Reborn From Ashes The Lycan Regent's True Mate

Adelaide POV:

The pull on my soul intensified. Darkness swirled at the edges of my spectral vision. I was fading, being drawn into a void from which there would be no return.

Kieran was at the door, his back to me.

With the last ounce of my fading consciousness, I gathered my hatred and flung a single thought at him, a seed of doubt I hoped would fester in the mind of a tyrant.

Their lies. Do you truly believe them?

It wasn't a prophecy. It was a parting shot. A ghost's desperate attempt to poison the well.

I saw his broad shoulders tense for a split second. A barely perceptible reaction, but it was there. He knew I was more than just a corpse on the floor.

Then, the darkness consumed me.

I was falling, tumbling through an endless, silent black.

And then I took a breath.

A ragged, desperate gasp of air flooded my lungs, sending me into a violent coughing fit. The stench of rust and cold stone vanished, replaced by something clean and warm, laced with a faint floral scent.

My eyes flew open.

Sunlight. Dazzling, golden morning light streamed through the familiar lace curtains of the bay window, spilling across my face. My vision blurred, then focused on the ceiling—a plaster dome painted with pale pink roses.

My room. My childhood bedroom in the Fields estate.

I sat up abruptly and looked down at my hands. Small, knuckles still round with youth, skin smooth and unblemished. No silver-burn scars. No purple bruising. My wrists were pale and clean, as if they'd never known iron.

I swung my legs out of bed, bare feet sinking into the soft carpet. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I staggered, gripping the bedpost. The cool brass against my palm felt real. Solid. Undeniable.

The mirror.

I rushed to the full-length mirror against the wall, like a drowning woman grasping for driftwood.

A girl stared back at me. Fourteen. Her cheeks still held the soft roundness of childhood, her forehead smooth, her lips slightly parted in that unguarded way of the young. But her eyes—no, my eyes—were not a child's. They were cold and hard, like stones steeped in winter water. No light lived in them. Only memory.

Death. Silver chains. Burned flesh.

I was alive. I had come back.

Time exploded in my mind. Today. It was today. The eve of the Summer Solstice festival. The night Ashley and Juliana had drugged my soup. The night they sent Vance Tucker to my room.

I closed my eyes, and the memories crashed over me like a breached dam. In my previous life, I'd drunk that soup, felt dizzy, and assumed I was merely tired. Then the door opened. I struggled, I screamed, but no one came. In the morning, they brought the elders—I was kneeling on the rug, my dress torn, Vance snoring beside me. My reputation fell like torn silk. Everything that followed—the humiliations, the whispered mockery, the disgust in Collin's eyes—it all began that night.

I would not let it happen again.

A faint creak from the hallway outside my door. Footsteps, trying to be silent.

They were coming.

A cold calm settled over me. The panic vanished, replaced by the sharpened instincts of a warrior who had died and come back. There would be no tears this time. No helpless victim.

My eyes scanned the room, landing on the heavy, brass lamp on my nightstand. I snatched it, its weight solid and reassuring in my hand. I moved to the side of the door, flattening myself against the wall, and held my breath.

The lock clicked from outside. Silent, practiced. The door eased open a crack, and a thick, greasy scent wafted in—stale ale, unwashed leather, and the sour musk of a man who'd been working up his courage with drink. A wet, smacking sound followed: he was licking his lips, savoring what he thought was coming.

The door swung inward, and Vance Tucker stepped through.

He filled the frame. Shoulders like slabs of butcher's meat, a neck thick as a tree stump, veined and flushed from alcohol. His face was coarse—heavy brow, small eyes set too close together, a mouth that hung slightly open, revealing yellowed teeth. He was grinning. Not the smirk of a man who liked women, but the grin of a man who liked hurting them. I knew that grin. In my past life, I'd seen it from above as he loomed over me, and I'd known there was nothing in those small eyes but appetite and cruelty.

He wore a stained linen shirt, untucked, the top buttons undone to show a mat of coarse dark hair. His hands—enormous, knobby, the nails bitten to the quick—fumbled with his belt buckle as he turned to close the door behind him.

