Then he’s gone, slipping out into the fog, and I’m alone with my tangled thoughts.
I spend the next hour pacing the cabin like something caged. The walls feel too close, the space too confining, but the idea of following Patrick into the forest feels equally impossible. I’m trapped between wanting distance and needing answers, between the anger I’ve been nursing for days and the understanding that keeps threatening to take its place.
The curse would have made this easier. A month ago, I would have assessed my situation with logic and identified the most practical path forward without all this emotional weight dragging at me. I would have felt nothing but mild inconvenience at being kidnapped, mild irritation at being married against my will, and mild curiosity about the man who claimed to be my mate.
But a month ago, I also wouldn’t have walked into that bar looking for adventure. I wouldn’t have let a stranger buy me drinks or followed him to his room or experienced a night that still makes heat rise to my cheeks when I think about it. The curse would have protected me from Patrick, but it would have stolen everything that made meeting him matter.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and rub my eyes.
This is impossible. He’s Thornridge. He kidnapped me. He forced me into a marriage I didn’t consent to, stood in front of a Hysopp witch while I protested, and let her bind us together anyway.
But he also saved me from Bastian. He told me the truth when lies would have been easier. He sleeps on a cold floor every night so I can have the bed, and he hasn’t once tried to claim the physical intimacy that our bond might entitle him to demand.
The mate bond pulses gently in my chest. It’s a constant reminder that my wolf recognizes this man as ours, even when my mind rebels against the idea. She wants me to go to him, tolet instinct guide me toward something that feels increasingly inevitable. I push the feeling down and try to focus on logic instead of longing.
My wolf whines softly, unhappy with my continued resistance. She doesn’t understand why I keep fighting what feels so natural to her, why I insist on analyzing a bond that needs no analysis. For her, the equation is simple. Patrick is ours, and we should claim him fully instead of holding him at arm’s length.
But I’m not just a wolf. I’m also a woman who was raised to value independence and self-determination, even if those values came from a curse that stole my ability to feel. The curse is gone now, but the lessons it taught me remain embedded in my bones. Trusting someone completely means giving them the power to destroy you, and I’ve already given Patrick more power than I ever intended.
The door opens, and I jerk my head up to find Patrick returning with two rabbits dangling from one hand. His hair is damp from the mist, and mud covers his boots. He scrapes them clean before stepping inside, a small courtesy that shouldn’t matter but somehow does.
“Successful hunt,” he announces, holding up his catch.
“Congratulations.”
If my flat tone bothers him, he doesn’t show it. He just moves to the small counter near the fireplace and starts preparing the rabbits with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. I watch him work despite my better judgment, noting how his hands move with confidence as he skins and cleans the meat.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“My father taught me the basics when I was young, and Thornridge finished my education.” He doesn’t look up from his work. “On long deployments, you learn to live off the land, or you go hungry. Pack rations are barely edible at the best of times.”
“That bad?”
“Picture dried meat that tastes like salted leather paired with hardtack that could double as a weapon.” His mouth quirks as he adds, “After a week of that, even a badly cooked squirrel starts looking appetizing.”
Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch. “That does sound terrible.”
“The senior wolves always claimed it built character while they ate from their own private stores of actual food.” He sets the prepared meat aside and reaches for the herbs he gathered earlier. “I learned to cook out of self-defense, because if I wanted to eat something that didn’t taste like punishment, I had to make it myself.”
“And now you’re a wilderness chef.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I can usually manage something that won’t kill you. Dinner should be ready in about an hour. Any requests?”
“Surprise me.”
He nods and turns back to his work.
I find myself watching him again despite my best intentions. The domesticity of the scene strikes me as absurd, given that we’re fugitives hiding from his murderous pack in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. He’s making me dinner like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Survival must look like this after sixteen years of learning to find peace wherever you can steal it. Small comforts matter when everything else has been stripped away, and cooking might be his way of creating order in a life defined by violence.
The smell of roasting meat fills the cabin as Patrick works.
“Almost ready,” he says after a while.
I move to the table as he plates the food, dividing the rabbit between two portions. The meat is golden-brown and glistening, surrounded by roasted root vegetables he must have found while checking the snares. Steam rises from both plates, carrying scents that make my mouth water.
“This looks incredible,” I admit.
