Leonard.
The air of the Bloodmoon Pack territory was thin and stale. It smelled of damp earth and something else. Resignation.
He stepped out of the black SUV, his boots crunching on the gravel drive. The pack house before him was large but poorly maintained. A few shingles were missing from the roof, and the paint was peeling near the windows. It was a house that tried to project strength but was rotting from the inside out.
Alpha Danvers was already rushing down the steps, his face a mask of nervous welcome. He was a big wolf, but he carried himself like a bully, not a true Alpha.
“Your Majesty,” Danvers said, bowing so low his nose nearly touched his knees. “Welcome to Bloodmoon. It is the greatest honor.”
Leonard gave a curt nod. “Alpha Danvers.”
His Gamma, Thorne, stepped out of the vehicle behind him, silent and watchful. Thorne’s presence alone was enough to make the Bloodmoon guards shift their feet nervously.
“We have prepared a feast for you,” Danvers said, gesturing grandly toward the open doors. “The finest our lands have to offer.”
“I am not here for a feast,” Leonard said, his voice flat. “This is a diplomatic inspection, not a social call.”
“Of course, of course,” Danvers said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “All the more reason to show you our hospitality. To show you how strong and prosperous we are under your rule.”
Leonard walked past him into the house. The inside was as he expected. Dark wood, faded tapestries, and the faint, lingering smell of old fear. His wolf was already on edge.
Danvers led him towards a large dining hall. A long table was laden with food. A roasted boar sat in the center, its skin glistening.
“As you can see, we are thriving,” Danvers boasted.
Leonard stopped. His head tilted slightly.
There was another scent in the air. Underneath the heavy aroma of roasted meat and spiced wine, there was something else. Something delicate.
Vanilla.
He took a slow, deliberate breath. His wolf, a beast that had been sleeping soundly within him for years, stirred.
“What is that smell?” he asked.
Danvers looked confused. “The boar, Your Majesty? It is seasoned with rosemary and thyme.”
“No,” Leonard said, his eyes scanning the room. “Something else.”
It was faint, almost undetectable. But it was there. Vanilla, and something else mixed with it. The sharp, coppery tang of distress. Of pain.
It was the scent of rain on dry earth after a long drought. It was the scent of everything he never knew he was missing.
“Perhaps you would care for a tour of the grounds?” Danvers asked, clearly trying to distract him. “I can show you our training yard. Our warriors are among the fiercest.”
“Fine,” Leonard clipped out, wanting to move, to follow the scent that was now a subtle thread pulling at his soul.
Danvers led him out of the dining hall, babbling about his pack’s accomplishments. Leonard did not listen. He was focused entirely on that scent.
As they walked down a long corridor, it grew stronger.
Vanilla. So sweet it made his teeth ache.
And pain. So sharp it made his wolf want to howl.
“The west wing houses our senior pack members,” Danvers was saying, pointing to the left.
Leonard ignored him. He turned right, heading down a darker, narrower hallway.
The scent was a siren’s call now, pulling him forward. He could feel it in his bones.
“Your Majesty?” Danvers called, hurrying to catch up. “There is nothing of interest down this way. Just storage and service passages.”
“Is that so?” Leonard said without stopping.
The air grew colder here. The stone walls felt damp. The scent was thick, intoxicating. It was coming from the end of the hall.
He stopped in front of a heavy wooden door bound with iron straps.
A cellar door.
His wolf was clawing at the inside of his chest, roaring with a sudden, violent possessiveness.
*Mine.*
The word echoed in his mind, primal and absolute.
Leonard placed his hand on the rough wood of the door. The scent was pouring through the cracks.
“What is in here, Danvers?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.
Danvers had started to sweat. “Nothing, Your Majesty. Truly. Just old wine racks and preserved goods. It is hardly a sight for a King.”
“It smells of mildew,” Leonard observed. “And blood.”
Danvers’s face went pale. “Rats, perhaps. We have had a problem with them. I will have it dealt with immediately.”
“Open the door,” Leonard commanded.
Danvers swallowed hard. “Your Majesty, I must insist. The great hall is much more accommodating. We can discuss the border tributes…”
Leonard turned to face him fully. He did not raise his voice. He did not have to. He let a fraction of his Alpha power loose, and the air in the corridor crackled with it.
Danvers flinched back as if he had been struck.
“You are a guest in my house,” Danvers stammered, trying to cling to some shred of authority.
“I am the King in your house,” Leonard corrected him, his voice like stones grinding together. “And you will do as you are told. Or I will remove you as Alpha of this pack before the sun sets.”
The threat hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
“Do not make me ask you again.”
Danvers’s bravado shattered. He fumbled at his belt, his hands shaking as he produced a large, rusty iron key.
“There is no need for such… unpleasantness,” he muttered, his eyes darting from Leonard to the door.
“Then open it,” Leonard growled.
His patience was gone. His wolf wanted out. It wanted whatever, whoever, was the source of that scent. It wanted to protect. It wanted to claim.
Danvers’s trembling hands finally managed to fit the key into the lock. The mechanism protested with a loud, grating screech.
He turned the key.
The bolt slid back with a heavy thud that echoed in the stone passageway.
Danvers pulled his hand away from the door as if it were hot iron. He looked at Leonard, his eyes pleading.
Leonard ignored him. He gripped the iron ring on the door and pulled.
The heavy door creaked open on protesting hinges, revealing a flight of stone steps leading down into absolute darkness.
And from that darkness, the scent washed over him in a wave. Vanilla and tears. Wildflowers and fear. Home.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom. At the bottom of the stairs, chained to the far wall, was a small, slumped figure. A girl, covered in dirt and dressed in rags. Her head was bowed, her dark hair hiding her face.
But he could feel her. He could feel her brokenness and her fight. He could feel her soul calling to his.
The world narrowed to this single point. To this dungeon. To her.
*Mine.*