"Hello, princess," he muttered, not even looking at me yet. His voice was a low rumble, thick and wet, like stones grinding under mud. "Heard you've been waiting for me."

I have, I thought, tightening my grip on the lamp. But not for what you think.

He clicked the door shut and turned, his grin widening. The moment he closed the door behind him, I moved.

I swung the lamp with all the strength my young body could muster. It connected with the back of his head with a sickening thud. The sound was deeply satisfying—wet and meaty, like a butcher's cleaver meeting a joint of beef.

He grunted, stumbling forward, completely blindsided by the attack. His hands flew up, but too late.

I didn't hesitate. I brought my knee up sharply, driving it into his soft midsection. The air left him in a wheezing gasp—a high, pathetic sound I drank in like water after a drought. This was for Celena. For Burke. For every scream I'd never been able to voice.

He doubled over. I grabbed his greasy hair, yanked his head back, and slammed the base of the lamp against his temple. Hard. Once. Twice. The second blow landed with a crack that felt like justice.

He collapsed onto the plush carpet like a felled tree, out cold. His body made a heavy, final thump against the floor. I stood over him for a moment, breathing hard, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Still breathing. Lucky you.

I wanted to hit him again. My arm ached to swing just one more time, to make sure he never got up again. But I forced myself to stop. A dead man would raise questions. An unconscious one would just be confused, ashamed, and silent—especially once he realized he'd been humiliated by a fourteen-year-old girl.

I allowed myself one small satisfaction: I wiped my hands on my nightgown, as if touching him had left a stain I needed to remove. Then I dropped the lamp. It clattered softly against the rug.

There was no time to think, no time to savor the small victory. I had to get out.

I ran to the window, threw it open, and climbed out onto the trellis below. My bare feet hit the soft, manicured lawn of the estate. The grass was cool and damp with dew. I paused for just a moment, looking back at the house—the house of lies, the house of people who wanted me destroyed.

Not tonight, I thought, and the words felt like a vow. Not ever again.

I ran.

I ran from the trap. I ran from the house of lies. I ran towards the only sanctuary I knew: the deep, dark woods that bordered our territory. The trees rose before me like a wall of shadows, and I welcomed them. They were honest in their darkness—they didn't pretend to be anything other than what they were.

As I burst through the wrought-iron gates at the edge of the property, I didn't see the figure walking around the corner of the high stone wall.

I slammed into him with the force of a freight train.

We both went down in a tangle of limbs. It was like hitting a solid wall of muscle. My head spun, and for a moment, I was disoriented. Then I felt something shift beneath me—someone shifting beneath me—and instinct took over.

I scrambled back, already bracing for a fight.

I pushed myself up, shaking my head to clear it. Moonlight illuminated the scene, and I looked up into the face of the man I had collided with.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was him. Younger, his face sharper, but the aura of power was already there. And those eyes... those same, piercing, molten gold eyes.

Kieran Ramos.

He was propped up on one elbow, looking at my disheveled state—my nightgown, my bare feet, my wild hair. A frown creased his brow. His gaze swept over me like a blade, cataloging every detail: the scratches on my arms, the grass stains on my knees, the way I was breathing too fast.

I stared back at him, and I felt something strange—a pull in my chest, like a hook caught beneath my ribs. I'd felt it before. In the dungeon. When his soul reached for mine and dragged me back from the edge of oblivion.

He saved me, the thought came unbidden. Without him, I'd be nothing but ash.

I crushed the thought as quickly as it surfaced. Gratitude was a luxury I couldn't afford. He was a tyrant. A monster. Whatever he'd done, it wasn't for my benefit. It was for his own purposes—I just didn't know what they were yet.

"A prostitute from the border town?" he said, his voice a low, cold drawl. "You've got nerve."

I met his golden eyes without flinching. My chin lifted, just slightly—a small defiance, a spark of the wolf I was becoming. I said nothing. I didn't owe him an explanation. I didn't owe anyone an explanation.