Chapter 3

Dawn came cold and grey, and with it, Cain Voss.

He didn’t come to her room himself—that task fell to two of his warriors, large men with hard faces who escorted her through the pack house like a prisoner. Which, Wren supposed, she was. Just because the cage had changed didn’t mean she was free.

The courtyard was chaos. Horses stamped and snorted, wolves in human form loaded supplies onto wagons, and in the center of it all stood Cain Voss, a dark pillar of stillness amid the storm.

He saw her the moment she stepped outside. Those silver eyes tracked her approach with unnerving focus, cataloging every detail—the clothes Thorne had given her, the bruises on her face she hadn’t been able to hide, the way she held herself like a creature ready to bolt.

“Who hit you?”

The question caught her off guard. “What?”

“Your face.” He stepped closer, and she had to fight the urge to back away. “Someone hit you. Who?”

Was he… angry? On her behalf? The idea was so absurd Wren almost laughed.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“It matters to me.” His voice was a growl now, low and dangerous. “You’re mine. No one touches what’s mine.”

Mine. The word sent a shiver down her spine. Not fear, exactly. Something more complicated.

“A servant,” she said, because she was stupid and reckless and apparently had a death wish. “The head omega. She was upset about your choice.”

Cain’s jaw tightened. He turned to one of his warriors. “Find her. Bring her here.”

“Alpha—” Wren started.

“Be quiet.”

She shut up. Not because he’d commanded her—though the Alpha authority in his voice made her wolf want to whimper—but because the look in his eyes told her arguing would be pointless.

It took less than five minutes for the warrior to return with Mara, dragging the struggling woman by the arm. She went pale when she saw Cain, all the color draining from her face.

“Alpha Voss,” she stammered. “I don’t—what is—”

“You struck my bride.”

It wasn’t a question. Mara’s eyes darted to Wren, filling with venom.

“I—she—it was discipline, Alpha. She’s just a servant, she needed to be—”

“She’s not a servant anymore.” Cain’s hand shot out, grabbing Mara by the throat. The woman’s feet left the ground as he lifted her like she weighed nothing. “She’s my bride. And you marked her face.”

Mara’s face was turning purple. She clawed at his hand, gasping, eyes bulging.

“Please—” she wheezed.

“Alpha.” It was Thorne, stepping forward with his hands raised. “We don’t have authority here. Killing her would cause problems with the Blood Moon pack.”

For a long, terrible moment, Wren thought Cain would do it anyway. His grip tightened, and something cold and lethal gleamed in his silver eyes.

Then he dropped her.

Mara crumpled to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. Cain stared down at her with undisguised contempt.

“If I ever see you again,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “I’ll take your hands. So you never touch anyone else’s property.”

He turned away without waiting for a response and strode toward the waiting horses. Thorne caught Wren’s eye and jerked his head—follow.

She followed.

As she passed Mara’s crumpled form, the older woman grabbed her ankle. “You’ll pay for this,” she hissed. “He’ll tire of you. They always do. And when he throws you away, I’ll be waiting.”

Wren looked down at her—this woman who had tormented her for five years, who had stolen her food and broken her belongings and beaten her for sport—and felt nothing. No satisfaction. No fear. Just emptiness.

“Maybe,” she said quietly. “But at least I won’t have to spend another day breathing the same air as you.”

She stepped over her and walked toward her new prison.

They traveled by horse for the first leg of the journey, and Cain insisted Wren ride with him.

“I can ride alone,” she protested, eyeing the massive black stallion with trepidation. “I’m not completely helpless.”

“You weigh nothing. You’ll slow us down on your own horse.” He swung into the saddle with effortless grace, then held out his hand. “Get on.”

It wasn’t a request.

Wren took his hand—his skin was rough and warm, his grip firm but not painful—and let him pull her up in front of him. She landed between his thighs, her back pressed against his chest, and immediately regretted every decision that had led to this moment.

He was everywhere. The heat of his body surrounded her, his scent invaded her lungs, and when he reached around her to take the reins, his arms caged her in like prison bars. Her wolf stirred restlessly, confused by the mix of fear and something else—something she refused to name.

“Relax,” he said, his breath warm against her ear. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t do it in front of my men.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing.

“You have fire,” he said. “Good. You’ll need it.”

“For what?”

But he didn’t answer. He just urged the horse forward, and the Blood Moon territory fell away behind them.

They rode for hours. Cain didn’t speak, and Wren didn’t try to make him. She used the time to observe—the warriors flanking them, the route they were taking, the way the landscape changed from rolling hills to dense forest to craggy mountain passes. She memorized landmarks and noted potential hiding spots and calculated how far she could get on foot if she managed to escape.

Not far, she admitted grimly. Not with wolves tracking her.

When the sun began to set, they stopped at the edge of a river to water the horses. Wren slid off the stallion gratefully, her legs stiff and her backside aching. She’d never ridden this long before, and her body was letting her know it.

“We’ll make camp here,” Cain announced. “We reach Black Hollow territory by midday tomorrow.”

Black Hollow. His pack. Her new prison.

Wren found a flat rock by the river and sat down, watching the water rush past. The sound was soothing, almost enough to make her forget where she was and why.

Almost.

“Here.”

She looked up to find Thorne holding out a strip of dried meat and a canteen of water. He smiled kindly when she hesitated.

“It’s not poisoned,” he said. “Though I understand why you might be suspicious.”

“Thanks.” She took the offerings and ate mechanically, not tasting anything. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask.”

“Why me? And don’t say he’ll explain when he’s ready. I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Thorne was quiet for a long moment, his eyes on the river. “There’s someone at Black Hollow who’s very sick,” he said finally. “Someone the Alpha cares about. He believes you can help.”

“Because I’m an Ashford.”

He didn’t confirm or deny it, but his silence was answer enough.

“What if I can’t help?” she asked. “What if the stories about healers are just that—stories? What if I’m nothing special at all?”

Thorne met her eyes, and for a moment, she saw something there—something old and sad and knowing.

“Then I hope, for your sake, you figure out how to become special very quickly.”

He walked away, leaving her with the cold comfort of the river and the terrible weight of a truth she could no longer deny:

Cain Voss hadn’t chosen her to be his bride.

He’d chosen her to be his tool.

And tools, Wren knew from experience, were discarded the moment they stopped being useful.