pain exploded across my side. Then the world went black.

  I do not remember much after that.

  Only the sensation of being lifted. Cradled against a solid chest. The sound of steady footsteps moving through the forest. Leaves rustling. Birds still singing, as if nothing terrible had just happened.

  I remember a voice.

  Low. Deep. Male.

  I could not understand the words. They sounded strange, unfamiliar, like a language I had never heard before. Yet somehow, it was comforting. Reassuring. As if I was being told everything would be all right.

  When I woke, I was in my bed.

  My wounds were bandaged. My body sore but alive. My mother burst into my room moments later, frantic and pale, demanding to know what had happened. No one had seen me enter the house. No one had heard footsteps or doors opening. No one could explain how I had been carried home.

  To this day, no one knows who saved me.

  The memory fades as warmth seeps back into my awareness.

  The soft crackle of fire reaches my ears first.

  My eyes flutter open slowly, vision blurring before sharpening inch by inch. Above me is a stone ceiling threaded with thick roots, the rock darkened by smoke. I try to sit up, but my body protests. Every muscle aches, heavy and sore, as if I have been pushed far past my limits.

  When I manage to lift myself, the fur blanket wrapped around me slips.

  I gasp and clutch it to my chest, suddenly aware that I am naked beneath it.

  My heart begins to race.

  I scan my surroundings, pulse thudding in my ears. The space is small but deliberate. A cave, yes, but one made livable. A low wooden table stands near the wall with a block of wood in place of a chair. A fire burns steadily in the corner beneath a narrow opening in the ceiling that lets smoke escape. A pot rests on a flat stone near the flames, steam curling gently into the air.

  The scent hits me all at once.

  Rich and savory. Herbs and meat. Warmth and comfort.

  My stomach clenches painfully as I realize just how hungry I am.

  I take a deep inhale and let myself savor the scent for a single moment, but clarity crashes back into me all at once.

  The cliff.

  The water.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The black wolf.

  Azrael.

  Kellan.

  The pack screaming my name.

  I am not here by choice.

  Panic jolts through me and I sit up too fast, pain flaring through my muscles. The blanket slips away and I freeze. Naked. Exposed. My heart slams painfully against my ribs as I scramble to cover myself, scanning the cave desperately for anything to wear.

  A large flannel shirt rests on a stone nearby.

  I grab it and yank it over my head. It hangs off me awkwardly, far too big, the sleeves brushing my thighs. It will have to do.

  I need to escape.

  I bolt toward the faint glow at the cave entrance and crash straight into something solid.

  Arms lock around me instantly.

  I look up and find Azrael standing there, towering and unmoving, a low growl vibrating through his chest.

  “Let me go,” I shout, struggling wildly. “What do you want with me?”

  He does not answer.

  Instead, he turns me away from the exit and forces me deeper into the cave. I twist and fight, but his grip does not falter. In one smooth movement, he lifts me off the ground as if I weigh nothing and carries me toward the bed.

  Fear explodes inside me.

  I strike his face with my fist. His head barely moves. A thin line of blood appears at his lip.

  He stops walking.

  Looks down at me.

  Assessing.

  Then he tosses me onto the bed.

  This is it, my mind screams.

  I scramble backward on the bed until stone presses against my spine. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I try to dart past him, but he catches my ankle easily and drags me back.

  In seconds, he has me pinned. His legs brace on either side of mine. One massive hand traps both my wrists above my head. I fight him with everything I have, kicking, twisting, snarling like a cornered animal.

  It is useless.

  He is furious. I can smell it on him. Irritation. Restraint. Something dark and tightly leashed. But he does not show it.

  Then his gaze changes.

  Not hunger.

  Not cruelty.

  Control.

  His grip loosens slightly. He studies me, breathing slow and measured. And then that scent hits me again. His scent. Dangerous and intoxicating all at once.

  My wolf stirs beneath my skin, confused and traitorous, urging me closer when every rational thought tells me to fight.

  He leans down, not touching, only close enough that I feel his heat. He inhales slowly near my neck and a low vibration rolls through his chest, sending a shiver through me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Metal clicks.

  My eyes snap open.

  A chain now circles my wrists, locked into the stone above my head.

  Shock steals my breath.

  “You cannot do this,” I snap, yanking against the restraints. “I am the future Luna of Pack Vale. Betrothed to future Alpha Kellan Vale. They will come for me.”

  Azrael straightens, releasing me completely. He wipes the blood from his lip with his thumb, expression almost amused. A smirk curls at the edge of his mouth.

  “I would like to see them try,” he says calmly. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

  His words echo relentlessly through my mind.

  Was this a trap?

  Was I the bait?

  Would he really kill the Vales if they came for me?

  Would he kill my parents?

  The thoughts spiral dark and invasive until I barely notice him move.

  I startle when he steps close and sets a bowl of steaming soup on the small table beside the bed.

  The scent reaches me instantly.

  My stomach twists painfully. I have not eaten since the transformation, and the hunger is overwhelming. Gnawing. Raw.

  Before I can stop myself, I grab the bowl and shovel spoonfuls into my mouth, heat and flavor flooding my senses.

  It is incredible.

  Venison. Sage. Thyme. Cardamom. Bay leaf. Wild carrots and parsnips.

  Each bite eases the tension in my muscles, soothes something deep inside me, and dulls the sharp edge of fear just a fraction. I barely realize I am eating until the bowl is empty and I am staring down at it in dismay.

  The hunger is better.

  But it is not gone.

  I look up to find Azrael watching me, a faint trace of amusement in his expression.

  Heat rushes to my face as I wipe at my mouth and the stew drippings on my shin, forcing myself to sit upright.

  “Is there more?” I ask quietly.

  Without a word, he steps forward.

  I flinch instinctively, but he does not touch me. He simply takes the bowl from my hands, turns away, refills it, and places it back in front of me.

  I eat more slowly this time. Carefully.

  Between bites, I glance up at him.

  “So why am I here?” I ask. “Is this some kind of trap? Are you using me to get to the Vales? They are smart. They won’t fall for tricks.”

  He does not answer.

  Frustration creeps in. “If you are going to kidnap me, you could at least answer my questions. Am I just a pawn to you? Some twisted piece in a revenge game?”

  “No.”

  The word is simple. Final.

  He nods toward the bowl. “How is the stew?”

  I blink, thrown completely off balance.

  “What?”

  “Your favorite,” he says calmly. “Venison.”

  The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth.

  My breath catches.