Chapter 6
6
Amir
I listen carefully as Hazel finishes in the shower. The water shuts off, and seconds later, I hear her moving around the bathroom, shuffling as she dries herself off. I remain in the hallway, waiting and giving her the privacy she deserves.
As much as it frustrates me, I won’t barge in. She doesn’t need someone else invading her space—not after everything she’s been through. Still, the need to act burns inside me. I need to catch the scent of those men—the monsters who attacked her. I refuse to let another night go by without starting the hunt.
She exits the bathroom quickly, the sound of her bare feet soft on the floor. A few moments later, I hear her getting dressed, fabric rustling as she moves. Soon after, there’s the sound of her tossing her clothes into the hamper, cleaning up after herself.
When the familiar sound of a brush pulling through her thick hair reaches my ears, I decide it’s time. I can feel my resolve harden. I have to do this. For her.
Taking a breath, I step up to her bedroom door and tap lightly on it. The air changes almost immediately—her scent shifts. She’s nervous. Alarmed. I feel a pang of guilt for startling her. She has no reason to be nervous around me, and yet, here we are. I clear my throat, trying to steady myself. Oddly enough, I’m suddenly more nervous than she is.
“Um, what is it?” she asks cautiously. I hear her soft footsteps approaching the door, her unease evident in her tone.
“It’s Amir. Your uncle,” I say, smoothing a hand over my shirt as if that will somehow calm my nerves. “May I come in and speak with you for a moment?” I add carefully, keeping my tone as gentle as I can. The last thing I want is to force myself into her space. She deserves to know that I respect her boundaries, that this is her sanctuary. She’ll let me in if she feels ready.
I wait outside her door, standing motionless, listening to the muffled sounds of her movements inside. The longer I stand there, the more ridiculous I feel, like some awkward teenager.
But I remind myself why I’m doing this. Hazel deserves to feel control over her space. She’s been abandoned by those who were supposed to protect her. Her own bloodline failed her in her time of need. Jacob’s been there, and I’m grateful for it, but it’s not enough. She needs more. She needs me not to fail her.
Finally, I hear the click of the lock turning. Relief floods me as she opens the door slowly, her dark brows furrowed. Her thick, coily hair is still damp from the shower, pulled into a loose, sloppy bun at the back of her head, with strands falling in wild spirals around her face .
Her sharp blue eyes land on me. She’s wearing a snug black long-sleeve shirt and matching fitted pants, comfortable but neat. Her feet are bare, and she looks freshly scrubbed. The scent of soap and shampoo lingers, masking her natural scent, which makes me wrinkle my nose briefly and twitch my ears. I hate that it’s harder to read her this way.
“You could’ve just teleported inside, Uncle. What’s all this?” she mutters, stepping aside to let me in.
I bow my head toward her first, a small and deliberate gesture. It’s acknowledgment of her womanhood, something I doubt she’s been treated with before. Her eyes narrow, clearly not used to being addressed with that kind of formality. Her stiffness makes it obvious she doesn’t know what to make of me.
I step into her room, glancing around. It’s small—too small for my liking—but I’ve made sure she has everything she needs to feel comfortable. The walls are painted a deep navy blue, my favorite color, which I insisted on.
A low lamp glows on the nightstand, casting a dim, warm light across the room. Her bed is neatly made, with a patterned navy-and-white throw spread across it.
A few personal touches sit here and there—a framed photo, a couple of books stacked on the nightstand—but it’s clear she keeps things orderly, intentional, like she needs some kind of control in her life.
The attached bathroom door is open, with soft light spilling faintly into the bedroom. It matches the rest of the room—modern and clean. Everything about the space feels organized and functional, though it’s far from extravagant. Still, I can’t shake the thought that it’s too small, too modest, for what she truly deserves.
She moves toward the bed, her bare feet soundless against the carpet, and sits down at the edge. Her posture is stiff, uncertain. Her blue eyes land on me, holding my gaze nervously, clearly trying to piece together what I want.
I can’t hold back anymore. Skirting around the truth, dropping hints, trying not to push too hard—it’s done nothing but make this more uncomfortable for both of us. Enough. I step a little closer, keeping my tone steady.
“Hazel,” I say, meeting her gaze directly, “I know you’ve been assaulted. I can smell it in your scent.” Her expression stiffens, but I press on. “Please, let me do what I was made to do. Give me the chance to avenge you. I’ll be forever grateful.”
I hold her gaze, my eyes pleading, my voice steady, waiting for her response. She stares at me for a long, awkward moment, and I start to wonder if I’ve gone too far. Then she bursts into laughter. Full-on, belly-shaking laughter.
“So that’s why you’ve been sniffing me?!” she manages between gasps, wiping at her eyes as she keeps laughing.
I feel my frown deepen, my jaw clenching. None of this is funny to me. I clench my fists at my sides, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. I need their scents. I need them now. And the fact that she’s laughing about this only fuels the fire raging inside me.
