Chapter 8: Could It Be Her?

Damien couldn’t believe his eyes. Could that truly be Lola? How was that even possible? He didn’t stop to think. His legs moved on their own as he bolted toward the car. But before he could reach it, the engine roared louder, and the vehicle jerked forward, tires screeching against the dirt. “Wait!” Damien shouted, pushing himself faster. His heart pounded violently as he closed the distance. He was only a few steps away—close enough that whoever sat inside must have heard him. Yet instead of slowing, the car surged ahead.

Damien’s brows furrowed, confusion and anger swirling in his chest. “Wait!” he shouted again, his voice echoing through the trees. But the car only sped up, its tires screeching as it rushed away. No matter how hard Damien ran, the distance grew wider until the red glow of the taillights blurred into the dark.

Finally, he stopped. His chest rose and fell heavily as he bent forward, panting, his hands on both his knees. Was it really her? Or was his grief making him see things that weren’t there? Damien squeezed his eyes shut, his heart still racing. For the first time, he wasn’t sure if what he saw was real… or just a cruel trick of his mind. Damien dragged a hand over his face, his breaths ragged. The night air felt heavy, pressing down on him as his wolf stirred restlessly inside. “It was her,” Lucas growled in his head. “I know her scent. That was Lola.”

“No,” Damien muttered, shaking his head. His fists clenched at his sides. “She’s dead. We all saw her body.”

“And yet you ran,” his wolf countered. “Your heart knew before your mind would accept it.”

Damien’s chest tightened. He turned in the direction the car had gone, his jaw locking. If it wasn’t Lola… then who was it? Who looked so much like her that his heart nearly stopped? A chill ran through him. Maybe it was just a look-alike. Yet he couldn’t get the image out of his head: the familiar curve of her shoulders, the way her hair caught the dim light, so much like Lola that for a heartbeat, he believed it was her.

Damien straightened, his breaths still heavy. He turned back toward the packhouse, his mind drowning between grief, rage, and a growing sense of unease that refused to leave him. When he arrived back in the packhouse, everywhere was silent. It was just 9 p.m., but it felt like it was midnight. Servants walked around with pale faces, warriors had blank looks on their faces, and the birds that usually screeched outside had gone silent. It felt like not only men but the very universe itself mourned Sofia’s impending death. With a heart heavy as stone, Damien climbed the stairs and made his way to his room.

When he entered his room, Damien shut the door behind him with a slam. He strode to the drawer near his desk and pulled out a small box, flipping it open. A cigarette. His fingers trembled slightly as he slipped one between his lips. He lit it, the flame flickering, the smoke curling into the dimly lit room. He took a deep drag, holding it in his chest until the burn made his lungs ache. Then he let it out slowly, watching the smoke swirl above him like ghosts.

And just like that, a memory stabbed through him. A memory of Sofia. Her voice, sharp and stubborn, echoing in his head. “Smokers die young.” He could almost see her again—storming toward him, her small hand snatching the cigarette right out of his mouth. He remembered the way she’d throw it to the ground and smash it under her heel, glaring up at him like she was the Alpha heir, not him. He remembered finding it cute.

And he remembered the trick he used to play on her. Every time they fought, every time she swore she wouldn’t speak to him again, he’d just pull out a cigarette. And she would break—because she couldn’t stand to see him smoke. She’d rush in, grab it away, and in that small act, she’d talk to him again. His chest tightened as the memory faded.

Now she was the girl he hated. The girl sentenced to die tomorrow. And yet here he was, standing in his room, holding a cigarette like a fool, haunted by the memory of her. Damien stared at the cigarette between his fingers, then crushed it in the ashtray, his jaw tightening. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath. His fists slammed against the desk, rattling the glass and sending the bottle of whiskey tipping sideways. The burn in his throat wasn’t from the smoke anymore—it was from rage.

At himself. For remembering her. For letting her face creep back into his mind. For letting her voice echo inside him when he should despise everything about her. He dragged his hands through his hair, his green eyes flashing in the dim firelight. “She’s a murderer,” he hissed to himself. “A liar. A bitch. And tomorrow… tomorrow she’ll finally be gone.”

But no matter how hard he tried to bury it, his chest still squeezed with something heavier than hate. He ripped off his boots, his movements sharp and furious, and shoved them aside. His shirt came next, thrown across the room. He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, and twisted the shower handle until the water poured down scalding hot.

Steam filled the room, but it couldn’t burn away the memories suffocating him. He pressed his forehead against the cold tile, water streaming down his face like it could wash away the war inside him. Minutes passed before he finally shut the water off. He toweled off quickly, not caring that his hair dripped across the floor.

When he collapsed onto his bed, the sheets cool against his skin, he didn’t feel comfort. Only the weight of two truths pressing down on him like chains. Tomorrow, he would be crowned Alpha. Tomorrow, Sofia would be beheaded. Damien stared up at the ceiling, his fists clenched against the mattress, and for the first time today… he didn’t know if he could really sit and watch Sofia get beheaded.

Damien shut his eyes, fighting sleep, unaware that in the dungeon below… Sofia was already living her last hours in terror.

The dungeon became colder. The air felt heavy, and the stone walls dripped with water. Sofia sat on the hard floor, hugging herself tight. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but no more tears would come. Then she heard it. Boots. Heavy boots, echoing down the dark hallway. Two of them.

The iron gate creaked open with a loud screech. Sofia’s heart jumped as two guards walked inside. Their eyes were cruel. “Well,” one said with a smirk. “They say you’re a killer… but also still a virgin.” The second one laughed. “You’re dying tomorrow anyway. Such a waste. Maybe we should give you a little pleasure before the end.”

Sofia’s stomach dropped. She pushed back against the wall, shaking. “No… please, don’t…” Her voice broke. One of them grabbed her sleeve and yanked. Rip! The cloth tore, showing her shoulder. Sofia gasped, clutching what was left of her dress, but they only laughed.

“Don’t fight it,” the other guard said. “At least you won’t die untouched. We’ll make sure you know what it’s like.” Her body trembled. “Stop! Please!” she cried, but they didn’t stop. Their hands were rough, pulling at her clothes until the fabric ripped again. One guard sneered. “Quiet, little murderer. No one’s coming for you. You’re already dead.” His hand moved lower—

“Leave her alone!”

The shout exploded through the dungeon like thunder making the guards freeze.

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