My connection to everyone who matters has been completely severed. This tiny cabin has become my prison, and the man I should hate is my only companion.
The problem is that hating him gets harder with every passing hour.
Patrick keeps a respectful distance, just like he promised he would. That thin blanket can’t possibly be warm enough, but every night he sleeps on the floor near the fireplace without complaint. Not once has he tried to touch me or crowd my spaceor even look at me for too long. It’s like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he pays me too much attention.
During the day, he hunts and brings back rabbits and squirrels that he cleans outside so I don’t have to watch. Then he cooks them over the fire, seasoning the meat with wild herbs he forages from the forest. The smell makes my stomach growl so loudly I’m sure he can hear it from across the room, but I refuse to eat anything he offers.
At least, I refuse for the first day and a half.
Then hunger wins out, and I choke down the roasted rabbit while glaring at him from my spot on the bed. Gloating would be expected, but he doesn’t comment on my surrender at all. He just hands me a plate and goes back to sharpening that worn hunting knife of his, giving me space to eat without feeling watched.
I hate that he’s being so damn considerate.
What I hate even more is the way my wolf reacts to him. She whines whenever he’s nearby, pressing against my consciousness with a longing I refuse to acknowledge. Thornridge means nothing to her. Neither does the kidnapping nor the forced marriage. All she cares about is the fact that he’s our mate, and she wants to be close to him with a desperation that makes me want to claw my own skin off.
About a hundred times a day, I tell her to shut up. She doesn’t listen. She never listens.
The mate bond pounds between us constantly, and severing the connection seems impossible, no matter how hard I try. His guilt bleeds into me whenever he looks my way, as this heavy ache settles in my chest like it belongs there.
When I refuse to eat, his worry gnaws at my edges until I can’t tell if the anxiety is mine or his. At night, when he lies on that hard floor separated from me by ten feet that might as well be ten miles, echoes of his loneliness drift through our bond and make me feel things I don’t want to feel.
None of it is welcome. Knowing that he’s suffering too makes everything harder, and I need things to be simple right now. Villains are supposed to be easy to hate, and he’s making that impossible.
On the second morning, I decide I’ve had enough of waiting.
Patrick leaves just after dawn to check the snares he set the night before. Through the grimy window, I watch his broad shoulders get swallowed by the mist within seconds. The moment he disappears from view, I’m out the door and running.
My wolf lunges to the surface eagerly, thrilled to finally be doing something besides pacing the confines of that tiny cabin. Mid-stride, I let her take over, and my Amanzite pendant absorbs my clothes as I drop onto four paws. Soft earth covered in years of fallen pine needles and decomposing leaves cushions my steps. My claws dig into the ground as I race through the trees as fast as my legs can carry me.
Freedom tastes like cold morning mist and pine needles and possibility.
The run feels like it lasts forever. Ancient tree trunks rush past me as I weave between them, and moss-covered logs become obstacles I clear with easy leaps. Fog swirls around me in thick gray curtains, but I don’t care. Any direction is better than that cabin, and any path is better than staying trapped with a Thornridge wolf who makes my heart so confused.
My paws eat up the distance. Speed has always been my advantage in wolf form. I’m faster than most of the Llewelyn females, and every ounce of that speed gets used now. Branches whip past me while underbrush crunches beneath my weight, and my breath comes in pants as mile after mile disappears behind me.
After what feels like miles, I finally slow down and take stock of my surroundings.
Nothing looks familiar.
The trees all blend together in the mist. Their bark is gray, and their branches reach toward a sky I can’t see. Which direction I came from remains a mystery, as does which way leads to safety. Grayhide territory could be anywhere, and Llewelyn might be fifty miles away or five. Even figuring out which way is north seems impossible in this soup of gray. The Hysopp forest has become a maze of fog and shadow, and I’m completely lost in the middle of it.
Panic claws at my chest as I spin in a circle, searching for some landmark that might point me toward home. Endless trees and swirling gray mist stretch in every direction, each shadow identical to the last. Days of wandering out here without finding my way out seem increasingly likely. A wrong turn could lead me straight into Thornridge territory and a situation far worse than the cabin. Dying alone in this forest, cold and starving and afraid, would mean Sera never learning what happened to me.
The thought makes a lump form in my throat.
I stand there for a long moment, cursing under my breath, before finally admitting defeat. Going back is my only option, not because I want to, but because no other choice exists. Patrick is the only one who knows how to navigate this forest,and as much as I despise being dependent on him, dying of exposure seems like a worse alternative.
Retracing my steps takes twice as long as the initial run. Second-guessing myself becomes a constant companion, and I keep circling back to make sure I’m going the right direction. By the time the cabin comes into view, exhaustion and humiliation and anger have all combined into one miserable knot in my chest.
Patrick is sitting on the front step when I emerge from the tree line. He doesn’t say a word as I approach, and his face shows no smugness or satisfaction about my failed escape. Those amber eyes just watch me, and the sadness in them makes me want to scream.
My transformation back to human form happens quickly, and then I’m storming past him into the cabin without a single word. Our shoulders brush as I pass, and the mate bond ignites hot at the contact. Before I can think about what that heat might mean, I slam the door behind me.
We don’t talk about it for the rest of the day.
By the third morning, a better plan has formed in my mind. Blindly running into the forest clearly won’t work, so this time, stealth will be my strategy. Slipping away quietly while Patrick is distracted makes more sense than bolting like a startled deer. Moving slowly and carefully while keeping the sun’s position in mind will help me maintain a consistent direction. Eventually, I’ll find a stream or a road or some other landmark to guide me toward civilization.
It’s a solid plan. A smart plan.
