Soone erged from the packhouse with all the casual arrogance of a god who knew he was sculpted perfectly and wanted the world to suffer because of it.
Tall. Shirtless. Bronze-skinned with broad shoulders and an eight-pack that looked illegal. His jawline could cut diamonds, his lips were carved for sin, and his eyes—fiery amber-gold with a phoenix-like glow—could probably make soone fall to their knees and offer up their soul with a smile.
Dirty gray hair swept back in wild waves like he’d just rolled out of bed after ruining soone’s life. A light scar ran across his collarbone. The kind of scar that had a story. A tragic, hot story.
Liora, who had been mid-hover, suddenly wobbled in the air and clung to a nearby tree for support. Her spiritual essence nearly short-circuited.
"Sweet forest moss . . ." she whispered. "That’s illegal. That’s absolutely illegal."
No werewolf alpha in the oto gas she had played could hold a candle to this.
Those pixelated bad boys with their tragic pasts and shirtless torso were nothing compared to the raw, unfiltered dominance striding out of the Bloodhowl Packhouse. Tall, carved like a war god, and exuding danger with every step, this was the kind of man whose existence broke genre boundaries. He didn’t smolder—he scorched.
And the craziest part?
He wasn’t even part of the pack.
That was Lyander Wolfhart, the infamous rogue. A lone wolf. A rcenary who sold his blade to the highest bidder and didn’t care for laws, loyalties, or leashes.
Rogues like him weren’t just disliked by werewolf society—they were hunted. Packs didn’t tolerate lone wolves with no alpha, no bonds, and no rules.
But no one hunted Lyander.
Because no one was stupid enough to try.
Even from a distance, Liora could feel it—that subtle tension in the air, like the world was holding its breath around him. He moved like a predator who knew exactly where your heart was and how fast it would stop beating if he willed it. Everyone knew his na. So whispered it like a curse, others like a prayer.
And yet . . . he was here.
But why?
Lyander Wolfhart didn’t offer his services to just anyone. Not even to the strongest of packs. He was a rcenary, yes—but a selective one. The kind who didn’t knock on doors unless there was sothing worth his ti on the other side. So what in the moon’s cursed glow was he doing in this territory?
A crumbling pack led by a twelve-year-old Alpha who barely ca up to his ribs?
It didn’t make sense.
Walking calmly out of the packhouse, probably just finished offering his services to Henry Nightingale. Though judging by the way he looked completely unbothered and mildly irritated, Liora assud the kid had rejected him.
Understandable. Twelve-year-old Alphas with a chip on their shoulder didn’t usually warm up to rogues—especially not ones with a kill count and a reputation like Lyander’s.
And yet, for all the politics and tradition, no one dared attack him. Not even the warriors patrolling nearby. They watched him the way rabbits might watch a mountain lion—stiff and praying it wouldn’t look their way.
Liora clung to the canopy branch, eyes wide.
Recalling the original tiline, Liora’s brows furrowed in thought.
Lyander Wolfhart . . . he wasn’t just so rogue rcenary with a god-tier jawline and smoldering stare that could make trees burst into flas—he was supposed to be a footnote. A tragic side character with barely three lines of dialogue before Rhett skewered him in a dramatic, cinematic duel. Classic disposable backstory fodder.
The only reason he had any screen ti at all was because he’d refused to join Henry after the guy evolved into a full-blown Lycanthrope with world domination on his to-do list and kill Rhett.
Henry had sought him out when he was eighteen—wanted him as a partner in his grand villain arc. But Lyander, apparently the last moral compass left in the story, had declined and tried to stop him.
Noble. Brief. Brutal. End of story.
That was all the data she had. No tragic backstory. No romantic route. No hidden diary entries or heartbreaking flashbacks. Nada. Just: appeared, fought Henry, died. Boom.
So . . . what was he doing here?
Why was a notorious lone wolf, a rogue feared by even seasoned Alphas, suddenly strolling into a pack run by a twelve-year-old?
It didn’t add up. He never offered his services to anyone unless there was sothing in it for him. And most packs didn’t take kindly to rogues. They either ran them off, imprisoned them, or—well—tore them apart on sight. But not Lyander. No, this guy walked in like he owned the territory, and everyone kept their tails tucked and mouths shut.
Suspicious.
But also . . . an opportunity.
Liora’s eyes sparkled as she lted deeper into the shadows of the trees, whispering like leaves in the wind.
"If I play my cards right, I might just have found my way in."
The mont Liora laid eyes on Lyander, sothing deep within her stirred. It wasn’t attraction, no—though she wasn’t blind, thank you very much—but rather a strange, soul-deep recognition.
Her instincts, along with the ancient soul bound within her, whispered the truth: She knew exactly what kind of male Lyander Wolfhart was.
The brooding, stoic type. Fierce loyalty. A lone wolf with a tragic past and a moral compass that refused to point anywhere but north, even if the world was on fire. The kind of man who didn’t bend for power or lust—but for the right cause.
And Liora also knew, with painful clarity, the kind of woman that would catch a male like that.
Alright. Ti to get into character.
If Tabitha had been the loud, weird, and chaotically hilarious woman who clashed with Reid like fire on oil, then this ti, Liora would take a different approach entirely.
For Lyander, she’d be the serious one. Cold. Mysterious. Untouchable.
The kind of woman who walked through a forest and made even the trees hush in her presence.
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