Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 2: Warnings Ignored
Morning brings clarity.
And embarrassment.
Astrid replays last night in her head.
A man at her door. Calling himself “Alpha.”
Claiming she’s on “his territory.”
It’s absurd.
Probably a local trying to scare the English woman.
Rural hazing.
Nothing more.
She needs supplies.
Internet. Phone service. Food that isn’t trail mix.
The nearest town is Kilmarrow. Fifteen miles.
She drives.
The forest feels less menacing in daylight.
Just trees. Normal trees.
Not watching. Not alive.
Just photosynthesizing like good little plants should.
Kilmarrow is small.
One main street. A few shops. Post office. Pub.
Population maybe five hundred.
Everyone stares as she parks.
Newcomers are obvious here.
She goes into the general store.
Bell chimes.
Shopkeeper looks up.
Old woman. White hair. Sharp eyes.
“You’re the Blackwood girl.”
Not a question.
“Astrid Blackwood, yes. I inherited Ashenmoor—”
“I know who you are. What you are.”
What she is?
“I need supplies. Food, batteries, matches. Can you help?”
The woman doesn’t move.
“Not for Ashenmoor. Won’t deliver there. Won’t send anyone there.”
“It’s just a house—”
“It’s cursed ground. Has been for three hundred years. Anyone with sense stays away.”
Astrid’s patience thins.
“I’ll pay extra for delivery—”
“No amount of money is worth dying for.”
“Dying? Over delivering groceries?”
The shopkeeper leans forward.
Voice drops.
“The last delivery boy who went to Ashenmoor after dark? They found pieces of him scattered across six miles. Never found his head.”
Astrid’s blood runs cold.
“That’s… that’s a local legend—”
“That was my nephew. Twenty years ago. Real enough for me.”
She tries three more shops.
Same response.
Won’t deliver. Won’t help. Won’t go near Ashenmoor.
“It’s wolf territory,” one man explains. “Belongs to Magnus’s pack.”
“Wolves don’t own property—”
“These ones do. Been here longer than humans. Longer than law. You’re trespassing on sacred ground, girl. Best leave before they make you.”
The pub is her last hope.
Lunch crowd. Locals drinking. Watching football.
She approaches the bar.
“I need to hire someone. For repairs at Ashenmoor. Pays well.”
Silence.
Every conversation stops.
Every eye on her.
The bartender, middle-aged and scarred, shakes his head.
“No one here works Ashenmoor. Not for any price.”
“It’s just an old estate—”
“It’s a death trap. Magnus’s rogue pack claims that land. You’re living on borrowed time.”
“Magnus isn’t real. He’s a story locals tell—”
An old man laughs.
Bitter. Harsh.
“Not real? Girl, Magnus is the most real thing in these woods. Alpha of the Rogue Pack. His family’s held that forest for twelve generations. Pure bloodline. Powerful. Ruthless.”
“Wolves don’t have alphas—”
“These aren’t just wolves.”
The way he says it.
The certainty.
The fear.
It’s real to them.
Delusion or truth, they believe it completely.
Astrid leaves.
Frustrated. Annoyed. Alone.
She’ll have to handle everything herself.
Repairs. Supplies. Security.
Fine.
She doesn’t need superstitious locals anyway.
Back at Ashenmoor.
The house feels different.
Less menacing now that she’s angry instead of afraid.
She spends the afternoon exploring.
Really exploring.
Every room. Every hallway. Every hidden space.
The library is massive.
Floor-to-ceiling books. Ancient texts. Leather-bound journals.
She finds Moira’s journals.
Decades worth.
She opens one at random.
*March 15, 1989*
*Magnus came again tonight. Still demanding I choose. I told him the same as always: I’m too old for mate bonds. Let the prophecy find someone else.*
Mate bonds?
Astrid flips to another entry.
