I came here to kill him. To end the man who ended Chance. To close the chapter on the grief and hate and sleepless nights where I’d plan his death in a thousand different ways.
And now—
Now I don’t know anything anymore.
The storm howls. Wind whistles through gaps in stone. Snow falls so thick that the world beyond this shelter ceases to exist.
Inside, silence presses down. Heavy. Suffocating.
I don’t look at him. Can’t. If I see his face right now—if I see whatever he’s thinking, whatever he’s feeling—
I might shatter completely.
So I stay curled against the wall. Arms locked around my knees. Eyes squeezed shut against the burn of tears I won’t let fall.
And I wait.
For the heat to fade.
For my wolf to come to her senses.
For this nightmare to end.
But the heat doesn’t fade. My wolf doesn’t relent.
And the truth sits in my chest, heavy and undeniable:
Everything I thought I knew—about myself, about grief, about what comes after loss—just became a lie.
And I have no idea how to survive what comes next.
Chapter 9
Jericho
Three hours. Maybe four. I’ve stopped tracking time precisely because it doesn’t matter. The storm outside howls with the same relentlessness it has since we entered this shelter. Snow builds against the entrance in layers that have gone from white to gray to the blue-white of compressed ice.
Inside, silence.
She hasn’t moved since she collapsed against the far wall. Hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t looked at me. Just sits curled into herself, arms locked around her knees, staring at the stone floor like it holds answers to questions she can’t voice.
I’m used to silence. Trained for it. Syndicate operations required the ability to wait—hours, days if necessary—without breaking focus. Silence served a purpose. Made people nervous. Made them talk first and lose ground.
This silence is different. This is watching hypothermia set in and being unable to look away.
The temperature has been dropping steadily. I notice it in increments: the way my breath fogs thicker with each exhale, the frost creeping along the stone walls, the ice forming intricate patterns at the entrance where snow has been driven in and frozen solid.
Even as shifters, this isn’t safe.
My dragon is suppressed—locked behind runes that keep fire distant—but I can still sense danger. Still calculate survival odds.
Below zero now. Maybe lower. Without heat, without movement, hypothermia becomes a real threat. Enhanced healing only carries you so far when your core temperature drops too low. The body shuts down systems to preserve what matters. Cognition fails. Extremities go numb. Eventually, you just stop.
I look at her again. Her skin has taken on a blue tinge. Plump lips gone from pink to purple. The shaking that started an hour ago has intensified—violent tremors she’s not trying to control anymore. And she’s rocking. Slight movements forward and back. Self-soothing that suggests she’s somewhere past conscious awareness.
Shock. Possibly catatonia. Definitely hypothermia setting in. I should wait. Should let her make the next move. She made it clear she doesn’t want my help. Doesn’t want anything from me except death. But the calculations won’t stop running. I guess it’s how I’m wired.
Sixty minutes. Maybe less. That’s how long she has before cognitive function fails completely. Before the cold does what my blade didn’t.
