Die Gefährtin des Wolfskönigs

CHAPTER ONE

THE MAN IN THE SNOW

AYLA QUINN

The northern trail had been closed for almost six months, but the chain across its entrance hung loose enough for anyone determined to ignore it.

I stood beneath the weathered sign and stared into the trees.

RESTRICTED TERRITORYDO NOT ENTER BEYOND THIS POINT

The words were faded from the rain, though the university had recently added a newer warning beneath them in sharp red lettering.

SHIFTER BORDER WITHIN THREE MILES.

That should have been enough to make me turn around.

Humans did not cross into wolf territory, and wolves did not cross into ours. The treaties were old, strict, and repeated so often in school that most people stopped listening before they were old enough to understand why the rules existed.

Stay on marked trails.

Do not approach a shifted wolf.

Never interfere with a territorial patrol.

If a wolf tells you to run, run.

The lessons had always felt distant, like tornado drills or emergency evacuation plans. Important in theory, but unlikely to matter to someone whose life revolved around psychology lectures, late shifts at the campus bookstore, and figuring out how to stretch fifteen dollars until Friday.

Yet there I was, standing beneath a warning sign after sunset, wearing sneakers that were already damp from the frost and wondering why every instinct in my body insisted I keep walking.

I tightened my coat around myself and glanced back toward campus.

The university buildings remained visible through the trees, their windows glowing warm against the deepening evening. I could have returned to my dorm in less than ten minutes. Layla would probably still be there, sitting cross-legged on my bed while complaining that I owned no snacks worth stealing.

She thought I had gone to clear my head.

That was not entirely a lie.

For three nights, I had dreamed of the forest.

The details changed, but the feeling remained the same. I would stand barefoot in snow while something moved among the trees. Sometimes I heard branches breaking in the dark. Sometimes I saw blood spreading across the ground in a slow red stain. Every dream ended with a man’s voice calling my name.

Ayla.

He never shouted. He never sounded frightened.

He said my name with the quiet certainty of someone who had been searching for me.

The first night, I dismissed it as stress. Finals were approaching, my sleep schedule was a mess, and I had consumed enough caffeine to keep a small country awake.

After the second night, I checked the lock on my window twice before going to bed.

After the third, I woke before dawn with the smell of pine and smoke clinging to my pillow.

That scent had followed me all day.

It had drifted through the lecture hall during developmental psychology, though every window had been closed. I caught it again outside the library and later near the dining hall. Each time it appeared, the same pressure gathered beneath my ribs, not painful, but insistent.

By evening, remaining on campus had become impossible.

I needed to prove the dreams meant nothing.

That was the excuse I had given myself when I left the paved path.

Now, standing at the edge of the restricted trail, I was no longer sure I believed it.

Wind moved through the pines, stirring the upper branches with a long, restless whisper. The woods beyond the chain were darker than the rest of the forest, the trees packed close enough to swallow the last traces of daylight.

I reached for the cold metal.

“This is stupid,” I whispered.

The forest offered no argument.

I lifted the chain and stepped beneath it.

The trail narrowed almost immediately. Frost covered the fallen leaves, making each step louder than it should have been. The familiar sounds of campus faded behind me until I could no longer hear doors closing, cars passing, or students calling to one another across the quad.

Only the woods remained.

I had walked the open trails around campus dozens of times, usually with Layla or while avoiding studying, but this part of the forest felt different. The trees were older, their trunks broad and scarred, their roots pushing through the earth in thick twisting lines. No trail markers appeared along the path. No benches interrupted the silence.

The farther I walked, the more aware I became of the stillness.

No birds called overhead.

Nothing moved in the underbrush.

The entire forest seemed to be listening.

I stopped and rubbed my palms against my coat.

The pull beneath my ribs tightened.

It was stronger now, drawing me toward a bend in the path where the trees gathered into shadow.

I should have turned around.

Instead, I kept walking.

The trail curved downhill before disappearing beneath a thin layer of snow. My sneakers slipped twice, and I caught myself against the trunk of a pine. The bark scraped my palm through my glove.

A faint metallic scent touched the air.

I went still.

Blood.

The recognition came before I could reason it away.

My pulse accelerated as I searched the ground. At first, I saw nothing except snow, roots, and fallen needles. Then I noticed a dark stain several feet off the trail.

Another marked the snow beyond it.

The drops continued between the trees.

Someone was injured.

Every warning I had ever heard about wolves returned at once. An injured shifter was dangerous. A frightened one was worse. Human authorities were supposed to contact the nearest territorial liaison rather than approach.

I pulled out my phone.

No signal.

“Of course,” I muttered.

The sensible choice was to return to campus and call security from there.

Then a low sound carried through the trees.

