Taming The Wolf

Chapter 3

Aoife's eyes fluttered open, her vision blurry as she struggled to focus on her surroundings. The room spun, and she blinked hard, trying to shake off the lingering fog of unconsciousness. As her sight cleared, she found herself lying on a plush bed, draped in furs and silken sheets.

A figure stood by the window, silhouetted against the pale light streaming through. Tall and broad-shouldered, he turned to face her. Aoife's breath caught in her throat as she met his gaze—silver eyes that seemed to pierce right through her.

"You're awake." His voice was deep, rich like honey but with an edge of gravel.

Aoife pushed herself up, wincing at the dull ache in her head. "Where am I? Who are you?"

The man stepped closer, and Aoife's heart raced. There was something familiar about him, something she couldn't quite place.

"I'm Bran," he said, his expression unreadable. "And you're safe in my castle."

Aoife's brow furrowed. "Your castle? But how did I—" The memories came flooding back. Her eyes widened. "The wolf?"

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Bran's mouth. "He's closer than you think."

Aoife's gaze darted around the room, searching for any sign of the creature that had protected her. When she looked back at Bran, she froze. Those eyes—silver, just like the wolf's.

"It can't be," she whispered.

Bran moved to the edge of the bed, his movements fluid and predatory. "What can't be, little flame?"

Aoife's heart pounded in her chest. "You're him. The wolf."

"Aye," Bran nodded, his silver eyes never leaving hers. "I am."

Aoife scrambled back, pressing herself against the headboard. "How is that possible? Are you—are you some kind of sorcerer?"

Bran's laugh was low and rumbling. "No sorcery, just nature. I'm a werewolf, as are all in this castle."

"Werewolves?" Aoife's voice trembled. "They're real?"

"As real as you and me." Bran reached out, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her face. Aoife flinched, and he pulled back. "I won't hurt you. I brought you here to keep you safe."

Aoife's mind reeled, struggling to process this new reality. "The woman who attacked me—"

"Fiadh," Bran's jaw clenched. "She'll be dealt with. No one will harm you here, I give you my word."

Aoife's mind whirled with confusion and fear, but a strange curiosity began to take root. She studied Bran's face, searching for any hint of the wolf she'd come to trust.

"I'm Aoife," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Daughter of Chieftain Cormac."

Bran's eyebrows raised slightly. "A princess among the humans. How fitting."

Aoife's gaze dropped to her hands, fidgeting with the edge of the fur blanket. "I never felt much like a princess," she murmured.

As silence fell between them, Aoife's thoughts drifted to the tales she'd heard as a child. Stories whispered around campfires, of creatures that lurked in the shadows of the mountains.

"We had stories," she began, her voice gaining strength. "Tales of beasts that hid in the peaks, waiting for the full moon to reveal their true nature."

Bran leaned forward, his silver eyes glinting with interest. "And what did these stories say about us?"

Aoife swallowed hard. "That you were monsters. Savage creatures that hunted in the night, tearing apart anyone foolish enough to wander into your territory."