The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 3

Magnus’s POV

I hadn’t meant to stop.

The night was young, the moon sharp and heavy over the city skyline, and my wolf—restless, violent—paced beneath my skin. I’d just left the Shadowbane estate, my father’s voice still echoing in my skull, a litany of demands and power plays. So I’d stepped out midway, let my Lycan hound loose, and decided to walk until the fury cooled.

Then I smelled blood.

And fear.

Men’s fear—bright, sharp, defiant.

Down by the riverbank, under the flickering streetlight, a scene unfolded. A delicate figure surrounded by rogues—filthy half-breeds with too much lust and too little brain.

But it wasn’t the danger that caught me.

It was her.

She moved like a cornered flame—fragile, fierce, heartbreakingly beautiful. Her dress was torn, her hair wild, her fists stained red. And her scent… gods, that scent. It wasn’t rogue. It wasn’t Omega. It was threaded with the unmistakable dominance of an Alpha.

Which meant she wasn’t just some helpless wolf lost in the city—she belonged to one of the major packs. Judging by her refined scent, likely an heir.

She fought like a storm contained in flesh—every strike clean, desperate, precise. I could smell the iron of her blood, the fire of her will. She was all sharp edges and stubborn silence, and something in me—something feral and half-buried—snapped loose.

My hound rumbled low beside me. I raised a hand. “Stay.”

For a while, I simply watched. I wanted to see how far she’d go. How long before she broke.

But then one of them lunged.

I moved without thinking.

A single kick sent the man’s ribs collapsing with a sickening crunch. The rest froze, their stench of fear filling the night air.

I stepped between her and them, my shadow swallowing hers, the moon carving silver over my black coat. My scent rolled through the street, and every wolf in the area would have felt it.

The rogues stumbled back, trembling.

Good. They should.

I turned to the girl. She was still on the ground, chest heaving, eyes wide. There was blood at the corner of her mouth. Her scent hit me again.

The kind that makes a Lycan’s pulse trip.

“Interesting,” I murmured, crouching a little, letting my gaze drag slowly over her. “Didn’t expect to find a little wolf this vicious out here.”

Her pupils flared. She didn’t lower her eyes—smart and stupid at once.

“Tell me,” I said softly, my voice a low growl wrapped in velvet. “Who taught you to fight like that?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared. Blood and starlight on her skin.

The rogues groaned behind us. I sighed. “You left a few breathing. That’s sloppy.”

Her brows furrowed.

“Rule number one,” I added, straightening. “If you’re going to fight, finish it.”

Before she could speak, I turned, expression flat, and ended it for her.

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