Tomorrow, I hunt a wolf.
But tonight, I stare at the ceiling like it might give me a way out.
And when I finally sleep, I dream not of fire, not of blood, but of green eyes and a voice I haven’t heard in years whispering my name like it still means something.
3
MARY
Dawn isn't here yet, but I’ve already been awake for hours.
The stronghold is quieter in the blue hour before sunrise, before anyone else is up rattling dishes or sharpening knives, before anyone says anything that might force me to talk back. I move down the hallway with a practiced stillness, the kind that comes from years of learning how to disappear in rooms full of noise. I carry my boots in one hand, the other tugging a wool-lined jacket over my shoulders as I head toward the kitchen, where the fire is still low and the air smells like burned coffee.
He’s there. Of course he is.
Darius sits hunched over the kitchen table with one hand curled around a chipped mug, shoulders drawn tight like the weight he used to carry hasn’t let him go, even now. Even with Tessa upstairs and the Pact gathering like a long-lost storm finally coming home. The wolf in him still doesn’t rest. I guess mine doesn’t either.
I step past the counter and pour myself what’s left of the coffee in the pot, knowing without looking that it’s probablybitter enough to peel paint. I don’t make a sound, but Darius still glances up like he’s been expecting me all along.
“You going out?” he asks, nodding toward my boots.
“Perimeter check,” I answer, taking a long sip and wincing at the taste. “The southern line. Wards have been flickering on the edge since the last storm.”
“They held last night.”
“Doesn’t mean they’ll hold tonight.”
He studies me for a beat. His eyes are too tired for someone who just got the love of his life back. There’s too much history behind them. Too much loss.
“You could let Cassian handle the patrol,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Cassian’s about as subtle as a moose in a glass shop.”
That earns me a quiet snort, the closest Darius gets to a laugh most mornings. He takes another sip of his drink, then sets the mug down with a quiet clink.
“You know you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
“I’m not doing anything alone,” I reply, turning toward the window where the darkness outside is starting to soften at the edges. “I’m just doing what I’ve always done.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I can feel the weight of his gaze even as I stare out at the snow-laced tree line beyond the hill. The forest looks like it’s been dipped in frost, every branch lined with white, the world still enough to make me uneasy. Darius has always known when to press and when to let things lie. Right now, he’s doing neither. He’s just sitting there, watching me like he’s wondering how much longer I’ll keep running on fumes before something cracks.
He finally speaks again, voice lower this time. “You’ve been dreaming again.”
I don’t ask how he knows. It’s in my face, I’m sure. It always is.
“Foxfire,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Chains. Cold.”
His expression hardens just enough to show through the surface. “Roman?”
“Maybe. Could just be my brain reminding me I haven’t been sleeping more than two hours a night.”
“Mary—”
“I’m fine.”
He leans back, folding his arms across his chest, the chair creaking beneath his weight. “You’ve been saying that since I was seventeen and you punched that bear shifter in the throat for calling me soft.”
