Chapter 3 — The Lone Wolf’s Arrival

Ronan Blackwood rolled his shoulders as he stepped off the motorcycle, the engine’s hum fading into the distant thrum of the city. The air here was charged, thick with the tension before a storm. He inhaled deeply, the sharp tang of concrete and gasoline filling his lungs, but beneath it, faint and wild, lingered something else.

Wolf.

His storm-gray eyes flicked toward Hartman Tower, its mirrored surface reflecting the city’s skyline. Glass, steel, ambition. It loomed like a fortress, a monument to human power. But there was more beneath the surface—something primal, vibrating through his bones. He could feel it, that instinctual pull, the one he’d tried to sever long ago.

He adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, the familiar weight grounding him. His mother’s voice echoed in the back of his mind: *Stay out of pack business, Ronan. It’ll only bring you pain.* She’d been right. Pack politics had cost him everything—his father, his home, his peace. But this wasn’t about the pack.

Not entirely.

This was about her.

Isla Hartman.

He hadn’t seen her yet, but her presence tugged at the edge of his awareness—a hum beneath the surface, a current pulling him in. He’d heard rumors. Conrad Hartman’s daughter. The one who’d broken away, built an empire with nothing but sheer will and a mind sharp enough to cut through steel. The one who’d denied the bond.

Ronan respected that. Hell, he admired it. But admiration didn’t explain the way his skin prickled, the way his wolf stirred, restless beneath his skin. It didn’t explain the pull that had dragged him here, to this city, to this moment.

He wasn’t here for her. Not really. He didn’t believe in fate. He’d seen what it did to wolves who let it rule their lives. His father had believed in fate.

And it had gotten him killed.

Ronan’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t about the past. Something was wrong, and Isla was at the center of it. Maybe it was the bond—*the damn bond*—but it wasn’t just that. *Something bigger is at play.* He could feel it in the air, in the scent of wolf that clung to the city like a shadow.

As he neared the underground parking garage, the scent grew stronger, mingling with the sterility of concrete and oil. He moved silently, blending into the shadows cast by the towering building. His senses sharpened, picking up the faintest vibrations—heartbeat, breath, movement. He wasn’t alone.

Ronan’s hand went to the knife strapped to his side. He didn’t need it, but the feel of the blade was grounding, a reminder that he was in control. His wolf stirred, itching to break free, but he held it back. Control was everything. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Footsteps echoed, deliberate and light. A figure emerged from the stairwell, her silhouette sharp in the fluorescent light. Isla. She moved with precision, every step carefully measured. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, her tailored suit clinging to her lean frame like armor.

Ronan paused, watching. She was taller than he’d expected, striking in a way that went beyond appearance. There was authority in her, something that radiated from each step she took. But it wasn’t her presence that made his wolf growl softly beneath his skin. It was something deeper. Something raw.

Isla Hartman wasn’t just a woman. She was a storm waiting to break.

As she approached, her amber eyes flicked toward him, sharp and assessing. For a moment, something passed between them—an electric crackle that made his wolf rear up inside him. She felt it too.

Ronan took a step forward, his voice low and measured. “Isla Hartman.”

Her amber eyes narrowed, a flicker of something primal flashing before she masked it behind cold precision. “And you are...?”

Her tone was sharp, calculated. Ronan could respect that.

“Ronan Blackwood,” he said, keeping his gaze steady. “I heard you might need help.”

Her lips thinned as she looked him over, suspicion clear in her eyes. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“No,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But here I am.”

Isla’s eyes darkened, her posture rigid, arms crossing tightly over her chest. “I don’t have time for this.”

Ronan stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “Your building’s been hit. You’ve got a problem. I’m here to solve it.”

Her fingers brushed the pendant at her throat, almost reflexively. The amber stone at its center glowed faintly.

The Wolfstone Pendant.

Ronan’s eyes narrowed slightly. He’d heard stories about it—an ancient artifact, passed down through the Hartman line. A symbol of power. Seeing it now, it all made sense. Isla was bound to the pack, no matter how much she tried to deny it.

“I’m not part of the pack,” she said, her voice tight with defiance.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ronan replied quietly. “You’re still his daughter.”

Her jaw clenched at the mention of Conrad. “I left the pack. I don’t owe them anything.”

Ronan shrugged, his voice lowering. “You may have left, but your father hasn’t. He’s making moves, and you’re at the center of it. Like it or not, you’re in the middle of a war.”

Isla’s eyes flicked to the side, where shards of shattered glass glinted under the parking lot lights. The aftermath of the attack lingered—the scent of wolves, claw marks on the concrete. She knew, just as he did, that this wasn’t an ordinary act of sabotage.

Ronan watched her carefully, noting the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly. She was good at hiding it, but the tension was there, just beneath the surface.

“Why are you really here?” she asked, her voice low, guarded.

Ronan hesitated. He could tell her the truth—that something had pulled him here, something beyond his control. That the bond simmering between them had been the driving force. But that wasn’t the whole truth. And it wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“I’ve got my reasons,” he said, his voice rougher. “But right now, your father’s making moves. You need someone who knows how to deal with what’s coming.”

Isla’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Ronan’s lips twitched into a sardonic smile. “No, you don’t. But you need someone who knows the wolves coming for you. You can’t fight this alone.”

For a moment, the air between them hung heavy with unspoken tension. Isla’s fingers tightened around the pendant at her throat, its glow intensifying, pulsing faintly in sync with the bond neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

“You can’t outrun who you are,” Ronan said quietly, his voice softer now. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Her gaze snapped to his, something dangerous flashing in her eyes. “I’m not running.”

“No,” Ronan said, taking another step forward. “You’re fighting.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. The bond thrummed in the air, a pulse of energy that vibrated through his bones. For a brief moment, Ronan allowed himself to feel it—the raw connection, the magnetic pull. But just as quickly, he shoved it back down, burying it beneath walls he’d built long ago.

Isla wasn’t his to claim. She wasn’t anyone’s. And he wasn’t about to let fate dictate his choices.

“I don’t need your help,” she said finally, her voice hard, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt.

“Too bad,” Ronan replied, moving past her toward the garage’s entrance. “Because you’re getting it anyway.”

He didn’t wait for her response. He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t turn around. He wasn’t here for gratitude. He wasn’t even here for her.

He was here because something bigger was coming, something neither of them could outrun.

And whether she liked it or not, they were in this together.

For better or worse.

The bond between them pulsed again, a constant reminder of the fate they both resisted.

But fate didn’t care about resistance.

And neither did the wolves closing in.