“I will not lose any more of my pack to chase him, Cody.” I looked towards the Heartwood. “His time will come.”
The path to the grove was unlit, but guards stood in tight formation around it, alert and prepared. A dozen wolves stiffened—recognizing my scent, posture, and intent—and moved aside to let us pass.
“Switch out,” Cody told them. “Relieve those who need to rest, but only those so tired they can’t still defend the Heartwood.”
The Council would destroy the Hollow by tearing out its heart—and Rowen was its heart. Inside the grove, the elders and the youngest gathered close, bodies curled against one another for warmth and safety. Some slept. Some trembled. Some stared at the tree line as if it might open its jaws.
And in the center—Rowen. Hair mussed. Face grim. Clothes streaked with ash and sweat. Her hand rested on the shoulder of a trembling teenage wolf, voice low and steady as she reassured him. She didn’t notice me yet, and I took the moment to breathe her in. When she finally turned, her eyes widened—taking in the blood, the wounds that hadn’t yet healed, and the fury I hadn’t had time to conceal.
“Wolfe—” she whispered, and then she was hurrying towards me.
“I’m fine.” The lie was automatic. “Are they?” I jerked my chin toward the vulnerable wolves around her.
“Yes,” she said. “Shaken, but safe.” Then her gaze swept over me again, sharper this time. “You?”
I wanted to comfort her, pull her close, or say something that made sense; instead, I scanned the grove like a predator checking for cracks in the den. “Anyone get close?” I demanded.
“No,” she said firmly. “Not one.”
My shoulders dropped half an inch, relief flooding through me, sharp enough to hurt. Her fingers brushed my arm, and that was all it took to ground me. “The tide turned?”
“For now,” I said. “Pack Council has shifted tactics.They brought more wolves. They’re organized, and they seem to be targeting me.”
“The others?” she asked.
My jaw tightened. “Alive. We lost too many.”
Her eyes flashed murder. “Good. We were aligned.”
A small child peeked out from behind her—eyes huge, lip trembling. “Alpha?”
I went still.
Her mother hissed softly, trying to pull her back, but the little wolf shook her head and stepped forward again.
“Are we safe?” she whispered.
The question shouldn’t have burned the fire hotter in me, but it did. I lowered myself to her eye level. “Yes,” I said, voice steady. “As long as I’m breathing, you’re safe.”
She looked at me for a long moment—me, still bleeding, smelling like war—and then nodded, conviction settling into her small shoulders. “Thank you, Alpha Wolfe.” She settled back into her mother’s arms.
Rowen observed that exchange with a gentle yet fierce look in her eyes. “You needed to see them,” she murmured.
“I needed to make sure no one touched them, or you,” I corrected. I brushed her cheek with the back of my fingers—quick, hidden from the others—because if I didn’t touch her, the fear would swallow me. I looked around the grove. Cody was wrapped around Thalia, just breathing her in.
My eyes widened as I saw who lay beside her, the druid hovering over them. “Brand?” I strode forward. He was unconscious, beaten, and bloody, and looked like he had fought the war by himself. “What happened to him?” I demanded as I dropped to a crouch beside him.
I’d seen a lot of damage in my life. Broken bones.Shattered ribs. Wolves torn apart so badly you couldn’t tell where fur ended and flesh began. I had seen the damage and caused it myself, not ten minutes ago on the ridge, but somehow, nothing prepared me for Brand.
He lay on the grass, half-covered in blankets someone had placed over him, but it didn’t hide the truth. It only made the horror clearer. His face was so swollen I barely recognized him. One eye was completely shut. The other half-open, unfocused. His jaw sat at the wrong angle—broken in more than one place. Bruises covered his neck in shapes I didn’t want to think about.
His chest… Goddess.
I crouched slowly and carefully because something inside me was splintering. Brand had always looked like he was carved from stone—solid, steady, and quietly dangerous. Now he looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to him. His ribs jutted out under the skin at strange angles. Purple and black bruises covered half of his torso—deep, old ones.
And beneath that—puncture wounds.
Small. Precise.