*October 3, 1995*
*The full moon draws near. The pack is restless. Magnus says this month will be different. That SHE is coming soon. The one with silver eyes. I told him to stop believing in prophecies. He told me prophecy is all his pack has left.*
Silver eyes.
Astrid has silver eyes.
Grey, technically. Silver-grey.
Rare but not impossible.
She finds more journals.
All Moira’s.
All mentioning Magnus. The pack. Prophecies.
References to “Midnight Duchess.”
A bloodline. A power. A destiny.
It’s fantasy.
Has to be.
Moira was old. Isolated. Probably delusional.
That’s why she stayed here forty years.
Lost in delusions of werewolves and prophecies.
But the portraits.
Astrid looks at them again.
All women. All silver eyes.
Dated across centuries.
1724. 1789. 1812. 1901. 1943.
All looking eerily similar.
Like variations of the same woman.
Like her.
She finds a plaque beneath the oldest portrait.
*Lady Elara Blackwood*
*The Midnight Duchess*
*1724 – 1756*
*She Who Chose the True Alpha*
Chose the True Alpha.
That phrase again.
Sunset approaches.
Astrid’s nerves return.
Magnus said he’d come back tonight.
“Be ready to receive me properly. Or I’ll come in anyway.”
She locks every door.
Every window.
Same as last night.
But if he meant what he said…
Locks won’t stop him.
Dinner is canned soup.
Heated over a camp stove.
The kitchen’s gas hasn’t been turned on yet.
She eats in the library.
Surrounded by journals. Portraits. History she doesn’t understand.
Waiting.
For what, she’s not sure.
Nine PM.
Howling starts.
Same as before.
Multiple sources. Circling.
Coordinated.
But different tonight.
Purposeful.
Announcing.
Then silence.
Complete silence.
Waiting.
Footsteps on the gravel drive.
Heavy. Confident. Multiple sets.
They stop at the door.
A knock.
Three times.
Formal.
Deliberate.
“Miss Blackwood. I’m coming in. Lock or no lock.”
Magnus’s voice.
Deep. Commanding. Absolutely certain.
Astrid doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t move.
The front door handle turns.
Locked.
It rattles.
Then clicks.
Unlocks.
From the outside.
Impossible.
The door swings open.
“Apologies for the intrusion. But you were warned.”
Footsteps in the foyer.
Multiple people.
Coming toward the library.
Astrid stands.
Heart hammering.
Should she run? Hide? Fight?
The library door opens.
A man enters.
No.
Not a man.
Something more.
Bigger. Stronger. More.
Six-foot-four. Broad shoulders. Muscular.
Dark hair. Sharp features. Intense eyes.
Golden eyes.
Like the wolf from last night.
He’s wearing black. Simple clothes. Moving like a predator.
Behind him, two others.
A woman. Tall. Athletic. Golden eyes.
A man. Huge. Scarred. Golden eyes.
All three staring at Astrid.
Like she’s prey.
Or something more dangerous.
Magnus stops ten feet away.
Surveys her.
Top to bottom.
Assessing.
“Silver eyes. The prophecy was real.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Your house?” He laughs. “This house belonged to my pack for three centuries. Your family stole it through human law. But it’s still ours. And you…”
He steps closer.
Astrid backs up.
Hits the desk.
Trapped.
Magnus stops directly in front of her.
Close enough to touch.
His presence is overwhelming.
Heat. Power. Danger.
“You’re on pack territory. That makes you mine to protect. Or dispose of.”
“I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s.”
“You don’t understand yet. But you will.”
He leans in.
Inhales deeply.
Breathing her in.
“You smell like her. Like the first Duchess. Same bloodline. Same power.”
“You’re insane—”
“I’m Alpha Magnus. Leader of the Rogue Pack. And you, Astrid Blackwood, are my fated mate.”
Astrid’s brain stops.
Fated mate?
“That’s not real. Fated mates are fiction—”
“Not in my world. Wolves mate for life. Bond soul-deep. And you…” He touches her chin. Tilts her face up. “You’re mine. Fate chose centuries ago. You just didn’t know it yet.”
