Page 42 of The Cursed Wolf King

LOGAN

Ifollowed the jagged edge of Heraclid territory through the night, keeping low to the ground as my anger built in slow, relentless waves.

She was the curse-sayer. The one who doomed my pack, my family. The woman who had drawn me to her like no one else had, only to twist that connection into a vile joke.

Mine, my wolf growled within me, the word tearing through my thoughts like claws against stone.

“Don’t you get it?” I hissed back. I clenched my fists, fighting the emotion that threatened to overwhelm me. My wolf didn’t understand. He operated on instinct, on feelings too raw and primal to be filtered by logic. But I did. I had to. The world was more complicated than my wolf could ever grasp, and no amount of instinct would untangle the threads of this mess.

Yet, beneath my logic, beneath the anger, there was something else. Something hollow. I had trusted her, protected her.

Killed for her.

And now this? It was a wound I couldn’t see, festering, more infuriating because it wasn’t physical. I wanted to dismiss it, shove it down, but the betrayal was a wildfire, burning hotter with every memory of her face, her voice, her scent.

That damn scent, baked apples and cloves, still clung to me, taunting me with what could have been. What I’d thought she was.

To think I believed she could be my fated mate.

I was disgusted with myself when my wolf snarled in protest at my thoughts. He couldn’t fathom what I knew. Couldn’t understand the weight of the truth.

How could she?I thought bitterly, my jaw tightening.How could she curse us and stand there, asking for protection? For freedom?

And yet, beneath the rage, that hollow ache remained.

The forest blurred around me as my strides quickened, my body a storm of tension. My wolf’s fury roared in my chest, mixing with my own and leaving me teetering on the edge of losing control. I forced myself to focus, to channel that rage into something useful.

I kept to the shadows as the sun rose, solitude offering me a chance to breathe. The Heraclid territory stretched around me, unfamiliar and unwelcoming, each sound and shift of the wind keeping me on edge. I’d run to the outskirts, away from the city center, to avoid being caught like a cornered animal. It was safer here, in theory, but I couldn’t become complacent.

I missed my pack. Their company, their wisdom, their loyalty. I craved their presence, but also the certainty theybrought, the trust that no matter how dark things got, I was never truly alone. I could almost hear them, their voices threading through my mind as if they were still at my side.

I laid my hand on my tattoo, my arm throbbing as if my twin brothers were alive in my skin.

The loneliness physically hurt. My wolf stirred, restless and uneasy. It offered no solutions. No comfort. Just a constant drive to push forward, even when I didn’t know where forward led.

Fields came into view, sprawling out across the horizon. The damp air carried the tang of misery. Rows of crops stretched endlessly, their vibrant green marred by the sight of shifters bent low to the ground. This was the Heraclid agricultural area, their lifeblood, and it was clear from the way the workers moved that this was no ordinary labor.

I slipped closer, crouching behind the cover of a gnarled tree. Despite the herbal cover beginning to dull, I would be less identifiable in my human form.

The workers were a mix of ages—some young enough to be mistaken for pups, others old enough their hair had turned white and their movements were slow. All of them bore the same posture, shoulders hunched, their eyes fixed on the ground as they toiled.

“You think you’ve got it bad?” someone barked. A tall shifter loomed over the workers. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you ran your mouth about Alpha Grayson.”

A wiry old man struggled to lift a sack of feed, his hands shaking as the overseer stepped closer, his shadow falling over the worker. “You’ll remember next time, won’t you, old man?”

Their suffering struck me in a way I didn’t expect, as though the weight on their shoulders had transferred to my own. It was almost as if they were my pack—my people—and the thought jarred me. I wasn’t supposed to feel this, not for Heraclids. But the sight of their hunched forms, the fear in their eyes, struck me down.

My wolf stirred, a low whine rumbling inside me saying I should help. I shoved the sensation down. This wasn’t my fight.

The worker flinched and said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. Beside him, a boy barely into his teens glanced up. The overseer smirked, turning his attention to the boy. “You, too, street mutt. Don’t think you’re too young to learn your place.”

The boy fumbled with the tools he carried, then caught me watching him.

Help me, he said through the pack bond.

That was impossible. I didn’t know the boy—he wasn’t one of ours. Was I feeling what I thought hemightsay to me, hallucinating as the Heraclid scent wove through my nostrils?

A growl rose unbidden in my throat, and I fought to keep it down. My wolf surged against my control, demanding justice. I couldn’t risk exposing myself. I dug my heels into the ground, forcing myself to stay rooted in place as rage burned through me.

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