The lock is rusted but no match for my shoulder. We stumble inside, the storm muffled instantly, the scent of damp wood and lavender oil wrapping around us. The space surprises me—it’s rough, sure, but someone once cared for it. A sheet covers a basic mattress, mason jars line a makeshift kitchen shelf, and a cracked record player sits on a trunk stacked with dog-eared paperbacks.
Rain patters against the windows, the sound oddly comforting after our harrowing escape.
Lithia sways, eyes heavy-lidded, lips tinged bluish. “Sit,” I order roughly, guiding her down onto the mattress. Her lack of protest makes my gut twist.
Her skin’s icy under my hands. “You’re half-frozen,” I murmur, my thumb sweeping absently over her skin.
The cabin has running water, and a quick search uncovers some cups. I bring her water, holding the mug while she sips.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“We’re not out yet.”
“But we’re free.” She closes her eyes. “And soon we’ll be home.”
As much as I appreciate her optimism, I can’t say the same.
I find a few moth-eaten blankets in an old chest and some threadbare rugs rolled up in a corner. They smell musty but they’re dry. I shake them out and layer them over Lithia, tucking the edges around her shivering form.
She’s still shivering, but until I can find wood to feed a fire, that will have to do.
I move to the window, watching as the storm settles over the forest. Rain streams down the glass, and I can barely make out the trees through the downpour. In the distance, a wolf howls—but the sound is muffled, distorted by the weather.
We’re free… for now.
Chapter
Eleven
KIER
Lithia’s health deteriorates, and we’re forced to stay in the cabin far longer that I’d have liked. The cuffs are impossible to remove, and despite searching the cabin high and low, I can’t find a goddamned tool to assist. Without the proper tools, the silver continues to burn against our skin, slowing our healing and weakening our wolves. It’s a constant reminder of our captivity, even as we sit in this ramshackle cabin pretending to be free.
She runs a fever, stirring hot one minute and shaking with chills the next. It’s agony to watch how this fierce, proud wolf has been reduced to trembling weakness. The other half of my soul is withering away before my eyes, and I’m powerless to stop it.
Panic claws at my chest every time her breathing grows shallow, every time she cries out in her sleep. The desperate need to protect her, to heal her, to somehow absorb her pain into myself, burns hotter than the silver around my wrists. Three years of captivity taught me to endure my own suffering, but watching hers? It’s breaking me in ways torture never could.
The poison from her infection has spread, leaving a toxictrail through her system that her weakened wolf struggles to purge. My wolf paces frantically beneath my skin, snarling his frustration at our helplessness.
Fix her. Protect her.
But I can’t. I can’t even tell her what she means to me—not when she doesn’t feel the bond the way I do.
Some hours I sit beside her bed, pressing cool cloths to her forehead, listening to her murmur broken phrases in her delirium. Others, I hold her, covering her with my warmth, fighting to stop her shivering. Each touch is both torture and necessity—my wolf demands contact with our mate, but every moment reminds me how fragile she is, how easily I could lose her before we’ve even had a chance to begin.
During her rare moments of lucidity, I coax her to drink broth I’ve managed to make from items left in the cabin and the few edible plants I can forage around the small hut. I’d hunt small game, but I don’t dare leave her side.
The rest of the time, I pace the confines of our shelter, checking and rechecking her temperature and our defenses, always alert for the sounds of change.
In the quiet hours between her fever spikes, I find myself studying her. Everything about her is a fascinating contradiction—soft curves and hard edges, fierce strength and surprising vulnerability. Three years of isolation has left me unprepared for the reality of her, for the way my wolf responds to her presence with a bone-deep certainty I can neither explain nor deny.
I shake my head, forcing my attention back to the task at hand. The cabin needs to be secured if we’re going to stay here while she recovers. I’ve already reinforced the door as best I could with the limited materials available, but the windows remain vulnerable.
Outside, the forest is quiet except for the occasional call of birds and the whisper of wind through pines. No sign of pursuit yet, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t coming. Thestorm bought us time, but these bastards don’t strike me as the type to give up easily.
I gather fallen branches and begin fashioning crude alarms to place around the perimeter—simple arrangements of sticks that will snap loudly if disturbed. It’s not sophisticated, but it might give us enough warning if someone approaches.
As I work, my mind drifts to Prudence and her daughter. To Adelaide. To the prisoners we left behind.
