Guilt gnaws at me. I escaped, but they remain trapped.
We’ll return for them, my wolf assures me.But first, Lithia.
I nod.Yes.
The cabin comes into view as I complete my circuit of the perimeter. It’s not much—weathered logs and a sagging roof—but it’s shelter. Protection from the elements and prying eyes.
Inside, Lithia is sleeping, her breathing steadier than it was last night.
I check her wound carefully, lifting the makeshift bandage to examine the angry red gash. The edges are starting to knit together, a good sign. The bruising around it has spread but changed color—from the deep purple of fresh trauma to the yellowish-green of healing.
Her eyelids flutter, and she grimaces, shifting slightly on the narrow bed.
“How long was I out this time?” she asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Most of the day,” I reply, replacing the bandage. “How’s the pain?”
“Better.” She attempts to sit up, wincing with the effort. “Less like being stabbed, more like being run over.”
I can’t help but smile at her description. “Progress, then.”
“Of a sort.” She glances toward the boarded window. “Any sign of trouble?”
“None yet. I’ve set up some basic perimeter warnings, just in case.”
She nods, approving. “Smart.”
An awkward silence falls between us. In the prison, conversation had flowed easily—desperation and shared circumstances breaking down our barriers. But here, I’m aware of how little we know about each other.
I clear my throat. “Are you hungry? I found some canned goods in a storage cabinet. Ancient, but edible.”
“Starving,” she admits. “Prison gruel doesn’t exactly stick to the ribs.”
I move to the small shelf where I’ve arranged our meager supplies. Two cans of beans, one of corn, some jerky that’s questionably old but still sealed in its package. A feast compared to what we’ve been eating.
As I prepare a simple meal using the cabin’s small woodstove, I feel Lithia’s eyes on me.
“Should you be using that?” she asks. “I’d think the smoke will give us away.”
“If they’re close enough to smell the smoke, they’ve already found our scents.”
She nods, adjusting her position on the bed.
I stir the pot, tossing in some herbs.
“You seem at home here,” she comments. “Doing the survival thing.”
I shrug. “I’m a lone wolf. It comes with the territory.”
“How long have you been a nomad?”
The question touches on a topic I rarely discuss, but after what we’ve been through together, I owe her at least some truth.
“Since I was seventeen,” I say, stirring the warming beans. “About twenty years now.”
“Your pack?”
“Dead.” The word comes out harsher than I intended. I soften my tone. “During the Blood Wars. The usual tragic werewolf origin story.”
