The night air was heavy. The only noise was the rustling of leaves under their feet; the aroma was of moist earth and pine. Cassandra strolled behind Damon, the burden of their Islands weighing heavily between them. There were too many to list, and her thoughts raced with questions, but one bothered her more than the others. It was the question she had been suppressing since she first saw him in the woods; it had been building inside her all that time.
"So, tell me about your rogue pack," she continued, her heart racing in her chest, but her voice was calm. She didn't understand why she had to inquire—maybe she was seeking answers, or perhaps, just perhaps, she was eager to learn more about the man who had tormented her dreams.
Damon's steps stumbled; then he went on, jaw clenching. His dark eyes, often so focused and unreadable, sparked with something—anger, resentment? It wasn't easy to say.
"What do you wish to know?" His voice was flat as he enquired, showing no sign of the feelings swirling within.
Cassandra was not going to give up. "Everything. How did you end up there? What became of your pack? I know it wasn't by choice."
He turned to look at her then and stopped walking. Though the slight tightening of his fist betrayed his tension, his face was unreadable and his features frozen in a mask of stoic calm. He looked at her for a minute, as though deciding whether or not to open up.
"My pack," as if the words were too much for him to say, he trailed off, and his gaze flickered away for a little while. "My pack has been ruined. I was the one held responsible. They claimed I murdered her. Alysia. My first mate."
Though she had never met this woman, the name stung her. She could sense the weight of his sorrow hanging in the air, as if Alysia's spirit was still present between them. She tightened her lips, feeling that Damon's agony was something he could not communicate openly. He was not prepared.
"Were you blamed for her death?" Cassandra enquired softly, her voice brimming with quiet knowledge. "But that's not the whole story, right?"
Though it lacked humour, he shook his head slowly and a gloomy laugh slipped from his lips. "It's not the complete tale, no. But who will pay attention? Who would think my mate died due to something substantially more sinister?" He hesitated, his eyes burning with a fierce fire. "Not a soul."
Cassandra's heart raced as her interest grew. "What was it? What happened? Who did this?"
Damon was unsure. His gays flitted around the dark woods as though looking for the correct time or, maybe, the right words. He appeared to gather his thoughts, but his voice was almost a whisper when he spoke again.
His words were quiet and weighty. He admitted, "I've been hunted my whole life. Not just by my pack but by something darker."
Cassandra gasped, "Is there anything darker?" The woodland seemed to freeze around them, its breath frozen in anticipation. She moved closer to him to interpret his obscured and defensive facial expression.
"What do you mean?" She asked, her voice almost inaudible, fearful of what he might reveal.
Damon's eyes met hers suddenly, and she noticed a flash of something raw and vulnerable in them for the first time. It disappeared as fast as it arrived.
"They came after me, after Alysia," he replied, his voice almost a whisper.
"The ancient order... They are those who planned everything. They run everything—the packs, the destiny of every werewolf."
His eyes tightened, as though the burden of his comments pressed down on him. "They sought to prevent me from finding my home, from finding peace. They will do all in their power to kill anyone blocking their path."
Cassandra's heart raced. The word of the ancient order—an entity she had heard murmurs of but knew little of—sent a shiver down her spine. What was this order, and what did they truly seek?
Damon's jaw tightened. "I've been running my entire life. But there's no escaping them or what they've done."
His eyes moved away, and he hesitated once more. The weight of his words hung between them like an unspoken promise of danger, so they both stood quietly for a long time.
Damon eventually said, his voice strained, "I've told you enough. You finally understand the reality. But don't expect me to tell you anything else. Not yet."
The hush that followed was dense with the unspoken. Damon's words were so full of suffering and rage that they left Cassandra with more questions than answers. Still, some of her thought that the more she knew about him, the more involved she would get in his world—one full of darkness, secrets, and impossible choices.
He looked aside, his face hardening again, but she could not speak.
"We should get moving," he replied forcefully. "It is not safe here."