She notices my frown and immediately reins herself in, clearing her throat to compose herself.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about, Uncle. I’ve already handled it,” she says, her voice steady but unconvincing. I don’t believe her for a second. Handling it isn’t enough. Their entire bloodline deserves to be wiped out for what they’ve done. What these men did to her can’t go unanswered. I want her to tell me exactly what happened that night, every detail, but I know better than to push. It’s her story to tell when she’s ready.
“All of them?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. My voice is calm, but my body feels rigid with rage.
Her face twists in confusion. “What do you mean all of them? Only one man raped me.” She says it like it’s a fact, like she truly believes it.
I take a small breath. “Hazel, there are ten men attached to your scent.” My voice is cold, flat. I don’t give her any room to misunderstand.
Her body stiffens like a statue right before she doubles over, gagging hard, clutching at her stomach.
“Oh God. I was really gang-raped,” she whispers hoarsely, choking on the words like they’re poison. Then she gags again, hard enough that I think she’s about to throw up.
I teleport to the bed in an instant, sitting beside her, pulling her hair out of the way just in case. She’s shaking, her breaths uneven, her whole body screaming disgust and humiliation. I sit there, steady, keeping my hand light on her back. She doesn’t say anything else, just gags again and again like she needs to purge everything inside her.
The fear coming off her hits me like a wave, mixing with the sharp tang of shame and rage. It makes my chest ache, but I don’t let it show. Her scent is stronger now that I’m this close, almost overwhelming. I can pick it out among the others, but I shake the thought. Burying my face in her neck to steal her scent now would be beyond wrong. An unforgivable betrayal. Worse than what those men did.
No, she has to give me her trust willingly. This isn’t the time or the way.
But what is certain is that I won’t let those animals walk away from this. They don’t get to exist after what they’ve done. Not one of them .
Hazel starts to sob, her whole body trembling with each breath. Anger already boiling inside me intensifies at the sound. I groan low in my throat, gripping her hips and lifting her into my lap.
She resists at first, squirming weakly against me, but her body eventually gives in. She sinks into me, fragile and broken, and I hold her close, rocking her gently as she shakes like a leaf in my arms. Her face presses into my chest, tears soaking through my shirt, but I don’t move.
I rub her back slowly, letting her fall apart in a way I know she hasn’t allowed herself to do in so long. She cries hard, each muffled sob tearing at something deep inside me. I stay still, grounded, taking it all—her heartbreak, her pain, the betrayal, the assault, the loss of control over her own life, the loneliness. All of it. I take it for her because I can’t take away what happened.
I want to see life return to those eyes again. That glow she used to have. And I hate myself for sleeping through everything. If I hadn’t been under my slumber, none of this would have happened. Not to her. I know that for sure.
But at the same time, I know Wintermoon wouldn’t exist as it does today if I had been awake. The curse wouldn’t have been lifted. All of it played out the way fate intended... but at what cost? Hazel’s suffering? That’s the price?
I hold her until her sobbing slows, not caring how long it’s been. When she finally pulls back, sniffling, I reach up and gently wipe her face, brushing the tears from her cheeks. Her skin feels cold under my hand, fragile.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” she whispers, her voice raw. She looks down at her lap, twisting her fingers together. “I just wanted to pretend it was only him. Just him. I thought he was my friend—DeMarcus.” Her voice cracks, but she pushes through. “We grew up together. He… he knew I was a witch.” She swallows hard, like the words are physically painful to say. “He invited me to this party and gave me a drink…” She trails off, turning her face away.
I stay quiet, giving her the space to continue, though every muscle in my body is rigid.
I trusted him,” she finally says, her voice just above a whisper. “Next thing I know, everything went dark and I passed out. When I woke up, he was standing over the bed, zipping up his pants and…” She shakes her head, tears forming again in her eyes. She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to. I already know how it ends.
I feel rage, sharp and consuming, churn inside me. My claws emerge without conscious thought, digging into my palms until blood drips onto the carpet. The beast inside me roars, demanding release, demanding blood. My vision blurs red at the edges as I imagine finding this DeMarcus, this traitor who dared harm what’s mine. I can almost taste his fear, smell his blood. The shifter in me wants to track him now, tear him apart slowly, make him suffer for every second of pain he caused her. But I force the beast back, retracting my claws with effort. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
It’s dangerous, this feeling. Kill isn’t enough.
I catch Hazel watching me, her blue eyes wide as she takes in whatever she sees in my face. There must be something terrible there, something that matches the fury burning in my chest, because she shrinks back slightly.
“Uncle?” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I’ve never... I’ve never seen anyone look so angry before.”
I try to soften my expression, but it’s like trying to cage a hurricane. “This anger isn’t directed at you, niece. Never at you. But what they did?” I shake my head slowly. “There will be consequences.”
Hazel starts to shift off of my lap, shaky and unsure, but I grip her hips again and lift her as I stand. I flick my fingers, pulling the covers back with my magic. Gently, I place her down on the bed, tucking the blanket over her as her head rests against the pillow. She looks so small, so vulnerable.
I stare down at her, this fragile girl who means everything to me, and my chest aches painfully. Taking her scent to track these men feels wrong. She’s been through enough. Seeing her like this hurts worse than any anger I’m holding onto. I clench my fists at my sides, fighting the urge to act on it now. I need to leave, to breathe, to burn this fury into something smaller before it consumes me.