It was barely more than a breath, rough and broken.

Human.

I followed it.

Branches caught at my sleeves as I left the trail. The blood grew heavier, staining the snow in uneven streaks until I reached a small clearing hidden beneath the pines.

A man lay against the base of the largest tree.

For one suspended second, I could only stare.

He was dressed in black, though most of his shirt had been torn open across his chest and side. Blood soaked the fabric and spread beneath him, too much of it, dark and vivid against the snow. One arm rested awkwardly across his stomach, while the other lay beside him with his fingers curled into the frozen ground.

He was not moving.

I crossed the clearing before fear could stop me.

“Hello?”

No response.

I dropped to my knees beside him.

Up close, he looked even worse. Four deep wounds crossed his ribs, the edges torn rather than cut. Blood had dried along his throat and beneath one ear. His skin was pale from the cold, but there was nothing fragile about him. Even unconscious, he carried a sense of restrained power, something dangerous held beneath the surface.

Dark hair fell across his forehead, damp with snow and sweat. His face was sharply formed, all hard lines and shadow, with a faint scar cutting through one eyebrow.

He looked too young to carry the exhaustion carved into his expression.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

His breathing was shallow.

I pulled off one glove and pressed two fingers to his neck.

The moment I touched him, something inside me ignited.

Heat surged through my hand and raced up my arm, so sudden and intense that my breath disappeared. The clearing tilted. Pressure gathered beneath my ribs and snapped tight, as though an invisible thread had been drawn between us.

His pulse struck against my fingertips.

Once.

Twice.

Then my own heartbeat changed to match it.

I tried to pull away.

His eyes opened.

Gold.

Not amber or hazel reflecting the light. His irises burned molten gold, bright enough to appear lit from within.

I froze.

He stared at me with startling awareness, his gaze moving over my face as though memorizing every detail. There was no confusion in his expression. No question.

Only recognition.

The word came into my mind without explanation.

Found.

My breath caught.

His hand closed around my wrist.

The movement should have frightened me, but his grip was weak and trembling. He did not pull me closer. He simply held on, his fingers wrapped around me as though I were the only solid thing left in the world.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

The gold in his eyes flared.

A deep vibration moved through the air, almost too low to hear. It seemed to rise from his chest and pass through my body, awakening something that had no name.

Images flashed behind my eyes.

A black wolf running beneath moonlight.

A stone throne split down the center.

Blood covering a man’s hands.

Then the same voice from my dreams, closer than it had ever been.

Ayla.

I tore my wrist free and fell backward.

The connection snapped, leaving an aching emptiness beneath my ribs.

The man’s eyes closed again.

“No, no, no.”

I moved back to him, caution disappearing beneath panic. His pulse remained, but it was weaker now.

I pulled off my coat and folded it against the wounds in his side. Blood soaked through almost immediately, warming the fabric beneath my hands.

“You need help,” I said, though I had no idea whether he could hear me. “I’m going to get someone.”

His fingers moved against the snow.

A whisper escaped him, too faint to understand.

I leaned closer. “What?”

His hand caught the edge of my sleeve.

“Do not…”

His voice was rough, each word dragged through pain.

“Do not what?”

“Bring them.”

Cold slid down my spine.

“Bring who?”

His eyes opened only slightly. The gold had dimmed, but the warning in them remained.

“They will smell you.”

The pressure beneath my ribs tightened again.

“Who will?”

His gaze shifted toward the trees.

The forest had changed.

The silence no longer felt empty. It felt occupied.

Something moved beyond the clearing.

A branch cracked.

I turned sharply, searching the shadows.

Nothing appeared, but the certainty of being watched pressed against my skin. The air carried another scent now, sharp and animal, mixed with rot and old blood.

The man’s grip tightened weakly around my sleeve.

“Run.”

Every childhood lesson returned with brutal clarity.

If a wolf tells you to run, run.

I looked back at him. “I can’t leave you.”

His expression changed.

For a moment, the severity in his face softened into something almost painful.

“You have to.”

Another sound moved through the trees, closer this time.

A low growl.

The man tried to push himself upright, but his body failed him. A rough sound tore from his throat as he collapsed against the tree.

His eyes flashed gold again.

“Go.”

The command struck through me, not forcing my body but cutting through the shock that held me still.

I rose.

“I’m coming back,” I said.

He looked at me as though the promise terrified him.

I ran.

Branches whipped across my face as I pushed through the trees. I barely found the trail before my foot slipped and sent me to one knee. Pain shot through my leg, but I forced myself up and kept moving.

The forest seemed different now, stretched longer than it had been before. Every tree looked the same. Every turn appeared unfamiliar.

Behind me, something howled.

The sound was not distant.

I ran harder.

