When I came to, it was to a quiet so deep it felt almost unnatural. Not the gentle hush of pack territory, where there's always someone nearby, this was the oppressive kind, broken only by the occasional hiss as the fire burned itself out.
My body ached everywhere. Each muscle throbbed, every bone felt bruised. Memories floated up, blurry and disjointed: the sting of strange herbs, hands holding me steady, eyes like molten gold flickering in the dark. I couldn't tell if any of it had actually happened or if my mind had just spun nightmares out of my pain.
I forced myself to open my eyes. The room, no, not a room, a den, was all rough stone, ancient and raw. I was lying on a bed of furs that still smelled of wild animals. There was only one window, just a narrow opening that let in gray dawn light, making everything look washed out and cold.
He was there, sitting by the fire. The stranger who'd torn apart my attackers without a second thought.
Now, in the weak light, I could really see him. He was enormous, bigger than any wolf I'd ever met. The bench beneath him barely seemed to hold his weight. His hair hung in dark, untidy waves, streaked with gray. His face was a roadmap of scars, one splitting his eyebrow, another running down his jaw. He looked like he'd survived a thousand fights.
But it was his eyes that made me freeze. Gold, but cold, like the last embers in a fire, burning quietly, taking in everything.
Direwolf. The word shivered through my thoughts, half fear, half curiosity.
"You're awake," he said, voice rough as gravel, with a bite of impatience. "Good. At least dragging you up here wasn't a total waste."
Pain ripped through me when I tried to sit up. I gasped, clutching at my side, feeling the rough stitches.
He didn't move. "Don't push it. Those stitches are the only reason you're not spilling your guts everywhere."
There was no malice, just blunt honesty, like he'd never learned how to soften a blow.
I forced out, "Where am I?"
"My den." He grabbed a waterskin and tossed it to me.
I barely caught it, my hands shaking. The water was icy and fresh, and I drank too fast.
"Slow down," he warned. "You'll just make yourself sick."
I hated that he could see how weak I was. "Why did you bother saving me?"
He raised an eyebrow, the scar slashing through it. "Would you have preferred the rogues? Looked like they were having a good time before I showed up."
Heat rushed to my face, shame, anger, helplessness swirling together. "I didn't ask you for anything."
He stood, the den suddenly feeling even smaller. "You were too busy dying to ask for help." He started gathering something from a battered table, every move sharp and efficient.
"Those rogues," I asked, forcing the words out. "Did you—?"
"Dead." The word was final. "The ones who hurt you, at least."
I should have felt relief. Instead, I just felt empty. The rogues had been cast out too, by the same packs that had thrown me away. But they'd meant to kill me—or worse.
He came back over, holding a bowl and strips of cloth. The smell, herbs, metal, something sharp—hit me first.
"Drink," he said, thrusting the bowl at me.
I looked at the dark liquid, then up at him. "What is it?"
He shrugged, clearly out of patience. "Keeps infection away. Unless you want to rot, it's your best option."
Biting back a grimace, I swallowed it all, refusing to let him see me flinch.
He watched me finish, those gold eyes never blinking. "Lie down. I need to check the stitches."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not." He knelt next to me, crowding the space. "You tore three stitches in your sleep. Unless you want to bleed out, let me work."
I wanted to tell him off, to shove him away, but pain and exhaustion anchored me. I lay back, letting him check the wounds. His hands were rough but careful, a strange gentleness behind all that brute strength.
"You were lucky," he said, voice low. "Another inch and you'd be dead. Or worse."
I thought of the baby. Was it still safe? How much blood had I lost?
Please, I thought. Just let my child live.
"The wounds are clean, but you're weak," he said, wrapping fresh cloth around me. "You'll need time."
"How long?"
He shrugged. "As long as you need. You're not leaving until you're strong enough."
The idea of being trapped here, days, weeks—landed like a stone in my gut.
Jasper's probably moved on already, I thought. I could picture him with Serenya, acting like I never existed.
The ache of that was supposed to be gone by now. It wasn't.
"Keep quiet," Ronan interrupted my thoughts, back on his bench. "If you make noise, you'll draw attention."
I stiffened. "From who?"
He picked up the huge blade he'd been sharpening. "The rest of the rogues. The ones who weren't here last night will be looking for blood."
"But you said—"
"The ones that hurt you are dead. The rest will sniff out the blood and follow it here if we're not careful."
"Why risk it?" My voice shook. "Why bring me here at all?"
He didn't even glance up. "I can handle myself. The question is, can you keep your mouth shut and not get us both killed?"
Anger flared in my chest. "I'm not helpless—"
He cut me off with a look. "You almost died last night. If you'd had any fight in you, those rogues wouldn't have stood a chance. You're lucky I found you before they finished the job."
Every word landed like a blow. Because deep down, I knew he was right. I'd frozen. I'd let them circle me. Just like I'd let the pack cast me out.
Wolf-less. Useless. Forgettable.
"You're spiraling," he said, voice sharp. "Stop it."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He set aside his blade. "You're sitting there listing every reason you failed. It's pathetic."
The word stung, even though I'd heard it before.
"Then why save me?" I blurted out. "If I'm so worthless, why not just leave me?"
Silence stretched between us. Finally, he said quietly, "Because I haven't decided if you're beyond saving."
I blinked. "Salvaged?"
He nodded, grabbing his things. "Turned into more than prey," he said, heading for the door. "The rogues wanted you dead. The pack did too. Maybe you want the same. But I've seen real weakness, and you're not it, not yet."
He paused, the door open and cold air rushing in. "Rest. When I get back, we'll see what's left to work with."
He was gone before I could reply, leaving me with the fire and my thoughts.
I lay there, shivering, staring at the rough stone overhead. Were those women's voices in the night real, or just my mind trying to comfort me?
When I get back, we'll see if there's anything left to build.
Not a promise. Not cruelty. Something else, something that sounded a lot like a challenge.
Somewhere outside, a wolf howled, low, wild, ancient. It rattled the stone.
I pressed my hand to my belly, to the tiny life growing there. Maybe Jasper's, maybe not. But mine, too. I was battered, tossed aside, but I was still breathing.
Still alive.
The fire flickered. The wind keened through the window. And in the hollow place where the bond had been torn out, something else kindled—a stubborn ember, not quite a wolf, but not nothing either.
I let myself drift, Ronan's words echoing through the dark:
Should've left you to die.
But he hadn't.
And somehow, that changed everything.