Riding alone gives you way too much time to think about how spectacularly you’ve fucked up your entire existence.
The capital’s getting smaller in my rearview, and honestly? Good riddance. Nothing like leaving behind a court full of people who think you’re one bad day away from a complete psychotic break. Spoiler alert: they’re not wrong.
My horse—some nameless gelding from the royal stables—doesn’t give a shit about my emotional baggage, which makes him probably the most honest companion I’ve had in years. No fake pleasantries, no terrified glances, just steady hoofbeats and the occasional snort when I mutter something particularly bitter under my breath.
“At least you’re not running away screaming,” I tell him. He flicks an ear. Practically a declaration of friendship by my standards.
The thing about being a walking cautionary tale is that people love talking about you. Not to you—never to you—but about you. And when you’re part of some ancient bloodline that’s supposedly cursed, the gossip gets creative fast.
The Dire curse. Christ, even the name sounds like something out of a bad romance novel. According to the legends—and trust me, I’ve heard them all—my family line is doomed to either find our true mates or lose our minds completely. The wolf takes over, human consciousness gets buried under pure instinct, and eventually you’re just a savage animal wearing a person’s face.
Cheerful stuff, really.
Most people think it’s bullshit. Old wives’ tales meant to explain why certain bloodlines produce more unstable wolves. But when you’re living it, when you can feel your control slipping a little more each month, those old wives’ tales start feeling pretty fucking real.
The last village was supposed to be routine. Show up, meet the local alpha’s daughters, smile politely while they try not to flinch when I walk into the room. Standard diplomatic nightmare.
Instead, I blacked out.
One minute I’m making small talk about trade routes, the next I’m coming to with three guards on the ground and blood under my fingernails. My blood, their blood—hard to tell the difference when everything’s painted red.
I roll up my sleeves and check the bite marks on my forearms. Still healing, still reminding me that sometimes I’m my own worst enemy. Literally.
The guards lived, which is something. But the way they looked at me when I came back to myself… like I was already dead and just hadn’t realized it yet.
Maybe they’re right.
“You know what the real joke is?” I ask my horse, who’s probably questioning his life choices at this point. “Everyone thinks finding a mate will fix everything. Like love is some magical cure for being fundamentally broken.”
But the truth is messier than fairy tales. The mate bond doesn’t make you less dangerous—it just gives you something to lose. And in my experience, having something to lose makes the wolf even more unpredictable.
Still, it’s either find my mate or wait for the next full moon to finish what the last village started. The full moons are getting worse. Longer blackouts, more violence, less of me left when the dust settles.
The mathematical progression is pretty clear: complete loss of control equals dead Cassian equals end of the Dire bloodline.
At least then Toren could stop pretending he has a viable heir and find someone who won’t embarrass the crown at formal dinners.
The road to Valen’s territory is longer than I remembered, which gives me plenty of time to catalog all the ways this could go wrong. Valen’s she-wolves could take one look at me and request immediate transfers to convents. I could black out again and start a diplomatic incident that ends in actual warfare. Or—and this is the really fun option—I could meet my supposed mate and she could be just as fucked up as I am.
Actually, that last one might not be the worst-case scenario. At least we’d be disasters together.
My wolf stirs restlessly under my skin, like it’s testing the boundaries of whatever cage I’ve built around it. The sensation is getting more frequent, more insistent. It knows something I don’t, or maybe it knows something I’m refusing to acknowledge.
Either way, we’re running out of time.
“Last chance, right?” I mutter, and the horse snorts like he’s agreeing with me. “No pressure or anything.”
The sun’s starting to set, painting the sky the color of fresh blood. Subtle omen there, universe. Real fucking subtle.
But here’s the thing about being cursed—you either fight it or you let it swallow you whole. And I’ve spent too many years being everyone’s monster to give up now.
So I’ll ride to Valen’s court. I’ll smile at his she-wolves and pretend I’m not counting down the days until the next full moon. I’ll play the part of the reformed prince who’s definitely not a liability to everyone around him.
And if I’m lucky, maybe one of them will be stupid enough to think she can fix me.
If I’m unlucky? Well, at least the stories they tell about me will be interesting.
Either way, this is it. Last pack, last chance, last desperate attempt to prove I’m worth saving.
The horse keeps walking, carrying me toward whatever’s waiting in Valen’s territory. Could be salvation, could be another spectacular failure.
With my track record, I’m betting on the latter.
But hey, at least the journey’s scenic.