Chapter 32 – The Mate’s Peril
The battlefield was a cacophony of snarls, howls, and the clash of claws against flesh. Blood scented the air, mingling with the acrid smoke from the burning torches that had been knocked over in the chaos. Rowan, in his massive black wolf form, fought with relentless fury, his focus solely on protecting his pack.
Despite the surprise attack at a moment when the pack was unprepared and celebrating, the pack fought valiantly. Warriors rallied to defend their kin, forming protective circles around the vulnerable. Rowan battled fiercely, his focus unwavering as he sought to repel the invaders.
But the rogues were numerous and coordinated, their attack precise and brutal.
He tore through a rogue that lunged at a young warrior, his jaws snapping shut with a sickening crunch. As the rogue fell lifeless, Rowan's ears perked up at a new sound—a mocking laugh that didn't belong amidst the chaos.
Turning his head, his golden eyes locked onto a scene that made his blood run cold.
Amidst the chaos, Rowan caught sight of a figure watching from the treeline—the rogue leader, his gaze locked onto the scene with cold satisfaction. Emerging from the treeline, he was a towering figure with eyes gleaming with malice.
In his grasp was Giselle, her wrists bound, her face bruised but defiant. The rogue's claws dug into her arm, and his grin widened as he met Rowan's gaze.
Realization dawned: this was no random attack. It was a calculated strike, timed to exploit the pack's moment of unity and joy and sow more doubt against his rogue mate.
Giselle wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t even supposed to be free from the cell the Elders had placed her in.
A savage growl erupted from Rowan's throat, his wolf howling in anguish and rage. ‘Mate!’ The bond between them pulsed with fear and pain, fueling his desperation.
He charged forward, muscles coiling and releasing with explosive power. Rogues attempted to block his path, but he was a force of nature, tearing through them with lethal precision. Each step brought him closer to Giselle, his mind singularly focused on her safety.
The rogue leader began to retreat, dragging Giselle toward the border. Rowan pushed harder, his lungs burning, his body screaming in protest. He was close—so close.
But then, a group of rogues intercepted him, their formation tight and unyielding. They lunged simultaneously, forcing Rowan to defend himself. He fought like a demon, but the delay was enough.
With a final, mocking glance, the rogue leader vanished into the shadows, taking Giselle with him.
Rowan's howl of despair echoed through the night, a sound of utter devastation.
Suddenly, a horn sounded from the treeline.
Retreat.
The rogues began to fall back, scattering into the woods. Rowan launched after them, taking down one who lingered too long, but the rest vanished into the trees like smoke.
He shifted back into his human form, chest heaving as he stood over a dead rogue. His hands were drenched in blood, his torso clawed and bleeding.
The battle was over, but the echoes of war still rang in Rowan’s ears.
He stood in the center of the blood-soaked courtyard, his chest heaving, his fists clenched so tightly that blood trickled from the crescent-shaped wounds left by his own claws. Around him, warriors moved through the wreckage in stunned silence, dragging the wounded to the healer's wing and covering the bodies of the fallen with cloaks.
Smoke still curled from overturned torches and shattered lanterns. The scent of burnt wood mingled with the copper tang of spilled blood, coating his lungs with every breath.
“Alpha!” his Beta called, limping toward him. “We’ve got casualties. Twenty-six wounded so far. Two are already dead.”
Rowan’s throat clenched. He looked out across the wreckage of his pack—the upturned tables, the ruined banners, the bodies. His people, panting and bloodied, gathered in clusters, checking on each other. He saw Rhea shift and run to a fallen warrior, pressing her snout into his chest, confirming he still lived.
And still... his eyes kept drifting back to the treeline.
To the place where she had vanished.
To the place where Giselle—his mate—had been ripped away from him.
Rowan swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash. The image of her being dragged away by the rogue leader was seared into his memory, haunting him with every blink. She had looked back at him—just once.
Just long enough for him to see the raw terror in her eyes. It had shredded something inside him. Something primal.
She wasn’t supposed to be there.
She was supposed to be safe. Locked in the cell, tucked away beneath layers of stone and iron. But she had been taken—freed somehow—and now she was gone.
His heart twisted with terror, he knew exactly what the Elders would say..
She planned this.
She lured them here.
She waited for the moment we were distracted and opened the gates.
She was never one of us.
He grit his teeth against the rising tide of fury threatening to overtake him. No. They were wrong.
He didn’t need proof. He felt it in the marrow of his bones, in the heartbeat they shared. Giselle was many things—strong, wild, untamed. But she was not a traitor.
“I won’t let them do this to you,” he murmured into the stillness, his voice hoarse. “I’ll find you. And I’ll bring you home.”
No matter what it cost him. No matter who stood in his way.
Even if it meant tearing the entire council down stone by stone.
He turned toward the still-burning torches and raised a hand to his Beta, who stood nearby nursing a torn shoulder.
Something was coming. The rogues hadn’t come for a random attack. They were probing defenses. Testing strength.
And it had nearly broken them.
Rowan clenched his fists as he stepped forward, blood dripping from his wounds. This was far from over.
“Get the warriors ready,” Rowan said quietly, eyes hardening into steel. “We start tracking the second the sun rises.”
He would find her.
And when he did, nothing—not the Elders, not the rogues, not fate itself—would take her from him again.
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