Chapter 163

Marcus didn’t hesitate. He moved with the sudden, speed that only a vampire of his age possessed, his hand reaching out to seize the scruff of the chocolate wolf’s neck.

He intended to kill the creature there and then but his fingers never made contact. The sound of snapping branches erupted from the thicket behind them—not one source, but three.

Four massive wolves, their coats ranging from sandy grey to a deep, charcoal black, burst through the foliage.

They didn’t skid to a halt; they slammed into the clearing, their snarls tearing through the quiet of the eastern woods.

"Wolves" Marcus hissed, his body pivoting instantly. He abandoned the attempt to grab Alaric, instead dropping into crouch in front of Clara.

His copper hair seemed to glow under the moonlight, and his eyes bled a deeper, more violent shade of red.

The lead scout, a grizzled grey wolf didn’t look at Marcus or Clara first. His eyes landed on Alaric—their future Alpha—who was currently shivering in a submissive heap at the feet of a witch and a vampire.

The grey wolf let out an authoritative bark, a command for Alaric to move, but the chocolate wolf didn’t budge.

Alaric didn’t even look at his own people. He remained pressed toward Clara, his golden eyes still fixed on her with that same, agonizing plea.

Seeing their Alpha’s heir incapacitated and acting like a common cur, the scouts’ confusion instantly turned into a lethal, defensive rage.

They didn’t see a "mate" situation; they saw their Prince being held under a spell by a witch and guarded by a blood-sucker.

The grey scout let out a roar, his front paws digging deep into the soil as he prepared to lunge at Clara.

As the scout lunged toward Clara, Marcus intercepted it mid-air. The sound of their collision was like a clap of thunder—flesh hitting stone.

The vampire’s intent was clear; his hand was a clawed vice aiming straight for the wolf’s skull to crush it in one motion.

The grey wolf, sensing the lethal threat, twisted its body at the last second. Marcus missed the killing blow to the head, but his hand caught the wolf’s hind leg instead.

With a sickening crack that echoed through the silent woods, Marcus snapped the bone hard like a dry twig.

The grey scout hit the ground with a pained yelp, its back leg twisted at an impossible angle tat would possibly not heal quick.

The sight of their leader falling so easily broke whatever discipline the remaining scouts had left.

With a collective, bloodthirsty roar, the three other wolves charged simultaneously. They didn’t care about tactics anymore; they wanted the vampire’s throat.

Alaric, seeing a brown-colored scout break away from the pack and head directly for the space beside Marcus—the space where Clara stood—felt a surge of primal panic.

He didn’t think about his broken ribs or the glass in his skin. He didn’t think about the fact that these were his father’s men.

He lunged, his chocolate fur a dark blur as he threw his battered body in front of Clara, his jaws snapping at the air to ward off his own kin.

But Clara didn’t need the protection of a wounded mate. She didn’t even look at the charcoal wolf as it leaped toward her. She simply flicked her wrist, a single silver rune on her spellbook flashing with a blinding white light.

The air in front of her ignited. A wall of emerald-green flame erupted from the soil, lashing out.

The creature was flung backward, the brown wolf didn’t even have time to whimper before the magical fire caught its fur, its screams of agony filling the clearing as it tumbled into the dirt, frantically trying to extinguish the magical heat that refused to die.

Alaric skidded to a halt just inches from the flames, the heat singeing the tips of his chocolate fur.

He looked back at Clara, his golden eyes wide with a new kind of terror—not for himself, but at the sheer, indifferent power she wielded.

Marcus, meanwhile, had already moved on to the next target. He stood over the first fallen wolf, his copper hair disheveled and his red eyes burning with a hunger that was rapidly becoming difficult to suppress.

He looked at the remaining two scouts, his lips pulling back to reveal fangs that glinted like ivory in the moonlight.

"Which one of you wants to go next?" The clearing was suddenly thick with the smell of burnt fur and copper blood.

The remaining scouts hesitated, looking from their screaming comrade to their shivering Alpha heir, and then to the witch who hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Marcus took step toward the remaining scouts, his fingers twitching. He was a second away from turning the clearing into a graveyard.

"STOP!" The roar didn’t come from a wolf’s throat. It was human—raw, cracking, and desperate.

Alaric stood naked in the center of the carnage, his chest heaving, his pale skin slick with sweat and the blood from his earlier wounds.

He threw his arms out, stepping into the space between Marcus and the surviving scouts. His presence was the only thing stopping the vampire from lunging.

"Enough Beta Rohan" Alaric rasped, his human blue eyes blown wide as he looked at his men. "Don’t touch them! You don’t understand—you’re going to get yourselves killed!"

The gray wolf -Rohan- looked at their Alpha in line—naked, bleeding, and defending the very monsters who had killed town of their own.

Marcus didn’t lower his stance; he simply watched the naked boy with the cold, red-eyed curiosity of a butcher watching a pig plead for its life.

"Boy, get out of the way," Clara warned, her voice like a chilling breeze. She didn’t look impressed by his dramatics.

"Your men have already overstayed their welcome by a lifetime."

"Please," Alaric turned his head slightly toward her, though he kept his body shielded against the scouts.

"They’re just following orders. They think they’re saving me. I’ll make them leave, just... stop the fire."

"SAVE YOU?" A pained voice ripped through the air. On the ground, the grey scout—Rohan, Marcus had crippled—shifted.

His human leg snapped into the same mangled, impossible angle as his wolf limb had been.

The man who emerged was grizzled, his face contorted in a mask of agony and betrayal. He propped himself up on one elbow, his teeth bared in a snarl as he pointed a trembling finger at Alaric.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about, boy!" Isabella’s father spat, his voice thick with blood and bile.

"We aren’t here for a rescue anymore. We’re here for the Alpha’s honor! Look at you! Standing there like a dog at the heels of a witch!"

"Shut up, Rohan" Alaric commanded, "She’s not... you don’t understand the bond. I felt it. The Moon—"

"The Moon didn’t give you a witch!" Rohan roared, cutting him off, his face turning a dark, bruised purple from the effort of speaking through the pain.

"The Moon gave you a Luna, and you left her naked and crying in a ruined cabin to chase a ghost! Selena and Your father will hear of this treason!"

Alaric flinched as if he had struck him. He looked back at the witch, a silent plea for her to say something—anything—to prove him right. That the smell he was real.

But Clara just stood there, her white eyes cold and indifferent, her hand idly stroking Barnaby’s head.

She looked at the naked, desperate pup and the crippled, screaming man with the same level of boredom.

"Marcus," Clara said, her voice cutting through Rohan’s shouting. "Hold the kid."