Her wolf stirs under her skin, I see it in the shift of her shoulders, the flick of her gaze. She doesn’t speak right away. But she doesn’t deny it.
And for me, that’s enough.
15
MARY
The storm loosens its grip by the time we reach the ridgeline, though the air is colder for the stillness it leaves behind. Snow hangs heavy in the branches, weighing down the black pines until they bow low, and every step crunches loud enough to echo in the quiet. My wolf doesn’t like it. She paces hard inside me, her hackles raised, tail stiff, ears pricked to every shift of the wind. Silence like this doesn’t feel like peace—it feels like something waiting.
When Silas pushes through a thicket of spruce and stops, I see the safehouse. A cabin, small and leaning to one side, tucked against the rise of rock as if the mountain itself is trying to shield it. The roof sags under decades of snow, the shutters hang crooked, and the chimney is little more than a scar of stone cracked with moss. But the sight of it does something strange to my chest. Relief, maybe. Or just the reminder that shelter exists at all.
He leads me to the door, his hand steady on the wood, his shoulders tense like he expects resistance even from a house. It opens with a groan, the hinges stiff, the smell of old dust and ashspilling out. Inside, the air is dry, stale but not rotten. Someone used it once, long ago, and left it standing.
The room is bare but solid: stone hearth at one end, timber walls scarred with time, a table collapsed in the corner, two chairs standing though their backs are cracked. A rug lies faded and stiff with age, but the floor beneath it is clean enough. Windows sit low, half-frosted, the glass fogged with cold, but they’re intact. The cabin is broken, but it’s not dead.
Silas moves through it first, scanning like a soldier, his eyes sharp to every corner. He pushes the table aside, checks behind the door, peers through the shutters. His movements are slow, deliberate, practiced. He doesn’t trust shelter. Maybe he never has.
When he’s satisfied, he turns to me. “We’ll be all right here for a night.” His voice is low, his certainty quiet but real.
I don’t argue. I move straight to the hearth, crouch low, brush snow and old ash away with my hands. The stones are cold, but they hold. I stack the leftover wood neatly, strike flint until sparks catch on dry bark. Soon flame grows, weak at first but climbing steady, licking orange and gold against stone. Heat spills quick, filling the hollow air.
I sit back, my arms wrapped around my knees, staring into the fire. My wolf relaxes a fraction, her ears still alert but her growl fading. Warmth makes her easier to bear. Firelight flickers across the room, painting shadows deep into the corners. Silas stands near the window, his profile sharp, his amber eyes scanning the snow outside like he expects Roman himself to come crawling through the drifts.
“Darius is on his way,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t turn at once. His jaw shifts, his shoulders stiff. Then he glances back, meeting my eyes. “You’re sure?”
“I can feel him,” I answer. “The bond isn’t strong with distance, not anymore, but I know. He’s close. He’ll find us.”
Silas just nods, once, but his gaze lingers on me like he’s trying to measure how much truth sits behind my words. He doesn’t know what it means to feel pack in your bones, to feel blood calling even through storms and mountains. I do.
The fire crackles. I let the silence stretch, heavy but not empty, before I finally speak again. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
His head turns fully then, the firelight catching hard lines in his face. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. “I’m not asking,” he says. His tone is steady, no heat in it, no plea. Just certainty. “I’ll earn it.”
The words hit sharper than I expect. My wolf stirs, ears pricking, as though she wants to test him, to see if he means it. I study him for a long while, the sharpness of his jaw, the steady fire in his eyes, the weight of blood on his hands that doesn’t hide the truth of him.
“You’ve got a long way to go,” I murmur.
“Good thing I’m patient.” His mouth twitches faint, the barest ghost of a smile, tired but unyielding.
I shake my head, though I can’t quite smother the flicker that pulls in my chest. I stand, move toward the opposite window, and press my hand against the cold glass. The snow outside glows pale in the last stretch of twilight, stars beginning to push through ragged clouds. My breath fogs against the pane, fading quick. Somewhere out there, Darius is coming, his scent riding the wind even if faint, his shadow already pressing close in my thoughts.
Behind me, Silas shifts. I hear the rustle of his coat as he lowers himself into one of the cracked chairs, the wood creaking under his weight. For a while, neither of us speaks. The fire snaps and hisses, filling the silence.
Then his voice comes low, softer than I’ve heard it. “I know what I’ve done. I know what I took from you. I don’t expectforgiveness, not now, not easy. But I won’t run from it. Not anymore.”
I keep my gaze on the snow, steadying my voice before I answer. “Words won’t change what you did.”
“No,” he agrees. “But maybe time will.”
The fire shifts behind me, shadows flickering long across the walls. My wolf presses forward, restless, curious, the sound of her paws heavy in my chest. She doesn’t growl this time. She watches. She waits.
I let the silence swallow us again. My hands twist into fists against the glass, the cold biting, grounding me. Darius will be here soon. My pack will gather. Choices will come.
But tonight, in this half-broken safehouse with a fox across the fire, I stand at the edge of something I can’t yet name.
The crossroads has already come.
