I don’t answer.
My knees give out, and I drop onto a fallen log, elbows braced on them. Violet’s scent clings to me, embedded in my lungs, ghosting across my mouth. It’s everywhere. And fuck me, I don’t want it gone.
“I can’t betray her,” I say quietly.
Buff sits beside me, resting his arms on his knees. “I know.”
“He thinks I’m choosing her.”
He tilts his head. “Are you?”
I stare at the dark line of trees hiding her house. My chest aches like something inside me is cracking open.
“I don’t know anymore,” I whisper. And that’s the truth. The terrible, impossible truth. Because choosing her means betraying my brothers. And choosing them means breaking her. And choosing neither… means losing everything.
“I don’t know,” I repeat, voice breaking. “But whatever I choose, someone gets hurt.”
Buff nudges me gently with his shoulder. “Maybe you don’t have to choose.”
“Don’t I?” My voice is raw. “Froggy’s right. We’re running out of time. Hunters are getting closer. Borders are tightening. Weneed clean identities, real resources, and a safe place. And she doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this.”
Buff shrugs. “Then don’t drag her. Stay with her anyway.”
I stare at him.
He gives me a small, sad smile. “You’re already gone for her. Froggy sees it. I see it. Pretty sure the fucking trees see it.”
I drag my hands down my face. “I care about her, Buff. I… if I stay, I could ruin her life.”
The fire pops, sending sparks spiraling upward.
For once in my life, I have no plan. No instinct. No clarity.
All I have is the lingering taste of her kiss, the echo of her laugh, the ghost of her touch. And the terrifying truth curling like a fist around my heart. I’ve survived hunters, exile, frostbite, starvation, betrayal, and war.
But I don’t know if I can survive losing her.
Chapter 17
Violet
The house is quiet except for the soft hum of my heater and the audiobook playing through the living room speakers. The narrator’s cadence drapes over everything like a lullaby, smooth and calm, soothing me.
I’m curled up on the couch, cradling a mug of chamomile and honey tea, my nightly settle-in drink. The steam curls up toward my face, sweet and floral, and I inhale deeply.
My favorite cashmere throw is draped over my legs. It was a gift from Meemaw for my birthday. It’s buttery soft and lightweight. Not as soft as Dog-Jason’s fur, of course. Nothing is. But he likes it, because it smells like me and because half of it always ends up bunched under his massive body like it was purchased exclusively for him.
My fingers drift through his fur. I obviously hit that spot you do with dogs because his leg starts jumping like he’s trying to kickstart a Harley.
A soft giggle springs free. “Sorry, boy. Or not sorry. I never know if dogs actually like that.”
He huffs as he adjusts his head on my thigh in a manner that says,yes, human, continue.
“You’re heavy,” I murmur, sipping my tea.
He responds with a smug breath through his nose as if to say, and yet you don’t move me.
I snort. “You’re insufferable.”
