Before I even opened my eyes, hunger had already made itself known, sharp and all-consuming, not the mild irritation of missing a meal, but something raw and desperate. My insides twisted painfully, and my hands shook with the effort of just existing. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. Time had collapsed into this blur of suffering, and the rejection ceremony felt like it belonged to another life.
My hand went instinctively to my belly, hoping the tiny life I carried was still holding on. "Just a little longer," I thought, pleading silently.
Then a howl shattered the quiet outside, sending a jolt through me. That wasn't any pack wolf. I'd grown up with those sounds, could have picked them out blindfolded. This was harsher, layered with voices that didn't belong, each one scraping at my nerves.
Rogues. The realization chilled me to the bone. They were out there, searching for something, or someone. I tried to reach for my wolf, to find some spark of that bond everyone else took for granted. Nothing. Just that aching emptiness, the same void I'd fought all my life.
Wolf-less. The label felt heavier than ever. I'd always tried to convince myself I could matter without a wolf, but now, lying here, battered and aching in a stranger's den, it was impossible to ignore the truth. I was prey, plain and simple.
Suddenly the door swung open and my heart leapt, pain flaring through my ribs. But it was just Ronan, looming in the doorway, blood spattering his shirt and his eyes hard as ever. He carried a bundle in one hand, his brutal blade in the other.
He shut the door with a kick and strode to the table. The bundle landed with a dull smack.
"You're up," he said, not bothering to check. He'd probably heard my breathing shift.
"The howls—" my voice scraped out, barely there.
"Rogues," he answered, peeling back the cloth to reveal meat, dark and bloody. "They found their dead. They're pissed. That's good. Pissed wolves get sloppy."
He was so casual, so unbothered, it made my own panic feel ridiculous. He treated a pack of angry rogues the way I'd treat a leaky roof—annoying, but not dangerous.
"Are we safe?" I hated how small my voice sounded.
"I am." He didn't even look at me, just started prepping the meat for the fire. "You're the dead weight."
It stung, but what could I say? He was right.
My stomach growled, loud and embarrassing. Ronan's mouth twitched, almost a smile.
"When'd you last eat?"
I tried to remember, but the memories were blurry, nerves before the ceremony, Marisol's snide digs about my size. "I don't know. Days."
"Idiot," he muttered, already coaxing the fire to life. In no time, the meat was spitting and hissing over the flames, and the smell nearly made me dizzy.
I watched him, the way he moved, no wasted energy, no hesitation, every motion the product of a hard life. He'd survived alone, without help, and I wondered if I could ever do the same.
"How many are out there?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. More than you could handle. Probably more than your precious pack could, too." He practically spat the word pack.
"They're not mine anymore," I said, voice flat.
"No," he agreed, meeting my eyes at last. "They made that crystal clear when they left you for dead."
I wanted to protest, but the memory of those cold faces, Serenya's little smirk, Marisol's satisfaction, my father's silence, left me empty.
He handed me a chunk of meat wrapped in a broad leaf. "Eat. You're no use to anyone starving."
Not "you'll feel better" or "you need it"—just reality, stripped bare. Strangely enough, I appreciated it.
The meat was tough, nothing like what I'd eaten growing up, but I tore into it, barely caring how feral I must have looked. Ronan watched for a heartbeat, then started on his own, just as matter-of-fact.
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the fire and the distant, eerie howls. This was exile for real, not just from my old life, but from every comfort I'd ever known.
"You're brooding," Ronan said suddenly. "It's loud."
I hesitated. "I'm just—" The words stuck in my throat.
"Stewing in self-pity." He tossed a bone into the fire. "Wondering why you're here, stuck with a bastard who doesn't even like you. Right?"
I flushed. "You have no idea—"
He cut me off. "I know exactly how it feels. When my pack found out what I was, they drove me out. Chased me with stones and fire, called me monster. Promised they'd kill me if I ever came back."
I stared, caught off-guard. He'd never said a word about his past.
"But I stopped feeling sorry for myself," he said, drying his hands. "Started surviving instead. You can do the same. Or you can wait for the rogues to finish the job."
"That's not fair—"
He barked a laugh. "Fair? Nothing about this is fair. Life isn't, packs aren't, fate sure as hell isn't. All that matters is if you fight anyway."
"I'm not strong," I whispered. "I don't have a wolf. I can't fight—"
"All you ever say is what you can't do." He shook his head, gathering bandages and medicine. "Not what's left."
"There's nothing—"
He knelt beside me, voice hard. "You survived what should've killed you. Rejection. Exile. Rogues. You're still here. That counts for something."
His words were like stones, heavy and true. Something deep in my chest loosened.
He peeled away my bandages, checked the wounds, angry, but not rotten. Not yet.
"This will burn," he warned, lifting a cloth.
"Everything does," I said.
"Good," he replied, pressing it hard to my side. I bit back a scream, clenching the furs.
"Pain means you're alive. Means you're not done fighting," he said. Tears leaked down my cheeks, but I stayed silent till he finished.
"Better," he said. I wasn't sure if he meant my wounds or my will.
He rewrapped the bandages, hands surprisingly gentle for all their size. I watched his face, scarred, focused, careful. There was care there, even if he'd never admit it.
"Why bother?" I asked quietly.
He paused. "Told you. Haven't decided if you're worth it."
"And if you decide I'm not?"
He shrugged. "Then I'll leave you at the nearest border. Let them deal with you."
No threats, just the facts.
"Rest," he said, grabbing his blade. "I'm checking the perimeter. Don't do anything dumb."
I tensed. "You're leaving?"
"I need to eat, too. And if you step outside, the rogues will smell you. I won't be here to save you."
He paused in the doorway, cold air swirling in. "Should've left you to die." He said it almost to himself.
But he hadn't. And as he vanished into the wild, I realized all over again, he'd fed me, patched me up, warned me. He could grumble all he wanted, but the truth was in his actions.
I curled up, exhaustion dragging at me. The world outside was full of howls and hunger, but inside, I was safe. Fed. Watched over by a man who claimed he didn't care.
Should've left you to die.
Maybe he should have. But he hadn't. Something made him carry me up that mountain, stitch my wounds, make sure I ate.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, to the hope growing there.
"We're going to make it," I promised in a whisper, barely louder than the fire's crackle. "Somehow."
The flames danced across the stone, shadows flickering. Somewhere out in the wild, a Direwolf prowled, scarred, stubborn, and far more decent than he'd ever admit.