Araya Varrow spent years thinking that marrying the pack’s Alpha, Jasper Drevyn, would finally earn her a shred of dignity. Instead, it all blew up in her face. Jasper, proud as ever, shamed her in front of the whole pack, tossing her aside as if she meant nothing, wolf-less, unworthy, and pregnant with his child. Alone and exiled into the bitter cold, survival seemed like a lost cause.

But destiny had other ideas.

Just as her strength was giving out, Araya was found by Ronan Tharos, a Direwolf whose past is written in scars and whose gaze could melt stone. His methods are harsh, his temper sharp, but he pushes Araya harder than anyone ever has. Under Ronan’s relentless training, the wolf inside her finally roars awake—enormous, silver as the moon, and bound to an ancient prophecy. The child she carries isn’t merely a symbol of her old life; he’s the linchpin in a legend that could either heal the rift between wolves and Direwolves or plunge Drevalon into chaos.

When word reaches Jasper that Araya is not only alive but thriving, he returns a shell of the man he once was—pleading at her feet for a second chance, willing to risk everything. But Araya is no longer the vulnerable woman he cast aside. She’s carved herself into a force to be reckoned with, standing at the head of her own pack, a Direwolf at her side, and a son whose power could shake the world.

Now she stands at a crossroads: forgive the man who betrayed her, or embrace the wild Direwolf who taught her to fight for her future.

In a realm where betrayal hits harder than any blow and the fires of prophecy burn hotter than revenge, Araya is ready to take her place at the top and make sure every last wolf who turned their back on her remembers her name.

Not fever. Not the burning cold of venom eating through tissue. Just warmth. Soft fur against my side, the texture familiar and comforting. The weight of a small body curled into me, fitting perfectly against my ribs.


I opened my eyes slowly. Found myself in our quarters, in the chamber carved from living stone that Ronan had claimed as ours. Afternoon light slanted through the window, golden and gentle, painting everything in amber. Dust motes danced in the beam, tiny galaxies suspended in stillness. Lucian slept against my ribs, his breathing deep and even, his small chest rising and falling with perfect rhythm.


And Ronan sat in the chair beside the bed. Watching. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot from exhaustion. Face haggard, the strong lines drawn tight with worry. Dark circles beneath his eyes that spoke of days without sleep, of keeping vigil while I fought my way back to consciousness.


Chapter 62 - Waking