Damian's POV
I followed her trail through the underbrush like a ghost. Every snapped twig and crushed fern spoke her name: Viktor.
Thirty minutes of running had left her scent ragged, trailing in broken pulses across the forest floor. I’d slipped away from the Hunt’s outer ring—left the other wolves to their sport—because this was mine. I was Damian of the Crescent Fang, heir to the throne, and this was my hunt.
The forest here was a labyrinth of shadows. Twilight filtered down through high branches, making the world feel a muted dream. But my senses were razor‑sharp. I tasted her fear in the damp air. I heard the quick tap of her boots, then the grunt when she stumbled. I saw splashes of blood on the leaves—her blood.
Gods, I thought. Hold on, Viktor.
I limped over roots, my own ankl
