His rejection had been merciless, leaving me bleeding on the inside. Enough to send me running. Enough to make me choose exile over the humiliation of staying where I was unwanted.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the memory doesn’t loosen its grip. I see myself clutching the gift he declined, voice breaking as I whisper his name, and he doesn't turn back to me as though I were nothing. Less than nothing.
A sharp knock jolts me out of the memory, rattling the door behind my shoulder. My breath catches. Here, in Seward, hesitation is punished. I force my limbs to move, each one stiff with dread until I’m on my feet. When I pull the door open, my stomach is in knots, bracing for the sneer of a Blood Claw guard.
But it isn’t a guard.
It’s him.
Thane Savage, standing on my threshold as if conjured by the very memory that had gutted me moments ago. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, his green eyes catching the dim light like a wild forest fire.
My mouth runs dry like a desert, and words die on my tongue before they even form. All I can do is gawk at the most handsome yet savagely cold-hearted man I’ve ever met.
“You’re coming with me,” he says measuredly, the command threaded through every syllable. No warmth. No explanation. Just the same ruthless authority he’s always carried.
Like that night when he rejected my feelings.
I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing it. “No.” The word is small, brittle, but it’s mine this time, like I’m reclaiming the single word he used against me in the past. “You don’t understand. If they catch me running—”
Thane takes a step forward, forcing me to move aside to let him in, the sheer magnitude of his presence commanding even my measured breaths.
“You won’t be running away, Willow. Made a deal with Grant,” Thane cuts in, his tone sharp as steel. “You’re not theirs anymore. I bought your freedom.”
My jaw drops as he gauges my reaction, forest-green eyes steady and intense as he stares at my face.
Bought.
The word slices through me. As though I were a possession, a thing to be traded. Relief tries to push its way in because of the other word—freedom—but suspicion smothers it before it can take root.
I take a shaky step back. “Why would you do that?” I ask accusingly, and Thane’s jaw clenches so tightly that it’s visible through the thick sweep of his dark beard.
“Because you’re not safe here.”
I blink in disbelief, gawking at him as if those words are what my heart has been aching for. Thane is the knight in shining armor I wasn’t expecting tonight, but perhaps the Moon Goddess heard my prayers earlier, and Her answer is standing before me in the form of the man I hate.
A laugh claws its way out of me, bitter and broken. Full of resentment, full of shock at the irony of this whole situation. “Safe? You think I’ll be safe with you?”
For the first time, something flickers in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or recognition—but it’s gone before I can grasp it. His voice hardens again. “I’m the sub-alpha of Snehvolk.”
The color drains from my face. As if that’s enough reason for me to feel safe with him!
“I can’t—” I try to object, because I can’t stand Thane, I can’t breathe the same air as him, let alone go back to Snehvolk with him.
But when one powerful hand, knuckles covered in miniature tattoos, comes up, I’m silenced.
“You don’t have a choice, Willow. Pack your things.”
That’s it.
A command from a sub-alpha of my previous pack—the pack I was born into—and there’s nothing I can do to defy him. Even though I don’t have the ability to shift, I have werewolf blood flowing through my veins, giving me enough reason to follow the instruction as I purse my lips.
Hatred burns in my chest, like a thick and suffocating fire. Hatred for the man who’d once made me believe in something more, then shattered it with a single word. Hatred for myself, because part of me still stirs at the sound of his voice.
My fingers tingle again, faint sparks racing down to my fingertips. I curl them into fists, willing the strange sensation away. I can’t afford to lose myself—not now, not in front of him.
Swallowing hard, I force my body to move toward the corner of the hut, where my few belongings lie folded in a threadbare sack. My back is stiff, every motion deliberate, but inside I am screaming. Screaming at the irony that the same man who broke me is now the one demanding I trust him to carry me out of this hell.
I shove my things into the sack—two dresses, a thin blanket, a book with half its pages missing. Pathetic evidence of five wasted years. The rope drawstring of my bag digs into my palms as I pull it closed.
