Waiting.
The tactical part of my brain logs possibilities: Syndicate cleanup crew. Aurora reinforcement. Unknown third party.
The third option makes the most sense. Because whoever locked these cuffs around my wrists isn’t following protocol I recognize. This is personal. Methodical.
I sense movement.
Footsteps crunching through snow. Deliberate. Unhurried. Coming closer.
I open my eyes.
She steps into view like she materialized from shadow.
Tall. Lean. Moving with lethal grace that makes every muscle in me lock despite the cuffs. Thick, black hair pulled back from a face that’s all sharp angles and rage. Even through the storm-gray light, even through the pain fogging my vision, I can see she’s—
The thought derails.
Her eyes flash when she looks at me.
The wolf.
The recognition hits deeper than conscious thought. Bone-level awareness that floods my nervous system despite the suppression cuffs dampening everything else.
This is the presence from the ridge.
The one that lit my dragonfire without permission. That made my body react before my mind could process threat or reason.
She’s armed. Rifle slung across her back—Syndicate issue, likely scavenged from the wreckage. Her stance broadcasts control. Experience. The kind of readiness that comes from years of combat.
This is not a hired gun.
We stare at each other.
Her expression gives nothing away. No rage. No satisfaction. Just cold assessment.
Then the wind shifts.
It carries her scent straight into my face—earth and gunpowder and something underneath that makes my suppressed dragonfire try to surge against the suppression cuffs. Warm soil after rain. Wild places.
Female.
Pain lances through my skull from the attempted flare. I lock my jaw against the reaction.
She notices. Something flickers across her face too fast to read.
I speak first. Keep my voice level despite the cold cramping my jaw. “You’d have killed me already if you wanted me dead.”
Her eyes narrow fractionally. “You’re assuming I’ve decided.”
“You used cuffs on me instead of a bullet. That’s a decision.”
“Temporary.” She shifts her weight. “Don’t mistake delay for mercy.”
Fair enough.
I don’t ask who she is. Don’t ask what I did. Because the answer could be a hundred different things, and none of them would change the current situation.
Instead, I assess.
