Chapter 3

Aiden didn''t sleep.

How could he? The moon was a presence outside his window, a silver eye watching him, calling to the wolf in his blood. And on the other side of the door, Alexander—the man who had killed him, loved him, and now owned him—was just feet away.

He spent the night cataloguing the room. The narrow bed with its straw-stuffed mattress. The washstand with its chipped porcelain basin. The single window looking out over the moonlit courtyard. The door connecting to Alexander''s chambers—solid oak, but with a simple latch that wouldn''t keep out anyone determined to get in.

Not that Alexander needed to force his way in. He owned the door. He owned the room. He owned Aiden.

Property, Aiden thought, the word bitter in his mind. I''m property now.

But property with teeth. Property that remembered being a hunter. Property that knew how to kill.

He sat on the edge of the bed, listening. The castle was never truly silent. There were always sounds—the distant footsteps of guards on patrol, the creak of old timbers settling, the whisper of wind through arrow slits. And from the other side of the door, the occasional rustle of paper, the scratch of a pen, the soft tread of Alexander moving about his chambers.

The Duke was working late. Or perhaps he couldn''t sleep either.

Aiden''s enhanced hearing picked up the sound of a glass being set down, a sigh, the rustle of clothing. Then footsteps approaching the connecting door.

He tensed, every muscle coiling. But the footsteps paused, then retreated. A moment later, he heard the main chamber door open and close. Alexander had left.

Aiden waited, counting to one hundred in his head. Then he rose and went to the connecting door. It wasn''t locked. He eased it open a crack.

Alexander''s chambers were empty, the fire burned down to embers. The desk was littered with papers—official documents, by the look of them. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat beside an inkwell.

Aiden stepped into the room. The scent was overwhelming here—Alexander''s scent, concentrated and layered with hours of occupancy. It called to the wolf in him, a siren song he had to fight to ignore.

He went to the desk. The top document was a land deed. Below it, correspondence with other nobles. Military reports. Nothing about werewolves or supernatural creatures. Nothing about a hunter named Allen Silvermoon.

But on a smaller table by the fireplace, something caught his eye. A sketchbook, left open. Aiden picked it up.

The page showed a rough drawing of a man''s face. Strong jaw, intense eyes, a scar across one cheekbone. It was crude, but recognizable.

It was Allen Silvermoon. His face. From his previous life.

His hand trembled slightly as he turned the page. More sketches. Allen training with a sword. Allen by a campfire. Allen sleeping.

And on the last page, a single word scrawled in a shaky hand: Why?

Aiden closed the sketchbook, his heart pounding. So Alexander did remember. Fragments, at least. Enough to haunt him.

The main chamber door opened.

Aiden froze, the sketchbook still in his hands. He had time to slip back into his room, but something held him in place. Curiosity. Or maybe something darker.

Alexander stepped into the room, stopping when he saw Aiden. For a moment, they just stared at each other across the dimly lit chamber.

Then Alexander''s eyes went to the sketchbook in Aiden''s hands. His expression tightened. "That''s private."

"I know," Aiden said softly.

"You have no right—"

"Who is he?" Aiden interrupted, holding up the sketchbook. "The man in the drawings."

Alexander''s jaw worked. "No one. A ghost."

"He looks familiar."

"Put it down." Alexander''s voice was low, dangerous.

Aiden didn''t move. "You dream about him, don''t you? The headaches. The memories. They''re of him."

"How do you know that?" Alexander took a step forward. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I dream about him too." The lie came easily. It was close enough to the truth. "I''ve seen his face. In my dreams. He''s teaching me things. How to hunt. How to track. How to kill."

Alexander went very still. "What did you say?"

"He taught you too, didn''t he?" Aiden pressed, taking a step closer. "In your memories. He was your teacher. Your mentor."

The color drained from Alexander''s face. "Who are you?"

"Aiden Silvermoon. The werewolf you bought."

"That''s not what I mean, and you know it." Alexander closed the distance between them in two long strides. He was taller than Aiden, broader, and he used that size now, looming over him. "Who are you really? Some spy sent by my enemies? Some witch playing games with my mind?"

Aiden looked up at him, meeting his gaze without flinching. "What if I told you I was him? Reborn?"

The words hung in the air between them. Absurd. Impossible.

Alexander laughed, but it was a harsh, brittle sound. "Don''t be ridiculous. Reincarnation is a fairy tale for peasants and fools."

"Is it?" Aiden opened the sketchbook to the drawing of Allen sleeping. "You drew him from memory. But how could you remember a man you never met? Unless you did meet him. In another life."

"I''m going mad," Alexander murmured, more to himself than to Aiden. "That''s the only explanation. The stress of the dukedom, the political games... it''s driven me mad."

"Or maybe you''re remembering the truth." Aiden reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the sketch. "He loved you, you know. The hunter. He loved you more than anything."

Alexander''s breath hitched. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because I remember." Aiden looked up, his eyes meeting Alexander''s. And for the first time, he let down his guard. Just a little. Just enough to let the truth show in his eyes. "I remember training you. I remember laughing with you by campfires. I remember holding you in the dark. And I remember you putting a silver bullet through my heart."

