Our mate bond thrums beneath it all like a second heartbeat, connecting us in ways I don’t yet fully understand. Her emotions brush against the edges of my consciousness. Anger burns hot and bright inside her, while fear coils cold and insidious. Betrayal cuts through everything else. She’s drowning in feelings she can’t control, and there’s nothing I can do to help her.
My wolf hates this. Pack politics and lies mean nothing to him, and he doesn’t understand why she’s angry. All he knows is that our mate is hurting, and we’re not doing anything to fix it.
I push him down and keep walking.
We’re headed to a safe house about two miles deeper into Hysopp territory, tucked into a ravine where the fog hangs so thick you can barely see ten feet in front of your face. Years ago, during a scouting mission, I found this place when Thornridge was still mapping the valley’s hidden corners. Mordaunt wanted to know every inch of Hysopp territory in case we ever needed to move against the witches, so I spent three weeks out here alone, taking note of trails and landmarks and abandoned structures.
This cabin was one of my discoveries. Some instinct told me to keep it secret, so I never reported it to anyone. Now I’m grateful for that instinct in ways I never could have predicted.
We reach the cabin as the last traces of daylight fade from the sky. The structure looks exactly as I remember it, small and weathered and half-swallowed by the encroaching forest. Moss covers the roof in a thick green carpet, and grime coats the windows until they’re practically opaque. Vines have crawled up the walls since my last visit, which makes the cabin look like the forest is slowly devouring it.
Rusty hinges screech as I push open the door and step inside.
The interior is a single room, maybe fifteen square feet. A stone fireplace is sunk into the far wall, and a small bed frame with a bare mattress occupies one corner. A little table with two chairs is near the window, while a set of shelves dangles crookedly beside the fireplace, holding a few rusted pots and some mouse-chewed rags. Dust covers everything in a layer so thick it looks like gray snow.
“It’s not much,” I comment, breaking the silence for the first time since we left Evangeline’s clearing, “but it’s safe, and Thornridge doesn’t know about this place.”
Caelan doesn’t say a thing. She just stands in the doorway and takes in the cabin with a flat expression before walking past me without a word. She drops into one of the wooden chairs and folds her arms across her chest before fixing her gaze on the empty fireplace.
The dismissal is clear, and she wants nothing to do with me.
I get to work anyway.
A stack of old firewood sits beside the hearth. It’s dry enough to burn despite the years of neglect. I kneel and start layering kindling and logs because I need something to do with my hands. The motion helps calm my racing thoughts, and it gives me something to concentrate on besides the silent woman sitting behind me.
I strike the flint against steel until sparks catch the kindling. The flames grow slowly at first, then strengthen until the fire can sustain itself.
These are simple tasks with concrete goals, things I can actually accomplish. Convincing my new wife that I’m not the monster she believes me to be feels impossible by comparison.
Once the fire catches, I take stock of our supplies. I hid the small pack I grabbed from the cache near Evangeline’s territory for emergencies just like this one. I dump the contents onto the table and sort through them. There are a few cans of food at the bottom, mostly beans and vegetables. A water purification kit takes up most of the space, alongside a first aid kit with bandages and antiseptics. The thin blanket smells likemildew, and the hunting knife has a worn leather handle. Some waterproof matches and a coil of rope complete the inventory.
We don’t have much, but I can hunt, and we have enough to survive for a few days while we figure out our next move. That’s assuming we have a next move, and that’s assuming Caelan doesn’t find a way to escape and bring the entire allied pack army down on my head before I can explain myself.
I set the supplies in neat piles on the table and finally allow myself to look at my wife.
She’s still sitting in that wooden chair with her arms folded and her jaw set in a hard line. Firelight catches her hair and makes her pale blue eyes look almost luminous. Even furious and disheveled from our run through the forest, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
My wolf whines again and pushes against my control, demanding I go to her.
I tell him to shut up.
“There’s food if you’re hungry,” I offer. “It’s just canned stuff, but it’s better than nothing.”
She doesn’t answer.
“I can heat some water if you want something warm to drink. There’s a pot on the shelf that looks salvageable. It might need a good scrubbing, but I think I could—”
“Stop.”
Caelan’s voice is ice, and it makes me wince.
“Just stop,” she continues. “Stop acting like this is normal, and stop pretending we’re on some kind of camping trip. Stop talking to me like I’m your friend when we both know I’m your prisoner.”
“You’re not my prisoner.”
“Then what am I?” She finally looks at me, and the anger in her eyes makes my stomach churn. “I’m trapped in the middle of nowhere with a man who lied to me, manipulated me, and forced me into a marriage I didn’t want. I can’t go home without putting my family in danger, and I can’t contact my sister without leading Thornridge right to her. I can’t do anything except sit here and wait for you to tell me what happens next. That sounds exactly like a prisoner to me.”
I don’t have an answer for that, because she’s right. I’ve taken away her choices, her freedom, and her ability to control her own life. I did it to protect her, but that doesn’t change what I’ve done.
