Falling For The Demon Wolf-Chapter 66: Past lives

Calla returned not long after with another young woman in tow, this one tall and lean with a heavy braid down her back and a quiet, unreadable gaze.

"She’ll show you to a tent," Calla said softly. "It’s not much, but it’s warm. Rest, Violet. You’ve clearly traveled far."

I didn’t correct her use of my birth name.

The young woman didn’t speak as she led me between the maze of tents and handmade shelters. The camp was larger than I expected—too big to be run without some kind of structure, even if they claimed not to follow an Alpha. Smoke drifted from cook fires. Someone laughed near a circle of elders playing a game with stones. And still, others moved with practiced silence, keeping to shadows.

My guide stopped in front of a faded red tent near the outer edge of the camp. It was simple, but a blanket hung over the entrance for privacy. She nodded once and then turned away without a word.

Inside, the ground was lined with thick rugs and two old wool blankets were folded neatly at the corner. A small tin lantern flickered beside a pile of furs, and despite everything... it felt safe.

I let the flap fall behind me, curled up in the warmth, and fell asleep to the sound of distant laughter and night birds calling through the trees.

My dreams where occupied by Zain, his hands, lips, voice, his hot breath against my neck and the faint whispers of pleasure.

It was a very short night, one I didn’t appreciate as it took my away from the only feeling of closeness I had to him.

Morning came with the scent of ash and dew. I woke to soft sunlight filtering through the tent seams, a heavy stillness pressing into my bones. No one came to fetch me. No one knocked.

I stepped out on my own, tightening the shawl someone had left by the entrance around my shoulders.

The camp was awake, alive. Children ran past me barefoot, shrieking with delight. Women stirred pots, men hauled firewood, and some sharpened blades that looked a little too clean to be ceremonial. And through it all... the whispers started.

Some stared. Others looked right through me.

"She’s the one from the East..."

"That’s her. I remember the hair."

"She looks soft. Too soft to be one of us."

"She shouldn’t be here."

"Is it true she was with the Alpha?"

The words slithered through the air, never loud enough to challenge but sharp enough to sting. A few people eyed me with blatant curiosity—others with scorn or caution. Some turned their backs entirely.

I walked anyway.

Step after step, deeper into the strange world that somehow felt both foreign and oddly familiar. I didn’t know what I was searching for yet, only that something in my chest tightened with each glance, each word spoken in hushed tones.

And then—

"Violet Hawthorn," a voice called, low and rough from behind me.

I turned.

A man stood there, older than most I’d seen, with a scar slicing down one side of his neck and tattoos peeking from beneath his collar. His eyes were sharp and knowing, and he wasn’t whispering.

"I remember you."

My breath caught.

"You were just a pup when they took you back," he said. "Didn’t think you’d ever step foot here again."

"A pup? You mean a wolf?" I asked confused.

"Yes a wolf. You are what you are Violet and this." He said gesturing around him. "This is home."

I swallowed hard. "Home? You knew me?"

He nodded slowly. "I knew your grandmother. And your bloodline."

And just like that, the weight in my chest shifted.

I wasn’t just here for answers anymore.

I was here for the truth

The man didn’t stare at me with fear or suspicion like the others. He looked at me like I was a memory he hadn’t expected to see standing upright.

"You’re Violet," he said at last. "Born of two worlds."

I nodded cautiously. "You knew my grandmother?" I asked again.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his weathered mouth. "Aye. Kiera. She was fierce. Wilder than the wind and kinder than she let on."

He turned, motioning for me to follow. "Come. This isn’t a story told in the open."

I hesitated for half a breath, but something in me leaned forward, not back. So I followed.

We walked in silence past the central part of the camp, beyond the makeshift smithy and a corral of horses tied lazily to posts. Further into the outskirts, where the trees grew thicker and the campfire smoke no longer reached, stood a single large tent patched with old canvas and stretched leather. He pushed open the flap and gestured for me to enter.

The space inside was cluttered but lived-in. Maps, bones, books, jars filled with dried herbs. A place of memory, not survival.

He settled onto a stool and motioned for me to sit on a low pile of blankets across from him.

