Sera was quieter. She listened more than she spoke, eyes tracking everything. When she did talk, it was blunt and honest, like she’d made peace with the parts of herself that didn’t fit neatly anywhere. She laughed hardest at the darkest jokes, and when someone screamed in pain, she was the first to lean in and help.
By the second night, exhaustion set in like a slow creeping fog.
We slept in shifts. The Watch patrolled the tree line. The fence was reinforced with scrap and wire. Someone else cooked a pot of stew that tasted like salty comfort food. We ate standing up, leaning against walls, bowls warming our hands.
On the third day, the injured began to sit up.
Seamus opened his eyes and asked for water. Clara slept for six uninterrupted hours and woke up aggravated about it. Bishop’s shoulder knitted together and was almost fully healed now.
That night, we gathered by the fire pits, new ones dug away from the graves. Stories came out then, cautious at first, then freer. Killian told a ridiculous version of the fight that had people laughing despite themselves. Jamie listened, eyes bright, then added a detail that made them laugh even harder.
I watched the men from a distance.
Elias spoke less than the others, but when he did, people leaned in. Griff moved through the group with his own sense of gravity. Nox sat on the edge of the light, always listening. Bishop maneuvered with the skill of a politician, collecting smiles and laughs everywhere he went.
When the work finally slowed and there was nothing left to do but breathe, the three of us girls sat together near one of the campfires outside.
Zara stretched her legs out and stared into the flames like she could bully them into telling her secrets. Sera sat with her back to a crate, posture loose but alert, eyes scanning the tree line every few minutes. I kept my knife in my lap without thinking about it, thumb stroking the worn leather wrap the way some people rubbed prayer beads.
For a few minutes, none of us spoke.
Zara broke the silence first.
“So,” she said, voice rough from exhaustion. “We’re still alive.”
Sera’s mouth twitched. “For now.”
“Always with the optimism,” Zara muttered as she stared in Sera’s direction, then looked at me. “Since we seem to be in this together, we should get to know each other better.”
I nodded once. “Makes sense. Want to go first then? What’s your story?”
Zara exhaled slowly, eyes on the fire. “Sure thing. I’ll start. Well, I woke up in Ireland wearing basically nothing and no memory of how I got there. Then I was attacked by a few feral wolves.”
“That sounds rough,” I replied.
“I killed one,” she went on. “With a stick. I stabbed it through the chest.” Her jaw tightened.
I saw Sera smile faintly at that, but she didn’t interrupt.
Zara’s eyes flicked up to the dark sky, then back down. She swallowed. “And then I was attacked again. By a whole feral pack. I would’ve died if they hadn’t shown up.”
“Your pack, you mean,” I clarified quietly, guessing at who she meant.
“Yes,” Zara confirmed, and there was clear affection in her tone when she said it. “They saved me.”
Sera snorted faintly. “How romantic.”
Zara shot her a look. “It wasn’t romantic, at least not at first. The romance came later.”
I couldn’t help a small smile. Zara was fierce in a way that felt familiar.
“They weren’t feral like I expected,” she continued. “They could shift in and out of wolf form without losing themselves.” She rubbed her palms together as if she could still feel the chill of that forest. “Then my memories started coming back.”
Sera’s head tilted slightly. Interested despite herself.
“I remembered that I had a brother,” Zara said, voice quiet but strong. “Logan. He got bitten by a wolf, but he never went feral. Not even close. He was still himself. I mean, you and Sera know that.” I watched her throat work around a ball of emotion she was trying to swallow. “I hid him in my apartment in London. There was a secret room behind the closet.”
Sera’s expression flickered with a range of emotions, but she didn’t look surprised.
