The heavy wet wool of the tunic slipped from my numb fingers, splashing back into the soapy basin, but I didn't care. My ears roared with a sound far more terrifying than Martha's shrill scolding: the heavy, rhythmic thud of warhorses' hooves against the packed dirt of the Silver Moon courtyard.
He's early.
In my past life or my first life, whichever cursed timeline this was Ronan hadn't visited the Willow Creek borderlands until the winter solstice, months after this random October afternoon. But history wasn't a rigid track; it was a fragile glass spiderweb, and my very presence here had already started to crack it, threatening to shatter everything I thought I knew about the future.
"Quiet down, you lazy lot! Stand straight!" Martha hissed, shoving past me with frantic energy, frantically smoothing her apron and patting down her graying hair. "The future Alpha is inspecting the border guards today.
Show some respect, or you'll find yourselves scrubbing the stables with your bare teeth!"
"Do you think he'll actually inspect the laundry shed?" Bess muttered under her breath, her hands freezing over her washboard as she cast a nervous glance toward the double doors. "He usually stays up at the main garrison house. Why is he riding all the way out to the border quarters?"
"Who cares?" I whispered back, my throat tightening as the sound of the approaching cavalry grew louder. "Just keep your head down and stay out of his line of sight. Don't give anyone a reason to look twice at us."
Future Alpha.
The title tasted like ash on my tongue, bitter and dry. Only five years from now, that same title would be etched onto the gallows where he stood watching my final breath without a single flicker of remorse in his cold eyes.
I kept my head bowed, my chin pressed hard against my collarbone, retreating into the deepest, darkest shadow of the laundry shed's wooden overhang. If I stayed small, if I stayed invisible, maybe his eyes would slide right past me. Wolves like Ronan didn't look at omegas unless they wanted something broken or discarded.
Through the gaps in the rough-hewn pine slats, I watched them ride in.
First came the elite vanguard, their polished steel armor gleaming in the pale autumn sun, bearing the silver crescent insignia of the central pack on their chests. And then, riding at the center, was him.
Alpha Ronan.
Even at twenty-four years younger than the cold, hardened executioner who had signed my death warrant he was an absolute force of nature. He sat astride a massive black stallion with an effortless, lethal grace, his posture straight and commanding. His hair was the color of a midnight storm, blowing slightly across a sharp, unforgiving jawline. But it was his eyes that made my blood run instantly cold: a striking, pale silver-gray, sharp enough to cut glass and entirely empty of mercy.
He looked devastatingly powerful, smelling of crushed pine, frost, and the dark, intoxicating authority of a born ruler that made every lesser wolf cower.
My wolf usually dormant, beaten down by years of low-ranking misery suddenly stirred deep within my chest. It didn't whimper in fear. Instead, it gave a violent, warning snarl, pressing hard against my ribs like a caged animal trying to break free.
He's here. Run.
"Look at the discipline on those guards," Bess whispered, her eyes wide as she peeked through a slat near mine, completely unaware of the terror gripping my chest. "I heard Alpha Ronan single-handedly crushed a rogue rebellion up north before he was even twenty. They say he doesn't feel pain, that he's made of pure ice."
"They're right," I muttered, my fingers digging into the edge of the wash table until my nails ached. "He doesn't feel a thing."
I took a slow, silent step backward, my heel catching against the edge of a wooden bucket left carelessly on the floor.
Clatter.
It wasn't even a loud sound, but in the tense, hushed silence of the courtyard where everyone had frozen in absolute reverence, it rang out like a gunshot.
Instantly, the procession halted.
The heavy thud of hooves ceased. A dozen elite warriors stiffened in unison, their hands dropping instinctively to the hilts of their silver-plated swords, their golden-hued eyes scanning the perimeter for threats with predatory precision.
"Idiot," Martha hissed from across the room, her face draining completely of color as she cast a terrified look toward the doorway. "If one of those guards draws a blade because of your clumsiness, I'll throw you to the wolves myself."
And Ronan?
Ronan pulled his stallion to a sudden, jarring stop. His head snapped toward the laundry shed with the terrifying speed of an apex predator locking onto a stray deer.
Those storm-gray eyes pierced straight through the wooden slats, cutting through the shadows, and locked directly onto mine.
For a fraction of a second, the mask of cold, regal indifference slipped from his face. His breath hitched. A profound, unreadable flash of shock so deep and heavy it bordered on agony crossed his striking features. His nostrils flared as if he had just caught something impossible on the wind.
My heart stopped beating.
The air between us thickened, turning heavy and electric, vibrating with a strange, magnetic pull that defied every ounce of hatred I held for him.
No, I thought, sheer panic flooding my veins. Not yet. He shouldn't be able to smell me through the soap and sweat. He shouldn't recognize me.
Ronan slowly dismounted from his horse, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy, deliberate sound, never breaking eye contact with me as he started walking straight toward the dark doorway of the shed.
