The pack disperses into organized motion, voices low but purposeful. Orders ripple outward through the clearing as patrol leaders begin assigning routes.
Ciaran stays close as we move away from the center.
“You almost shifted,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I reply. To protect my mate, I would do anything.
We walk toward the mansion, the noise of the clearing fading behind us. Inside, the stone halls feel colder than they did earlier, as if the challenge mark carved into that patrol wolf has changed the air itself.
Ciaran follows me into my office and closes the door.
It takes a long time for either of us to speak.
The silence is heavy, filled with everything we both understand and neither of us wants to say outright.
Ciaran breaks it first. “You are unraveling over her.”
My gaze snaps to him.
He does not flinch. “You can pretend it is strategy, but it is not only strategy. If you are not willing to claim her and mark her, you should reject the bond. You would save the pack council friction. You would stop tearing yourself apart.”
I stand very still.
My wolf lifts his head, furious at the suggestion. The bond does not feel like a chain to me. It feels like a truth my body has already accepted.
“I will not reject her,” I say.
Ciaran’s eyes narrow. “Even if it costs you.”
I hold his gaze, steady and absolute. “I refuse to reject the mate bond, no matter the cost.”
13
CASSIDY
The Healing Lodge smells like crushed herbs and old smoke, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. Ansel’s workroom is warmer than the forest outside, heat trapped in the wood and stone like it has been saved for emergencies. I step inside slowly, pack held close, and I keep my hands visible the way Ciaran taught me. Wolves watch boundaries even when they pretend they do not.
Ansel looks up from a workbench, sleeves rolled, hands stained faintly with dried blood. His dark hair is threaded with silver, and his eyes are calm, patience and dignity he’s earned. Ciaran waits for me near the door, keeping a close eye on everything I do.
“You can work,” Ansel says. “Do not touch without asking.”
“I won’t,” I reply.
Ciaran’s gaze shifts briefly to my face. The look is quick, controlled, and tells me not to waste time.
The injured wolf lies on his back with linen wraps across his throat and chest. His skin is pale under the lamplight, but bruising blooms along his ribs in angry purples. Ansel hasalready cleaned the worst of the blood, which makes the carved marks stand out more clearly.
They are not random wounds.
They are deliberate gouges, cut deep enough to leave raised edges. The lines curve and intersect with controlled precision, like someone carved into flesh the way a person carves into bark.
I pull on gloves and unzip my camera case.
“Can he hear me,” I ask quietly.
Ansel adjusts a clamp on the table and glances at the injured wolf’s face. “He drifts in and out. Speak softly.”
I lean in slightly, careful not to invade space I have not been granted. The wolf’s lashes flutter once, then settle again. His breathing is shallow but steadier than it was in the clearing.