She slaps his hand away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I’ll touch you plenty when the bond settles.”
“There is no bond!”
“Not yet. But there will be. Fated mates can’t be denied.”
The woman behind him speaks.
“Magnus. Don’t overwhelm her. She doesn’t know what we are yet.”
“She needs to know. Before Fenrir finds out she’s here.”
Fenrir. Another name from Moira’s journals.
“Who’s Fenrir?”
Magnus’s expression hardens.
“Rival alpha. Leader of the main pack. He’s been searching for the Midnight Duchess for thirty years. If he learns you’ve arrived…”
“He’ll challenge your claim,” the woman finishes.
“I haven’t claimed anything!” Astrid shouts.
They all look at her.
Pitying.
Like she’s naive.
“You were claimed the moment you set foot on this land,” Magnus says. “Fated bonds don’t ask permission. They just are.”
He steps back.
“I’m not here to frighten you. I’m here to protect you. Fenrir will come. And when he does, you’ll need pack protection.”
“I don’t need protection from fairy tales—”
“You will. When you see what we really are.”
He looks at the woman.
“Vega. Show her.”
Vega steps forward.
Smiling. Reassuring.
“Don’t be afraid. This is what we are. What you’ll become.”
“Become what—”
Vega’s body shifts.
Bones cracking. Reforming. Fur sprouting.
In seconds, a massive wolf stands where the woman was.
Golden eyes. Grey fur. Taller than Astrid’s waist.
A werewolf.
Real.
Undeniable.
Astrid’s legs give out.
She collapses against the desk.
This isn’t possible.
Isn’t real.
Can’t be real.
Vega shifts back.
Naked. Unconcerned.
Clothes shredded.
“Now do you believe?”
Astrid can’t speak.
Can’t breathe.
Werewolves.
Real werewolves.
In her library.
Claiming she’s one of them.
Magnus crouches in front of her.
Eye level.
“I know this is overwhelming. But you needed to see. To understand what you’ve inherited.”
“I inherited a house—”
“You inherited a legacy. A bloodline. A destiny. You’re the Midnight Duchess. The one prophesied to unite the packs. And I’m your fated mate. The sooner you accept that, the safer you’ll be.”
“I don’t accept anything. This is insane. You’re insane.”
“No. I’m patient. You have time to process. But not much. Fenrir will come. And when he does, you’ll need to choose.”
“Choose what?”
“Which alpha you belong to. Me or him.”
“I don’t belong to anyone!”
Magnus smiles.
Predatory.
“You will. Fated mates always find their way home.”
He stands.
“We’ll leave you tonight. Let you think. But lock your doors. Fenrir’s wolves are in these woods. They won’t be as… courteous as we are.”
They leave.
All three.
Walking out like they didn’t just shatter Astrid’s reality.
The front door closes.
Lock clicks.
Locked from the inside.
She’s alone.
Shaking.
Terrified.
What the hell just happened?
She spends the night researching.
Moira’s journals. Old texts. Historical records.
All mention the Midnight Duchess.
A human woman who mated with an alpha werewolf.
United packs. Created peace.
Died young. No heir.
Prophecy said her bloodline would return.
Silver-eyed daughter.
She would choose the true alpha.
Unite the packs again.
Bring balance.
It’s myth.
Has to be myth.
Except Vega transformed in front of her.
Except Magnus has golden wolf eyes.
Except the impossible is now undeniable.
Werewolves are real.
And according to them?
She’s their destined queen.
Astrid doesn’t sleep.
Can’t sleep.
Everything she knew is wrong.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow she has to decide.
Accept this insanity.
Or run.
Before Fenrir comes.
Before she’s forced to choose.
Before fate decides for her.
Four million pounds doesn’t matter anymore.
Survival does.
And right now?
Survival looks impossible.
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