“You’re not Jocelyn,” he says with more certainty now. The words are firm, but also a little heartbroken. “You’re… gods.” His breath catches. “You’re her. You’re my daughter.”
The world teeters again.
He knows my name. My mother.
He knowsme.
And when his eyes meet mine again, recognition slams into my chest with all the force of a shift.
Not memory.
Not scent.
Not logic.
Blood.
My throat closes, and my paws sink deeper into the snow.
And the man—Marius, as Iris called him, and a stranger who I thought I might never meet—falls to his knees like he’s praying.
“I found you,” he chokes out, voice breaking. “My Rowan.”
Conflicting emotions swirl through me, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this moment. I’ve dreamed of it a million times since I was a little girl, but never once did I imagine I’d be in the middle of nowhere, a psycho likely still hunting me, and also being in wolf form, unable to speak.
I want to say so much—to demand answers, scream at him, hug him, something,anything—but all I can do is stand here, claws dug into the earth, breath fogging in the moonlight.
There’s no way in hell I’m shifting back.
Even if I didn’t mind being naked in front of a stranger, I’m pretty sure I’d flash-freeze on the spot.
Wolf starts to no doubt say something snarky, but a deep boom rolls across the mountainside, closer than before. Close enough to raise every hackle along my spine.
Marius is back on his feet in an instant. “Follow me.”
He doesn’t wait for confirmation. His body ripples and shimmers, bones cracking, fur bursting from skin until a massive dark-gray wolf stands in his place—several inches taller than me, broad and powerful, with eyes that glow around the edges of the brown.
He starts to take off, but hesitates before sprinting like we absolutely should be.
Wolf doesn’t second-guess our actions as she follows his lead.
He’s your father,she drones, annoyingly practical.We can stay out here alone, increasing our risks. Or we can gowith him, find out why he thought you were your dead mother, and hopefully get home without Malrik finding us.
I hate how much sense that makes.
I hate the flicker of hope it sparks.
I hate that a man who never came for me might become the only thing that keeps us alive.
And still, I follow.
We race through the trees, our paws carving through fresh snow so fast that ice crystallizes across our fur. Minutes stretch into something longer, the temperature dropping until it feels like the cold is trying to peel the meat from our bones.
But neither of us slows.
When we finally reach an outcropping of boulders—trees dense enough to block the wind, snow thinner on the ground—I could collapse from relief. But I don’t.
Am I out of Malrik’s spell-bound territory?
