Nothing else.
Jericho shifts slightly. Metal scrapes stone. The sound cuts through the shelter. My wolf snarls beneath my skin.
His eyes are on me. Pale gray. Sharp. Alert.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move beyond that small adjustment. Just watches me with the kind of focus that says he’s been calculating. Assessing. Preparing for whatever comes next.
Good. Let him prepare. Let him understand exactly what’s coming.
The air between us pulls tight. Electric. My breathing stays controlled, but my heart is racing. Every muscle coiled. Ready.
He straightens slowly. Careful. Deliberate.
“You’re okay,” I say. My voice comes out flat. Hard.
“Yes.” One word. No inflection. No fear.
It should satisfy me. It doesn’t.
Because I want fear. Want him to understand what it felt like when they called me and told me Chance was dead. Want him to feel that moment when the world stops making sense and grief rips through your chest.
I want him terrified. But he’s not. He’s calm. Watching. Waiting.
“Storm’s not clearing,” he says quietly.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Something shifts in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Recognition that whatever timeline he thought he had just collapsed.
“No,” he agrees. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
Silence drops between us. Heavy. Charged. My wolf paces inside my skin. And I’m done waiting.
The code matters—it has to matter. Because if it doesn’t, if I cross that line, then Chance died for nothing. Then everything Aurora taught me means nothing.
Then I’m just another murderer in a world full of them.
But the code doesn’t require patience. Doesn’t demand I sit here while he rests and recovers. It just requires fairness. And fair doesn’t mean comfortable.
I stand abruptly. The movement sends fresh adrenaline spiking through my veins. My hands want to shake. I lock them down.
Allon tracks me. Every line of his body coiled despite the restraints.
“On your feet,” I say.
He doesn’t move immediately. Just holds my gaze for one long moment—not defiant, not pleading. Just… measuring.
Then he rises. Slowly. Carefully. Controlled despite the injuries and cold and exhaustion.
The man is massive. Six-six at least, and built like a weapon forged over centuries. Broad shoulders that could block a doorway, arms corded with muscle that shift beneath the fabric of his jacket with every movement. His chest is a wall of power, tapering to narrow hips and long, powerful legs. The kind ofbody that screamsdominance. Magnificently male in a way that’s designed to intimidate.
It doesn’t. Because I’m wolf. And wolves don’t fear dragons.
We fight them.
I stand ready. The rifle stays in my hands, but my finger moves off the trigger. I won’t need it. Not for this.
We face each other across three feet of frozen air. Him towering. Me grounded. The space between us charged with violence waiting to happen.
