The Nachtwald Pack was born from blood, forged in war, and bound by the Moon herself. For centuries, they ruled the dark forests of the north, their dominion stretching from the frozen peaks of the Blackwood Mountains to the wild rivers that cut through the land like veins of silver.
Their leader, Ronan Volkhar, was the fiercest alpha in generations. A warlord draped in shadows, a beast of fury and fangs. Under his rule, the Nachtwald wolves thrived—until the vampires came.
The Sanguine Order was not just any vampire clan. They were an ancient cult, born from the first blood-drinkers, their thirst unending, their hatred of werewolves eternal. Unlike lesser vampires, who fed on humans to survive, the Sanguine Order had discovered something far worse—werewolf blood made them stronger.
And so, the war began.
It started with whispers of missing wolves. Scouts never returning from patrols. Then came the bodies—ripped open, drained, left to rot under the pale moonlight. The Volkhar pack retaliated, hunting the leeches across the forests, burning their lairs, ripping them apart with fang and claw.
But no matter how many they slaughtered, the vampires only grew bolder.
Now, Nachtwald burned.
Ronan stood at the heart of his territory, his boots soaked in blood, his golden eyes fixed on the battlefield before him. His warriors clashed with the undead, their howls shaking the earth. Steel met flesh. Claws tore through bone. The once-mighty wolves of his pack lay dead in the snow, their throats gaping, their hearts torn from their chests.
The vampires were winning.
Beside him, Darius, his beta, wiped a streak of black blood from his jaw. "We can't hold them much longer." His voice was rough, laced with exhaustion. "They're too many, Ronan."
Ronan didn't respond. His gaze flickered to the full moon overhead, his jaw clenched. Where was the Moon Goddess? Had she abandoned them? Had she left her wolves to be slaughtered like cattle?
Then the mark appeared.
A searing pain ripped through his chest, like claws raking through his very soul. He staggered back, gripping his ribs as fire pulsed through his veins. The battlefield faded, the howls of his dying warriors drowned out by a single whisper—
Elena Moreau.
A name. A scent. A vision of soft skin, dark eyes, human warmth. His mate.
Ronan's snarl shook the ground.
He had prayed for a mate—a strong, ruthless she-wolf, a warrior fit to rule at his side. But this? A human? The Moon Goddess had mocked him, cursed him with weakness.
No. I refuse her.
Pain struck like lightning. His knees hit the dirt as the Moon Goddess's voice filled his skull.
"Reject your mate, and your pack will perish."
His wolves collapsed around him, clutching their heads as darkness wrapped around them. Their link to the moon severed. Their strength, fading.
A curse.
His teeth ground together. "You would punish me for refusing a human?"
The voice of the Goddess was cold. "Accept her, and you may yet survive."
Ronan's breathing was ragged, his rage barely contained.
A human mate. He hated her already.
But he had no choice.
If he wanted to save his pack, he had to claim her.
And he would.
By force.