North’s POV

It started with a pulse.

Not in my head. Not even in my chest.

Lower. Deeper.

A flicker of warmth at the base of my spine that spread like a slow-moving fever, heavy and quiet, until I couldn’t breathe properly anymore.

The scent-blocking oils had faded.

And his presence…

Gods.

It was like he’d wrapped around the edges of the forest. Like the trees whispered with his breath. Like the shadows knew his shape and followed me when I moved.

I couldn’t see him.

But I felt him.

Everywhere.

I had boarded up the windows. Tied three strips of garlic and salt at every threshold, like my grandmother once taught me. And still, his scent was there. Ghosting through the air like a song I couldn’t stop hearing.

My head throbbed.

My chest ached.

My wolf paced.

And heat — real, true heat — began its cruel ascent.

I tried to fight it.

I chanted grounding techniques in my head, curled up in the farthest corner of the cabin, chewing through the last bits of bitterroot I had packed for emergencies. I drank water until I vomited. I shoved a wet rag under my shirt and begged the rising warmth to stop.

It didn’t.

By nightfall, I was shaking.

My body knew what was happening before I admitted it. My wolf whimpered, desperate for something — someone — that I refused to name.

Alpha

That word wasn’t from me. It came from the place I tried so hard to bury.

The primal part.

My wolf.

Alpha. Come

“No,” I said out loud. “No, no, no. He’s not mine.”

But the bond vibrated.

He heard me.

I don’t know how. I don’t want to know.

But I felt it — the way his attention sharpened the moment my defenses dropped. The way his presence in the distance pulled taut, like a thread yanked by a predator ready to pounce.

I scrambled to my feet, dizzy and half-lost in the fog of my body, and reached for my satchel.

There were still places I could run. Still one more path I hadn’t taken.

Home.

If I could get past the southern ridge, cross the old orchard paths and make it to the riverbed, my uncle’s hawk posts could spot me. Our runners would come.

They always did.

My family had promised. If I ever called, ever ran, they would come.

So I ran.

I didn’t shift. I couldn’t — not in this state. My limbs were shaky, my breath shallow, and my scent was a beacon now. Sweet. Hot. Unmistakable.

I was burning from the inside out.

It took everything I had to keep moving. Every branch that scraped me, every stone that caught my foot, every rise of terrain tried to drag me back down.

But I ran harder.

Because I felt him moving too.

Not close. Not yet.

But near enough that my instincts trembled with anticipation.

He wasn’t chasing me. Not in the way I expected.

No, he was waiting.

Letting me run myself ragged. Letting my fear boil over until it became need. He was starving me of choice — not by force, but by presence.

A psychological hunt.

And I was losing.

By dawn, I had collapsed near the riverbank.

I was half-conscious, curled under a rock ledge, shirt soaked through with sweat and the smell of my heat dripping from every pore. I was too weak to call out. Too ashamed to howl.

But I remembered the tiny silver whistle sewn into the hem of my jacket — the one they gave me when I was a boy.

I fumbled with clumsy fingers, pulled it free, and blew once.

Then twice.

Then—

A shadow moved in the trees above.

I froze.

My vision swam.

Please, I thought. Let it be them. Not him. Not him.

I closed my eyes.

And passed out.

I woke hours later in the back of a transport van.

Blankets. Wolf-fur lined. My mother’s scent. My cousin’s arm around my shoulders. The hum of home in the air.

Safe.

I sobbed and couldn’t stop.

For the first time since I left the city, I was surrounded by people who loved me.

But I also knew something had changed.

I could feel it in my blood.

The bond wasn’t broken.

If anything, it was stronger.

And even here — miles away — I still felt him.

Waiting.