Leaning over the bed, I gently stroke her damp hair, the silky strands soft between my fingers. I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a moment, and start to move.
“Please stay with me,” she murmurs, her voice small and shaky. She sniffles, wiping at her cheeks. Her words stop me in my tracks.
How can I deny her? She needs me now more than ever. I nod silently, and she slides over, making space for me on the bed. I don’t bother pulling the covers back. Instead, I sit down beside her, resting my back against the headboard, one arm draped around her as my fingers find her cheek. I stroke it softly, letting the motion calm her.
“Was my mother always like this, Uncle?” she asks, her voice small.
I hesitate but force myself to shake my head and fake a smile. “No, she wasn’t. But it was a very, very long time ago.” My chest constricts as I prepare to explain the truth, a truth I haven’t spoken aloud in years. “Mother Fate warned us about the dangers of dark magic. But Aya... she couldn’t stand watching humans destroy the earth. She hated their greed, their ignorance, their recklessness. She felt powerless to stop them. Persuasion wasn’t working. Whispers weren’t working. Leading by example wasn’t enough either. She thought we’d run out of options.”
I take a deep breath, remembering the way it all fell apart so quickly. “Fate told her to trust in humanity. To give them time to change. But Aya lost faith. She didn’t think humans could be saved unless she forced it. Aya thought controlling them was the only way, but controlling requires power. And she wanted more power than she already had. Dark magic was the answer to her.”
I stop, shifting uncomfortably as memories creep in. My sister before dark magic—before she changed. I push them away. Thinking about it only hurts more. There was a time when we loved one another without condition, when we were bonded as family, as siblings, as something unshakable. But dark magic came between us and destroyed all of it.
“It starts with one spell,” I finally say, my voice quieter now. “That’s all it takes. Dark magic pulls you in like a drug. You want more, and more, and before you know it, it’s consuming you. Every piece of who you are gets eaten away by it. That’s what happened to your mother, Hazel. I tried to stop her. Tried everything to bring her back. But Aya… Aya isn’t Aya anymore. The only way I can save her now is by destroying dark magic completely. Nothing else can fix her.”
Hazel sighs beside me and nods, but I see the sadness in her eyes. Her love for her mother is still there, even when overpowered by anger or guilt.
“Do you think you can do it? Destroy dark magic?” she asks.
I shrug truthfully. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried before.”
She hesitates before asking, her voice barely steady, “What if you can’t? Will you… will you have to kill my mother? ”
I close my eyes, her question settling heavy in my chest. I nod slowly. It’s not the answer she wants to hear. It’s not the answer I want to give her, but it’s the truth.
“I understand, Uncle,” she whispers after a moment. She lies back, staring up at the ceiling, her face blank but distant, her thoughts clearly heavy. “I don’t think my mother ever truly loved me. She never said it. Never called me anything but ‘daughter.’ I never had a name to her. No sweet nicknames, no terms of endearment, nothing. Just… daughter. And it was always tied to some duty I had to fulfill because she gave birth to me.”
I watch her quietly, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. “It’s a side-effect of dark magic,” I tell her. “Witches and warlocks who use it get to bypass Fate’s law. It lets them procreate without their fated mate, but... there’s a price. No child born of dark magic can come from love. It’s a curse. You didn’t come from love, Hazel. And I don’t say that to hurt you. I’m saying it because that’s the truth of dark magic.”
She doesn’t say anything at first, but I reach down and stroke her cheek again to try and comfort her. Eventually, she sighs. “So, that means she doesn’t love me?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. I think somewhere deep down, love still exists in Aya. But as long as dark magic infects her, we’ll never see it. The magic smothers everything real inside of her.”
Hazel’s voice breaks when she speaks again. “Promise me you’ll try. Try to save her. And if you can’t… if you can’t, then I’ll understand.”
I smile faintly, though the words weigh heavy on my heart. “I promise, Hazel,” I say.
I lean closer, my voice low and pleading. “Hazel, please... let me take their scent. I need to track them, to make this right.” My hands twitch at my sides, desperate to act, but I wait for her permission, my chest heavy. “I can’t let them get away with what they’ve done to you. Please.”
A low growl escapes me, but there’s no real anger in it. She laughs softly, tiredly, then yawns as I settle back against the headboard.
“Wait until I fall asleep,” she murmurs, her voice already fading. “Then take what you need.”
I watch her face soften as sleep takes her, my enhanced vision catching every detail. Her chest rises and falls steadily, peaceful despite the horrors she’s just relived. My nostrils flare slightly, testing the air.
Yes—their scents are still there, buried beneath soap and shampoo, but clear enough to track.
Ten distinct markers, ten men who will soon learn what it means to earn a shifter’s wrath. My beast purrs, already tasting the hunt to come.
These men think they’re safe in their beds tonight, but they have no idea what’s coming for them—or what I’m capable of. Justice isn’t always swift or clean; sometimes it needs to be slow, methodical, and absolutely devastating.
I lean my head back and wait, watching her breathing even out as she drifts off. I’m not leaving until I get it.