I stopped. Looked at the three of them.
James, my cowboy, who had followed me into madness once and was doing it again without hesitation.
Neal, my reluctant doctor, who had thrown away everything he'd built because the bond had finally broken through his walls.
Cal, my feral wolf, who couldn't speak but whose eyes said everything — gratitude, determination, desperate hope.
My mates. My pack.
"Last chance to turn back," I said.
No one moved.
James took my hand. Neal stepped closer, his shoulder brushing mine. Cal pressed against my leg, warm and solid.
"Let's go find your pack," I said to Cal.
We crossed the boundary together.
And behind us, Frosthaven Academy disappeared into the dark.
Chapter seven
The mountain was exactly as I remembered it.
I'd climbed Denali twice now — once in dreams that had haunted me since childhood, once in desperate reality when I'd dragged Cal's unconscious body down through the snow. I knew this terrain. Knew the way the wind cut through the valleys, the way the ice shifted under your boots, the way the cold crept into your bones no matter how many layers you wore.
It felt like coming home. A dangerous, frozen, deadly home — but home nonetheless.
"How are you not dying right now?" Neal gasped behind me, bent over his knees, breath coming in ragged bursts.
"Training." I paused to let him catch up, checking our position against the landmarks I'd memorized years ago. The rock formation to the east, shaped like a broken tooth. The ridgeline curving north. We were making good time, despite Neal's struggles.
James appeared beside us, barely winded. His body acclimated much quicker this trip. "We should rest. Eat something."
"We rest when Cal rests." I nodded toward the dark shape moving through the snow ahead of us. "And Cal's not stopping."
He hadn't stopped since we'd crossed the boundary. Every few minutes he'd pause, nose working the air, then push forward with renewed urgency.
He could feel them. His pack. Getting closer with every step.
"He's going to run himself into the ground," Neal said, straightening. His cheeks were red from cold and exertion, but his eyes were sharp. Professional, even out here. "His heart rate has been elevated for hours. If he doesn't rest—"
"Then we keep up." I started walking again. "He knows this mountain better than any of us. If he says we keep moving, we keep moving."
We found the first sign of the pack three hours later.
Tracks in the snow. Paw prints, partially filled by wind-blown ice, but still visible. I crouched beside them, counting.
"Five wolves," I said. "Moving together. Recent — maybe two or three days old."
Cal was circling the tracks, nose pressed to the ground, a low whine building in his throat. Through the bond, I felt his recognition pulse.
"They're heading northeast," James said, studying the trail. "Toward the higher ridges."
"Probably following caribou." I stood, brushing snow from my knees. "The herds move through this corridor, usually earlier in the season. A desperate pack would trail them, picking off stragglers."
Neal looked at me. "You know a lot about caribou migration patterns."
