Chapter 4

“That’s it? That’s Black Hollow?”

Wren hadn’t meant to speak out loud, but the words escaped before she could stop them. She felt Cain’s chest shake with what might have been laughter behind her.

“What were you expecting? Skulls on pikes?”

Honestly? Yes. She’d expected something dark and terrible, a fortress built of blood and bone to match its Alpha’s reputation. Instead, she was looking at… a village. A real village, with stone cottages and thatched roofs and smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Children played in a central square while women hung laundry and men laughed over something at what appeared to be a blacksmith’s forge.

It looked almost… normal. Happy, even.

“Don’t let the appearance fool you,” Cain said, as if reading her mind. “My people are peaceful because I’ve made it safe for them to be. The violence stays at the borders.”

Wren didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

The moment they entered the village proper, everything changed. The laughter died. The children stopped playing. Every wolf in sight turned to stare at their Alpha and the strange woman riding with him, their expressions a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and something else—hope?

“Alpha Cain!” A young man came running up, barely more than a teenager, practically vibrating with energy. “You’re back! Did you find—” He stopped short when he saw Wren. “Oh. Who’s this?”

“Wren Ashford.” Cain swung down from the horse and lifted Wren down after him, his hands lingering on her waist a moment longer than necessary. “My bride.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. Wren felt a hundred eyes on her, assessing, judging, finding her wanting.

“Ashford?” someone whispered. “Like the healers?”

“She doesn’t look like much—”

“Quiet.” Cain’s voice cut through the whispers like a blade. “She’s exhausted from the journey. You can satisfy your curiosity later.” He took Wren’s arm—not roughly, but firmly enough that she knew resisting wasn’t an option—and steered her toward a large stone building at the edge of the village. “This way.”

The pack house, Wren assumed. It was larger than the others, built from dark stone with iron fixtures and heavy wooden doors. Guard towers flanked the entrance, and wolves in human form patrolled the perimeter.

Violence at the borders, she thought grimly. Sure. But it lives here too.

Inside, the pack house was surprisingly warm. Fires crackled in massive hearths, and the stone walls were hung with tapestries depicting wolves in various scenes—hunting, fighting, gathering under a full moon. It felt ancient. Powerful.

“Your room is upstairs,” Cain said. “You’ll have privacy and everything you need. But first—” He stopped in front of a door at the end of a long hallway, his hand on the handle. “There’s something you need to see.”

“What?”

Instead of answering, he pushed open the door.

The room beyond was a bedroom, lavishly furnished but with the curtains drawn against the sunlight. And in the center of it, lying in a massive four-poster bed, was a woman.

She was young—maybe Wren’s age, maybe a little older—with dark hair spread across the pillow like a shadow and skin so pale it was almost translucent. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, and even from the doorway, Wren could feel it: the wrongness. The sickness.

Something in Wren’s chest stirred. Her gift, recognizing a creature in need.

“This is Sera,” Cain said quietly. “My sister.”

His sister. Not his mate, not his lover—his sister.

“What’s wrong with her?” Wren heard herself ask.

“No one knows.” Cain moved to stand beside the bed, and for the first time, Wren saw something crack in his cold exterior. Pain. Fear. Love. “She started showing symptoms six months ago. Weakness, fatigue, fever that won’t break. We’ve tried everything—human doctors, wolf healers, even witches. Nothing works. She’s getting worse every day.” He looked at Wren, and his silver eyes burned with desperate intensity. “They say only a true healer can save her. And you’re the last one left.”

Wren stared at the dying woman, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was why he’d taken her. Not for politics or power or even desire—for love. He loved his sister, and he would do anything to save her.

Including kidnapping a woman and forcing her into servitude.

“And if I can’t heal her?” Wren asked, the same question she’d posed to Thorne. “If my gift doesn’t work?”

Cain’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll find another way.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” He turned away from the bed, his shoulders rigid. “You’re not a prisoner here, Wren. You’ll have freedom within the pack territory, access to anything you need. All I ask is that you try.”

Not a prisoner. That was almost funny. She couldn’t leave, couldn’t go home—not that she had one—couldn’t refuse his request without risking her life. But sure. Not a prisoner.

“What happens when she dies?” The words were cold, intentionally cruel, and Wren didn’t know why she said them. Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because she was scared. Or maybe because some dark part of her wanted to see him hurt the way she’d been hurting for five years.

Cain went very still.

When he turned to face her, the cold Alpha was back. The one who killed without mercy and made wolves tremble with a look.

“She won’t,” he said, each word like ice. “Because you’re going to save her.”

“My gift requires emotional connection.” Wren held his gaze, refusing to flinch. “I can’t heal someone I don’t care about. And right now, I don’t care about anyone in this room—including myself.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Something else. Something almost like recognition.

“Then I suppose,” he said slowly, “we’ll have to give you something to care about.”

Before she could ask what that meant, he strode past her and out of the room, leaving Wren alone with the dying woman and the terrible realization that her new captor might be smarter—and more dangerous—than she’d assumed.

Behind her, Sera stirred in her sleep. “Cain?” she murmured, her voice paper-thin. “Is that you?”

Wren turned. The woman’s eyes were open now—large and dark and surprisingly lucid. They fixed on Wren with an intensity that was unsettling.

“You’re her,” Sera whispered. “The healer. I dreamed about you.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t.” A weak smile crossed Sera’s face. “I know what you are. I can feel it.” She lifted a trembling hand toward Wren. “Please. I don’t want to die.”

Wren stared at that outstretched hand, her heart at war with itself. Part of her wanted to take it, to let her gift flow and ease this woman’s suffering. But another part—the part that had kept her alive for five years—whispered a different truth.

She’s one of them. They’re all the same. They take and they take and they give nothing back.

“I’m sorry,” Wren said, backing toward the door. “I can’t help you.”

Sera’s hand fell back to the bed. “Can’t?” she asked softly. “Or won’t?”

Wren didn’t answer. She fled the room like the coward she was, leaving the dying woman’s question hanging in the air behind her.

But even as she ran, she knew the truth:

Won’t. The answer was won’t.

And she hated herself for it.