Cassandra followed Damon through the trees, her thoughts racing with the pieces of knowledge he had disclosed, as the chilly night air wrapped about them like a shroud. Alysia's death, the ancient order, Damon's betrayal, and the rogue pack's battle all left her trying to understand. The world around her seemed to change, and she felt drawn towards something she didn't quite know.
They paused beside a little stream, the running water noise permeating the surroundings. Kneeling next to it, Damon looked at the water with a distant look. A few steps away, Cassandra stood attempting to fit the puzzle in her head.
"So your rogue pack," she said, cautiously starting. "What is the real story? You mentioned them earlier. What are they fighting for?"
Damon's gaze darted to her, and he paused before responding. He answered, hesitated, "We're fighting for survival. We are not like the other packs. We don't obey the rules. We don't bend to the Alpha's will. We are free—or at least, we tell ourselves."
Cassandra said, her eyes narrowing, "And yet you're still being hunted." "You said by the ancient order."
He nodded slowly, the gravity of his words hanging in the air. "They want to keep us divided. Keep us fighting amongst ourselves. For generations, the ancient order has determined every werewolf's fate. They want us to think we're all pawns in their game, with no option."
Cassandra's chest constricted. "So, the rogue pack... You are just pawns, too?"
Damon's tone became tough, the glimmer of irritation in his eyes almost under control.
"We are not only pawns. We are survivors. The order, however, does not see it that way. They use us to bend our destinies to fit their purpose. They don't care about us, me, you, or anybody else."
His voice broke at the end, and the real feeling behind it caused Cassandra's heart to ache. Unsure of what to say, she carefully stepped towards him. She had before seen him as someone who had decided on this path for himself. But now she saw the cracks in that facade. He was a man fleeing something dark far larger than himself.
"Damon, what do they want?" Cassandra enquired, her voice quaking with the intensity of her interest. What is their endgame?
Damon's face darkened.
"They want control. They want to keep the packs divided to stop true mates from uniting. They know if two souls come together—truly come together—it will break the chains they've wrapped around us all. It's a game of power. And we were all just players."
Cassandra absorbed his words, her head spinning: The ancient order, a force so strong it could control destinies, to separate families, and to keep mates apart. It was more than she could handle in one breath.
One thing, though, was obvious: Damon's past—and the rogue pack—was more entangled in the order's web than she had ever thought.
Before she could talk again, Damon's hand sprang out, surprisingly strong, to clasp her wrist.
"They're here," he said quietly and urgently.
Tension hung tight all night as Damon dragged Cassandra into the forest shadows, his hold around her wrist. Danger crackled in the air around them; the thumping of her heart suddenly drowned out the soft noises of the woodland.
"Who?" Her breath was shallow, she murmured. "Who is here?"
"Be quiet." Damon's eyes combed the shadowy woods with a predator's attention, his voice a whisper of urgency. He was coiled, stiff, and ready to spring at any moment.
Cassandra's pulse raced as she tracked his stare, attempting to understand the mounting anxiety that lay over her like a dense fog.
It was then that she noticed a slight rustling of leaves. Steps. Initially sluggish, the footsteps grew louder and nearer with time.
"They are approaching." Pulling her deeper into the shadows, Damon grumbled, his palm tightening on her wrist.
Cassandra's eyes widened in realization. The ancient order—they had found them. Maybe they had been tracking them all along, waiting for the appropriate time to attack.
Damon's voice was just above a whisper as he cautioned, "Stay close." As a strong defender amidst the surrounding darkness, Damon's body stood as a barrier between her and any possible harm.
The footsteps became louder and closer now; the sound unmistakable. They were approaching their location. Pressing herself against the tree, Cassandra's breath seized in her throat as her heart raced with terror. What did the order seek? Why were they hunting Damon and her?
Then the rustling ceased. The quiet was so loud it was only interrupted by Cassandra's heartbeat. Damon's eyes found hers, his gaze filled with an unspoken promise.
"They're here," he said quietly, sending a shiver down her back.