Page 4 of Wolf Proclaimed

From the corner of my eye, I spotted him as he neared the boundary of his pack's village, a dark silhouette bathed in the cold moonlight. Despite the howling wind and the storm's roar, I felt his gaze on me, and though his words were lost in the night's chaos, the question they bore remained. I could feel it, a silent plea reverberating through the turmoil—a question, a hope, a call for me to turn back. But his pleas fell on deaf ears. My course was set, and the storm was my compass. I could only press forward, chasing the specter of freedom through the heart of the blizzard.

A part of Bastian must have been questioning if he'd chosen more than he could handle. He'd brought an unhinged woman into his home, his pack, not realizing that I was a tempest, my spirit filled with rage, fear, and confusion. I saw it all mirrored in his eyes—the surprise, the concern, and the unwavering resolve that was so intrinsically Alpha Bastian.

But there was more to his determination than mere responsibility. The way he braved the storm, the intensity in his gaze even amidst the snow, I knew it was more than just obligation driving him. He believed in a higher power, fate, that had made our paths cross. And despite the turmoil, he had chosen to embrace it.

As I charged headlong into the heart of the storm, Bastian's determined pursuit was a constant presence at my back. His steadfastness, and his resolve, were testaments to the man he was.

The further I pushed myself into the blizzard, the harder my body began to protest. The initial adrenaline-fueled surge of strength was waning, replaced by the bone-deep chill of exhaustion. Each step became an act of defiance against the elements and my own failing strength. I could no longer feel my fingers or toes, the biting cold having numbed them to their core.

The wind, my erstwhile companion in my headlong rush into the storm, now seemed to be my adversary, pushing against me with relentless fury. The snow underfoot, previously crisp and yielding, felt treacherous and unsteady, each step a precarious dance with fate.

I was beyond thinking, filled with a white static of survival instinct. But even as I fought to put more distance between myself and the haven I'd left behind, a part of me knew I was fighting a losing battle.

The cold was a relentless opponent, and my strength was ebbing.

My knees buckled without warning, my body succumbing to the relentless assault of the cold and fatigue. I hit the snow-covered ground, the impact jarring yet distant, as if I were floating outside my body. I lay there, panting, the snowflakes a frigid blanket on my skin. I could hear the wind howling around me and felt the snow seeping into my clothes, but it all seemed distant, unimportant.

The world around me began to blur, the harsh whites and grays of the storm fading into a muted palette. There was a part of me, some instinctual, primal part, that knew I was dying. But my wolf, my witch, they were silent, as if they too had given into the inevitable. As if they knew that this was a battle we couldn't win.

My last thought before darkness claimed me was not of regret or fear but a simple, stark resignation. I had fought, and I had lost. And as the cold seeped into my core, stealing away my consciousness, I was oddly at peace. I had defied and rebelled; even if it was my downfall, I had done it on my terms.

And that was enough!

But in the back of my fading consciousness, elusive like a ghost, was Bastian's voice calling out my name. And even as the darkness swallowed me, his voice was a beacon of warmth in the icy desolation. A spark of hope that refused to die, even when I had accepted my end. "Mira!" The voice was clear, resonating with concern and alarm. It sounded again, now closer, the note of desperation unmistakable. "Mira!"

With a Herculean effort, I willed my heavy eyelids open. The world was a canvas of white, blurred at the edges, but I managed to focus on the dark figure making its way toward me. Bastian.

He was here, crouched beside me, his hands desperately trying to pull me into an embrace. "Mira!" he repeated, the fear in his eyes reflected in his voice. His words came in rushed breaths, but I could scarcely hear him, his pleas muffled by the roaring storm.

Yet, his determination was clear as he gathered me in his arms. He was no longer the powerful alpha who had just introduced me to his pack but instead, a desperate man trying to pull me back from the brink. The confusion etched on his face was palpable. What was he saving me from? It was a question he didn't seem to have an answer to, yet he had made his decision.

"Bastian," I croaked, my voice barely a whisper. "Help me." The biting wind carried away my words, yet they were not missed. I could see the confusion seeping into his gaze, a poignant question—help you from what? But the darkness was creeping in, the world tilting out of focus, and I had no strength left to provide him with an answer.

His grip tightened around me, offering a warmth that felt alien in the frigid wilderness. "I've got you, Mira," he promised, though the uncertainty in his eyes betrayed his words.

Just as the final moments of consciousness slipped away, his reply echoed hauntingly in my mind, "I'll help you, Mira." The solemn vow was punctuated by the roar of the storm, a testament to his resolve. But what did I mean by "help me"? The question hung ominously in the air, a puzzle he had yet to unravel.

As the world dissolved into nothingness, the last image etched into my mind was Bastian's determined face against the stark backdrop of the storm, a beacon in the unforgiving blizzard. His promise lingered, witnessed by the forest surrounding us.

Chapter Three

Unraveling Storms

Mira

As I slowly drifted back to consciousness, I first noticed the candlelight's soft, flickering glow. It warmly painted the rough-hewn wooden walls, the shadows dancing like wraiths against the surface. I found myself nestled in a bed far grander than anything I'd known, its frame hewn from logs and draped with sheets that whispered of untold softness against my bare skin.

Roused from my groggy haze, I rubbed my temples, the last vestiges of sleep slipping away. And then, as I moved to sit up, the quilt slipped, revealing the uncomfortable truth of my nudity. Startled, I pulled it back up, my pulse racing at the realization that my clothes were gone.

This was not just any bed. It was the bed of the man who had rescued me from the brink of death in the cold, cruel blizzard—Bastian. A blush crept up my cheeks, spreading like wildfire as I pondered my situation. What had transpired while I was lost in the realm of unconsciousness?

The room felt cozy yet foreign, a strange mix of sanctuary and prison. I felt exposed and vulnerable, a sensation that wrapped around me like an icy chain. To retain some semblance of dignity, I wrapped the quilt tighter around myself, my eyes landing on a pile of clothes resting on the chair by the bed. They weren't mine, obviously. Likely, they belonged to some female member of Bastian's pack, or a previous lover?

My heart ached at the stark reality of my predicament. This was not how I had envisioned waking up nude in a stranger's bed. But then again, I hadn't planned on nearly perishing in a blizzard either. But here I was, in Bastian's bedroom, in his cabin, surrounded by his scent, utterly at his mercy.

The notion sent shivers down my spine, a mix of trepidation and... intrigue. I was caught in his world, and for all the discomfort, there was something undeniably captivating about the intimate stillness, the flicker of candlelight, and the possibility of what lay beyond this night.

A soft knock pulled me from my thoughts. I turned toward the source of the sound just as the door opened. Bastian stepped into the room, the dim candlelight casting a soft glow on his features, accentuating the deep lines of his face and the determined set of his jaw. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a glimpse of his chest. Despite my circumstances, I couldn't help but notice how handsome he was, the candlelight creating a seductive interplay of shadow and light on his muscular form.

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