For a long moment, Alexander just stared at him. Then his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Aiden''s throat.

But it wasn''t an attack. Not really. It was... testing. Alexander''s thumb pressed against the pulse point in Aiden''s neck, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. His other hand came up to cup Aiden''s cheek, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"You''re not him," Alexander whispered, his voice rough. "You can''t be. He was... harder. Older. You''re just a boy."

"Seventeen," Aiden said. "In this body. But the soul inside is older. Much older."

Alexander''s eyes searched his face, looking for something. Truth or lies, Aiden couldn''t tell. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Tell me something only he would know. Something from those... memories."

Aiden thought for a moment. Then he said, "You have a scar on your left hip. From when you were twelve and tried to climb the old oak tree on your father''s estate. You fell, a branch tore through your trousers and into your skin. You were too proud to cry, but he saw the tears in your eyes anyway. He stitched it up for you, and you bit your lip so hard it bled to keep from making a sound."

Alexander''s grip on his throat loosened. His eyes widened. "No one knows about that. Not even my valet."

"There''s more," Aiden continued, his voice soft. "You''re afraid of thunderstorms. Not the lightning or the thunder, but the smell of ozone in the air. It reminds you of the night your parents died. Their carriage was struck by lightning during a storm, and it went off the road. You were eight years old. You smelled ozone that night, just before the crash."

Alexander''s hand fell away from Aiden''s throat. He took a step back, his face pale. "How..."

"And you hate peaches," Aiden finished. "Because when you were five, you ate too many and were sick for two days. You''ve never been able to stand the smell of them since."

Silence.

The fire crackled. The clock ticked.

Alexander turned away, running a hand through his hair. "This is impossible."

"Is it?" Aiden set the sketchbook back on the table. "You bought a werewolf. You''re having memories of a past life. What''s one more impossibility?"

Alexander turned back to him, his expression unreadable. "If you''re really him... why are you here? Why come back? To take revenge?"

"No." Aiden shook his head. "I don''t want revenge."

"Then what do you want?"

"I don''t know." That, at least, was the truth. "I woke up in a cage, memories of two lives in my head. I was sold like livestock. You bought me. Here I am."

Alexander studied him for a long moment. Then he said, "Take off your shirt."

Aiden blinked. "What?"

"Your shirt. Take it off."

"Why?"

"Because if you''re really Allen, you''ll have the scar. The one I gave you when we were training. The one you said you''d keep as a reminder to never let your guard down."

Aiden remembered. A training session gone wrong. Alexander—young, eager, overconfident—had gotten past his defenses. The practice sword had been edged with silver, just enough to leave a mark on a supernatural creature. It had cut across Allen''s chest, leaving a thin, silvery scar.

He hesitated for only a second. Then he began unbuttoning his shirt.

The fine cotton slid from his shoulders, pooling at his feet. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin. He stood there, half-naked in the firelight, letting Alexander look his fill.

Alexander''s eyes traveled over his torso, taking in the scars. The old silver blade wound across his ribs. The claw marks on his shoulder. The bite mark on his hip. And there, just below his left collarbone, a thin, silvery line about three inches long.

The exact scar Alexander had described.

Alexander reached out, his fingers hovering just above the scar. "May I?"

Aiden nodded.

The touch was feather-light. Alexander''s fingertips traced the line of the scar, from one end to the other. Aiden shivered, not from cold, but from the intimacy of the touch. From the memories it stirred.

"You kept it," Alexander whispered.

"You told me to. Said it would teach me humility."

A faint smile touched Alexander''s lips. "I was an arrogant little shit, wasn''t I?"

"You had reason to be. You were the best student I ever had."

Alexander''s hand dropped. He took a step back, putting distance between them again. "This is... a lot to process."

"I know."

"I need time. To think. To... understand what this means."

Aiden nodded. "Take all the time you need."

Alexander looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since he''d entered the room. Not as merchandise. Not as a servant. But as... something else. Something complicated.

"Get some sleep," Alexander said finally. "Tomorrow, you begin your duties. As my personal servant. We''ll... figure out the rest as we go."

Aiden picked up his shirt, pulling it back on. "What about Grubb? He won''t let this go."

"Grubb is the least of our concerns right now." Alexander''s expression hardened. "But if he causes trouble, deal with him. Permanently, if necessary."

"You''d let me kill one of your suppliers?"

"I''d help you hide the body." Alexander''s smile was grim. "Now go. Before I start asking questions I''m not ready to hear the answers to."

Aiden returned to his room, closing the connecting door behind him. He leaned against it, his heart pounding.

He''d done it. He''d told Alexander the truth. Or as much of the truth as he could without sounding completely insane.

And Alexander had believed him. Or at least, he hadn''t dismissed it outright.

That was something. Maybe everything.

He went to the window, looking out at the moon. It was brighter tonight, closer to full. The pull was stronger, the wolf more restless.

Soon, he would have to face his first full moon in this new body. In this new life.

And he had no idea what would happen when he did.

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