By the time the chain across the trail appeared, my lungs burned and my legs shook. I ducked beneath it and nearly collided with a campus maintenance cart crossing the path.

The driver slammed on the brakes.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing back there?”

“There’s a man in the woods,” I gasped. “He’s hurt. There’s blood everywhere.”

The driver stared at me, taking in my missing coat and the blood covering my hands.

He reached for his radio.

Within minutes, two campus security officers and a county ranger arrived. I tried to explain what had happened while they asked questions faster than I could answer.

Where was he?

Was he conscious?

Had I seen an animal?

Had the man threatened me?

I told them no. I told them he needed help. I did not mention his eyes or the voice inside my mind.

The ranger looked toward the restricted trail. “You understand this is protected borderland.”

“Yes.”

“You should not have entered.”

“I know.”

His gaze dropped to my hands. “Show us.”

They gave me a reflective emergency jacket and told me to remain behind them.

I ignored the instruction as soon as we entered the trees.

Finding the clearing should have been easy. I remembered every bend in the path, every root, every slope. Yet the forest seemed determined to resist us. The ranger stopped twice to examine tracks that led nowhere.

Eventually, the scent of blood returned.

“This way,” I said.

I pushed ahead.

The clearing appeared between the trees.

It was empty.

I stopped so abruptly that the officer behind me almost walked into me.

“No.”

The pine remained. The snow remained.

The man did not.

Neither did the blood.

The ground beneath the tree was smooth and white, untouched except for the shallow impression where I had knelt.

My coat was gone.

The ranger swept his flashlight across the clearing. “You said he was here?”

“He was.”

One of the security officers crouched beside the tree. “There are no tracks.”

“There were. There was blood from the trail all the way to him.”

The ranger examined the snow near the roots. “I don’t see any sign of an injured person.”

“He was dying.”

The officers exchanged a look.

I recognized it immediately. Concern edged with disbelief.

“I touched him,” I insisted. “His blood is still on me.”

The ranger looked at my hands.

The blood remained beneath my nails and across my palms, undeniable proof that something had happened.

His expression sharpened.

“Could it be yours?”

“No.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

He stood and looked toward the deeper forest. “Everyone back to the trail.”

“What about him?”

“If an injured shifter crossed the boundary, this becomes a territorial matter.”

“You think he was a wolf?”

The ranger’s gaze held mine. “I think you need to leave before something else finds you.”

The words settled heavily.

The man had said they would smell me.

I followed the officers back to campus, though every step away from the clearing felt wrong. The invisible thread beneath my ribs stretched tighter with distance, aching in a way that made no sense.

At the edge of the trail, the ranger stopped me.

“Do not return here,” he said. “Whatever you saw, the wolves will handle it.”

“What if they’re the ones who hurt him?”

His expression revealed nothing. “Then you are safer not knowing.”

He walked away before I could answer.

Campus security took my statement in a small office near the residence halls. They photographed the blood on my hands, checked my identification, and asked me to repeat the story until the details blurred together.

By the time they released me, the campus had gone quiet.

I stood outside my dorm beneath the yellow porch light and stared at my stained palms.

The man had been real.

The wounds had been real.

His eyes had been impossible.

I climbed the stairs slowly.

Layla was sitting on the floor outside my room with her phone in one hand and panic written across her face.

She jumped up when she saw me.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “I called you six times.”

“I lost track of time.”

Her eyes moved over the emergency jacket and the dried blood on my hands.

“Ayla.”

“I’m okay.”

“That is blood.”

“I know.”

“Whose?”

The pressure beneath my ribs tightened again.

I looked toward the dark window at the end of the hallway.

For one heartbeat, I thought I saw gold reflected in the glass.

Then it was gone.

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

Layla’s expression shifted from anger to fear.

She unlocked my room while I went to wash my hands. I scrubbed until my skin turned pink, but the metallic scent remained. It seemed caught beneath my nails and embedded inside my memory.

When I finally crawled into bed, sleep did not come easily.

Layla stayed in the chair beside me, pretending to study while watching me over the top of her textbook. I kept my face turned toward the wall so she would not see that I was still awake.

The room was warm.

I could not stop shivering.

Sometime after midnight, exhaustion finally dragged me under.

The forest waited behind my closed eyes.

Snow fell through darkness, soft and silent. Blood stained the ground beneath my bare feet.

A black wolf stood at the edge of the trees.

He was enormous, his body scarred, his eyes burning molten gold.

He watched me for a long moment before lowering his head.

Not in submission.

In recognition.

The invisible thread beneath my ribs pulled tight.

A man’s voice moved through the dream.

Not distant now.

Not a whisper carried by the wind.

He spoke from somewhere inside me.

I found you.