Behind me, I feel him watching. Not hovering, not rushing me, but watching all the same. I hate how aware I am of his presence, how the air seems to bend around him, pressing in on me.
This is torture.
Breathing in the same air is torture when I can smell his scent—mint like the gum he used to chew to get rid of smoker’s breath, and citrus from the cologne he’d drown himself in so he wouldn’t smell like tar.
Did he ever quit?
It’s none of my business.
When I turn, my bag clutched tightly to my chest, our eyes lock for the briefest moment, his green against my blue, the past colliding with the present.
“Ready?” he asks, unfolding his arms when I nod briskly. “Let’s go,” he says, stepping back from the doorway as if making space for me to choose.
But it isn’t a choice. It never was.
I clutch the sack harder, my knuckles aching, and step past him into the night air. The cold hits my face, sharper than any slap, and my chest tightens. Somewhere behind us, the pack den roars with drunken laughter—sounds I’ll never have to hear again.
I know I should be happy about gaining my freedom, but at what cost?
Perhaps my sanity.
Thane falls into step beside me, silent but solid, his presence a shield I don’t want but can’t refuse. Each crunch of snow beneath my feet feels like the sound of chains snapping—or maybe new ones being forged.
Either way, I’m leaving Seward.
And I hate that part of me—the part still raw and bruised from five years ago—feels the faintest flicker of relief.
My worst enemy is leading me out of Seward, like I’m jumping out of the pot and diving into hot, licking flames.
Chapter 5 - Thane
I notice Willow’s hesitation as I push the door open and gesture for her to go inside with a nod.
The familiar scent of cedarwood and stone fills the air, but does little as a welcome when Willow remains hesitant.
She hasn't spoken a word since we left Seward, and I don't blame her. Memories seemed to flash through her lifeless, sunken eyes as we approached Girdwood, while she appeared numb to whatever she was recalling.
Willow Barker is a shell of her former self, like a zombie as she enters my house. She only lifts her face, barely meeting my eyes, when I close the door behind us.
“Whose place is this?” she asks in a murmur, scanning the room with a lightly threaded frown on her brows.
“My place,” I inform her as I step further inside, encouraging her to follow me with a nod, but Willow tenses up and doesn't move.
“I don't wanna stay here,” she mumbles, and I turn fully toward her, sighing.
“You don't have much choice, Willow,” I say gently, not wanting to frighten her when she looks so fragile, so weak, like she could snap under a loud noise. “Your cottage was lost in a fire a few months ago.”
It isn't a lie, but I purse my lips, not seeing the need to tell her about the threat of the demons and how the accidental fire that consumed her old cottage was caused by one of our witches who activated a trap in the woods.
My place is sufficient, big enough for both of us, while also allowing her to have her own space. For me, it's alwaysbeen a retreat, a sanctuary carved out of years of discipline and solitude, built on the foundation of my win in the alpha trials and becoming a sub-alpha of Snehvolk.
It's a place I'm proud of, but with Willow standing stiffly by the door, it suddenly feels too small.
Too quiet.
Too stifling.
Willow doesn’t look at me. Her eyes flicker warily across the room as if a threat lurks in every corner. Her shoulders are tight, chin tucked, arms curled protectively around the threadbare sack she insisted on carrying herself.
