Then she speaks.
“You know why I stopped killing you?” Her voice is steady, but there’s weight in it, something heavy she’s been carrying.
I tilt my head, waiting, my throat too dry to answer.
“The night you took me,” she continues, her gaze fixed on the fire. “I should’ve torn your throat out. I wanted to. My wolf wanted to. But then I saw your eyes.”
She finally looks at me, sharp, unflinching. “You looked… trapped. Not the one holding the chain. Just the one too used to it to fight back.”
The firelight catches her face, highlighting the strength in her jaw, the seriousness in her eyes. The words cut deeper than the bullet, deeper than the years of Roman’s shadow. She saw what no one else has ever dared to see.
“You saw me,” I say, the words rough, almost broken.
Her mouth tightens, like she regrets speaking. “Don’t make me regret it.”
I let out a laugh, low and hoarse, but real. My head tips back against the stone, the warmth of the fire sinking into my bones. For the first time in years, someone saw me—not Roman’s weapon, not the Syndicate’s blade, not the fox who bends to survive. Me.
And it terrifies me more than the storm, more than the Syndicate, more than the wound in my side.
Because now I want to be worthy of it.
13
MARY
The fire burns low, a fragile thing fighting to survive against drafts that creep through cracks in the stone above us. The storm outside hasn’t let up. Snow lashes the trees, a constant hiss and roar, and every gust pushes powder into the hollow so fine it looks like smoke. The smell of pine and wet earth hangs heavy, mixing with the sharper copper tang of blood that I can’t scrub out of the air.
Silas lies slumped against the wall, his coat pulled half off his shoulders, his shirt torn open where I pressed cloth against the wound. At first, I think the sweat shining on his skin is just from the heat of the fire. But the longer I watch, the more I see the fever creeping in—the flush across his cheeks, the shallow drag of his breath, the twitch of his jaw each time the pain spikes. My wolf stirs uneasily, ears pricked, tail lashing, restless with the wrongness of it.
I lean forward, press the back of my hand against his forehead. Too hot. My jaw clenches. He’s burning from the inside out.
“You stubborn fox,” I murmur.
His head shifts faintly, lips parting, but his eyes don’t open. He doesn’t wake. His breath rattles once, then steadies again, shallow and uneven.
I sit back hard, the cold stone biting my spine, my mind moving fast. I’ve seen fever take wolves down before. Seen strong men lose themselves in a night if the wound festers deep. And the Syndicate’s bullets aren’t clean. They carry more filth in them than lead should.
I drag the scavenged pack into my lap. It’s mostly useless junk—rations packed too tight to chew, a half-empty clip, a broken comm—but at the very bottom, wrapped in oilcloth, I find what I’m praying for. Dried roots, blackened and sharp-smelling, bitter enough to sting my nose even through the wrapping. Soldiers carry them because they’ve been told it’s medicine. But I know better.
I roll them between my fingers, remembering my mother’s voice as clear as if she’s crouched beside me again:This one draws heat from the blood, this one pulls poison from the wound. Too much will kill a man, too little will do nothing. Trust the wolf inside you, Mary, she knows better than your eyes.
My throat tightens, but I nod anyway, even though there’s no one to see. My wolf presses forward, watching, steadying. I crush the roots with a flat stone until they crumble into dust, bitter smoke rising when I breathe too close. I mix them with melted snow in a dented tin, hold it above the fire until steam curls upward. The smell turns sharper, harsher, earthy and wild. Perfect.
I slide closer to him, tilting the tin. “Don’t fight me on this,” I say low, slipping a hand under his jaw to steady him. His skin is burning, damp with sweat. “You can bleed out all you like when I’m not the one keeping you alive, but until then—you drink.”
He groans, head shifting weakly, but when I press the tin to his lips he swallows. He coughs once, chokes, then swallows again. His hand lifts, catching my wrist, hot and trembling, but there’s no strength behind it. I hold steady until the tin is empty, then lower him back against the stone.
His hand doesn’t let go. It lingers at my wrist, hot and heavy, his grip unsteady but stubborn. His eyes crack open, amber dulled to a fever’s haze.
“You should sleep,” I tell him.
His lips twitch in something that’s almost a smile. “You always sound like you’re giving orders.”
“Somebody has to,” I answer, pulling the cloth tighter against his wound.
His eyes close again, his breathing slow, and I think that’s the end of it. But then he whispers, voice raw, the words dragging slow from his chest:
“Not mine… not yet.”
