My dragonfire strains against the binding. Not to burn. To—
The pain hits sharp and immediate. I lock my jaw.
She sees it. Something crosses her expression. Then she releases me.
I stay upright through sheer will.
“You move when I say. You speak when allowed. You trynothingwith fire.” Her voice drops lower. Harder. “And if you give me one reason—one—I will finish what I started.”
“Understood.”
She steps back. Gestures north with the rifle barrel. “Walk.”
I walk.
Each step punches cold through boots that weren’t designed for extended exposure. My ribs protest. The gash above my eyebrow throbs.
I don’t complain. Don’t slow.
Behind me, I hear her footsteps. Measured. Controlled. Tracking my every movement.
This is not about Aurora. Or the Syndicate.
This is personal.
And I have no idea why.
I’ve spent two decades reading people. Assessing threat levels and motivations with accuracy that kept me alive through operations that killed better men.
But this woman—this wolf with silver eyes and controlled fury—is a closed book.
The only thing I know for certain: she’s keeping me alive.
For now.
The forest thickens as we climb. Branches hang low under snow weight. My legs burn. My lungs ache. I hate being this fucking weak.
She doesn’t slow. Just moves with absolute certainty, like she knows exactly where we’re going, even though I can’t see landmarks through the storm.
Wolf senses.
And I have nothing. No fire to warm me. No strength beyond mortal limits. Just vulnerability that grates against every trained reflex.
I keep walking.
Minutes blur together. Endless trees and falling snow and the rhythm of footsteps crunching through winter silence.
Then she stops.
I stop too. Don’t turn. Just wait.
“There.”
I follow her gesture toward an outcrop of granite barely visible through the storm. A natural overhang creating shelter from wind and snow.
She moves past me. Checks the space—sight lines, escape routes, defensive positions. All the things I’d check if our situations were reversed.
Finally, she steps back. “Inside.”