"I’m called Garrick," he said. "I lead what’s left of the older blood here."

I inclined my head. "You said you knew my grandmother.Tell me, what was she like?"

His eyes turned distant, voice low. "Kiera came through these woods once, younger than you are now. She fell for a human boy who roamed too close to our borders. Should’ve left him be. But you know how hearts work. They never follow the rules."

My stomach twisted. "My grandfather?"

He nodded. "A kind man. Strong in spirit, but no wolf in him but soon he grew to have so much hate for our kind because he couldn’t be together with your grandmother. They had a son—your father. No shift. No scent. Just a boy born of two worlds just like you "

"Was he ever told the truth?"

"Eventually," Garrick said. "Because he eventually took the hate from your grandfather and hated what he learned. Hated that the wolves would never fully claim him. Hated us more when your grandfather was torn apart by a roaming pack on a full moon. Wrong place, wrong time... or maybe fate."

My throat tightened. "So he turned his back on this life."

Garrick’s eyes found mine. "He didn’t just turn—he buried it. Hid it deep. Married a human woman and when you were born... he must have known."

I looked down at my hands, remembering the way my father used to flinch when I touched the old necklace with the crescent moon charm, how he’d once burned a book I found with symbols that looked like the ones carved on the rogue tents here and the same sign on my body.

"He did everything he could to make me normal," I said quietly. "To make me small."

Garrick’s voice softened. "But you were never meant to be small, Violet. Your blood sings. It calls to both wild and quiet things. That’s why you’re here."

A silence passed between us, thick with things unsaid.

"So," I asked, lifting my chin, "what happens now?"

Garrick smiled again—slow, knowing. "Now, we see how deep your roots really go.

"But first let’s get you something to eat and a new dress, perhaps, and get one of the women to braid this snowfall of a hair you have," he said, standing slowly, his knees cracking with the weight of years. "Reminds me so much of your grandmother."

His half-smile lingered as he looked at me, like a ghost of the past had stepped into his tent. I swallowed hard, unsure what to say, so I just offered him a small nod.

He pushed open the tent flap, the scent of pine and firewood rushing back in. "Come, girl. You look like a tired fox and twice as stubborn."

I followed him back through the camp, the hush of whispers still following me like shadows. Some turned their heads when they saw Garrick walking beside me, others dropped their gazes entirely. No one dared speak.

We stopped at a smaller tent near the central fire pit. A stout woman with thick arms and eyes sharp as flint stepped out, wiping her hands on a cloth.

"Maelra," Garrick called, his tone fond but firm. "This one’s Kiera’s blood. Make her look less like she crawled through the forest and more like she belongs here."

Maelra looked me up and down, her expression unreadable. Then, with a short grunt, she nodded. "She’s filthy, half-starved, and wearing rags. So yes, I’d say she needs a miracle."

Before I could even react, she gently tugged me by the wrist into her tent.

"Sit," she ordered. "And don’t squirm."

I did as I was told, and soon warm water was splashing into a basin, the scent of lavender and pine needles wafting up with the steam. She handed me a cloth. "Wash up. I’ll find something clean for you."

By the time I scrubbed my skin raw and dried off with a worn towel, Maelra returned with a soft wool dress the color of dusk and a thick brown cloak. Nothing fancy, but it was the warmest, cleanest thing I’d worn in weeks.

Next came my hair. She sat behind me, fingers surprisingly gentle as she began to part and braid my long, pale strands. Her voice broke the silence halfway through.

"She really did have hair like this," she said. "Your grandmother. Always wore it loose, wild, just to drive the elders mad."

I smiled softly. "Sounds like someone I would’ve liked."

"You would’ve loved her."

When she was done, I turned to face her. "Thank you."

She only nodded, handing me a wooden bowl of hot stew and a slice of thick bread. "Eat. You’ll need your strength."

I took a bite, the warmth sinking straight to my bones. It wasn’t just food—it was care. A kind I hadn’t expected to find here.

When I stepped out of the tent, cloak around my shoulders and my hair tight in two thick braids, people looked at me differently. Not with fear. Not with dismissal. But recognition.

And maybe hope.