Pain was all I knew. Pain, and the relentless rhythm of boots on dirt. I drifted in and out, sometimes aware of the steely arms holding me, sometimes swallowed by the black. Each step sent fresh waves of agony through my chest. Blood, hot and sticky, clung to my ruined dress.
The baby. The thought kept clawing up through the fog, desperate and sharp. I tried to reach for my stomach, but my body felt like dead weight.
"Don't." His voice rumbled above me, rough as gravel. "You'll hurt yourself more."
I wanted to plead for my baby. I wanted to know where he was taking me. But my mouth wouldn't work, and the darkness kept dragging me under.
Time lost all meaning.
I remembered scattered things, moonlight tangled in thick branches, the smell of pine and blood, a hard-jawed man's face with golden eyes that glowed even when everything else was shadow.
"Pathetic," he muttered, but he never let go.
The laughter of the rogues still echoed in my head, their claws, their teeth, how they'd circled me like I was already dead.
You're nothing, Jasper's voice hissed through the fever. You always were.
"No." I croaked the word, barely audible.
The stranger never missed a step. "Keep quiet. Sound carries."
I tried, but couldn't help the noises pain dragged out of me, little broken sounds I hated. Weak, wolf-less. Nobody.
Thrown out.
Memories came in waves, cold, judging stares, the bond with Jasper ripped from my chest, my father's silence, Marisol's venom, Serenya's prediction: You'll be gone before the next full moon. She'd been right.
The forest shifted, trees twisted and crowded, air colder and sharp with unfamiliar scents. Something inside me, battered and wolfish, tried to stir.
Where are we?
I forced my eyes open. The sky was deep purple, midnight blue, strange stars scattered in unfamiliar patterns. Not the Heartlands.
"Almost there." His voice cut through the haze. "Don't die on me now."
Why did he care? He'd called me pathetic. He could've let me rot.
But he carried me like I was worth saving.
His boots struck stone. I glimpsed old, rough walls, something built into the mountain, not the tidy cabins of my pack. A den.
"Ronan?" a woman called, sharp and worried.
"Get the strong herbs," he barked. "She's bleeding out."
Other hands checked my face and throat. I tried to flinch, but my body wouldn't move.
"What were you thinking?" a younger woman demanded. "Bringing a pack wolf here? If they—"
"They think she's dead," Ronan said, lowering me onto a pile of mountain-scented furs. "Let them."
"What if she dies?" the other woman snapped.
He hesitated. "She won't. I won't let her."
There was something in the way he said it that made me want to believe.
The healing was fire and ice, burning cloths on wounds, bitter liquid forced between my lips, voices whispering in a harsh, ancient tongue. Direwilds, some distant, frightened piece of me thought. Direwolves.
Fear cracked through me and I forced my eyes open. A woman leaned over, older, dark hair streaked with silver, eyes gold and bright like his, her face marked by old scars.
"Easy," she said, pressing my shoulder. "You're as safe here as you can be."
Safe. What did that even mean?
"My—" I tried to ask after the baby, but my throat clamped shut.
"Shh. You've torn yourself up enough already." She held a cup to my lips. The drink tasted like earth and night, bitter enough to numb my tongue. The pain ebbed, replaced by a heavy warmth.
"That's it." Her voice faded away. "Sleep. You'll need your strength."
For what?
Darkness swept that question away.
Dreams sliced through my sleep, Jasper's disgust, the pack's laughter, the rogues' hungry eyes. And then a wolf, huge and black, webbed with silver. Its golden eyes burned right through me. Not a pack wolf. Something wilder. Direwolf.
The word echoed, half-threat, half-promise. The beast moved closer, breath hot against my cheek.
Survive, it seemed to say. Or don't. Up to you.