THE MAN WITH AMBER EYES

CHAPTER 4

Sable returned to sound first.

Rain, falling hard now—thick drops striking metal, leaves, shattered glass. Wind hissing through trees. Her own breath, shallow and shaking.

Pain crawled through her ribs like slow fire.

She opened her eyes and saw the car tilted at an angle, nose sunk into brush. The windshield was spiderwebbed. The airbag hung deflated like a dead lung.

She tried to move and hissed, clutching her side.

Then she felt him.

A cold pressure curved around her middle, careful where she hurt, holding her still as if the crash had turned her body into something fragile and worth protecting.

“Breathe,” Caelan said at her ear. “Slow. You’re bleeding.”

Sable swallowed through pain. “Why do you care?”

Silence lasted one beat too long.

“Because the bond doesn’t know how to let go,” he said finally. “And neither do I.”

The admission landed intimate in the worst way.

The passenger door opened smoothly.

Cold air rolled in.

Sable’s heart slammed.

Garrick Thorne leaned into the car like it belonged to him. Rain soaked his coat, but he didn’t seem bothered. His face was handsome in a sharp, predatory way. His eyes were pale amber and unreadable.

“You’re alive,” he said, almost pleased.

“Get away from me,” Sable rasped.

He chuckled softly. “You’re in no position to give orders.”

His gaze slid to her wrist. Even under her sleeve, the heat betrayed her.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Caelan’s work.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Nobody asks for crowns,” Garrick said. “They just land.”

Sable’s stomach twisted. “What do you want?”

“To protect you,” Garrick said smoothly.

Sable let out a pained laugh. “You ran me off the road.”

“I stopped you,” he corrected. “Nightfell would’ve dragged you back in chains.”

At the mention of Nightfell, the air in the car dropped colder. Caelan’s presence tightened around Sable’s ribs like a warning.

Garrick’s eyes flicked, briefly, to the empty passenger seat.

His expression tightened for a blink—then smoothed again.

“So he’s with you,” Garrick murmured. “Of course.”

Sable’s breath hitched. “You can feel him?”

“Everyone who matters can feel a widow-bond when it wakes,” Garrick said. “It’s like blood on snow.”

He straightened and glanced toward the road.

Wolves appeared there—his wolves—pads silent, eyes pale amber like his. They didn’t snarl. They waited.

“Redcrest,” Garrick said, as if introducing them. “My pack.”

Sable’s pulse hammered. “Why? Why do you care?”

“Because Nightfell is weak without Caelan,” Garrick said simply. “Because Lyra Varr is grief in a pretty coat and grief makes mistakes. And because if you’re his widow, you’re leverage.”

“Stop calling me that.”

Garrick’s smile thinned. “It’s what you are.”

Caelan’s voice pressed into Sable’s ear, cold and sharp.

Liar. He wants the door.

Sable swallowed. “A door to what?”

Garrick heard the question anyway. His gaze returned to her, intent.

“To leadership,” he said. “To blood-right. To whatever Caelan guarded. You’re marked by it now.”

Sable’s wrist flared, as if offended at being discussed like property.

Garrick extended his hand toward her—palm up.

“A choice,” he said. “Come with me. Redcrest shelters you. Nightfell doesn’t get to chain you. We figure out what the bond is doing—together.”

Sable stared at his hand.

Behind Garrick, the forest shifted.

Golden eyes lit up between trunks.

Nightfell.

Lyra Varr stepped into view, black coat dripping rain now like the weather had finally decided to acknowledge her. Her pale gaze pinned Garrick first, then slid to Sable with ruthless precision.

Lyra’s voice cut clean through the clearing.

“Step away from my widow.”

Garrick smiled, delighted. “Lyra.”

Lyra didn’t smile back. “Garrick Thorne.”

Sable’s throat tightened. Two packs. Two alphas. And her in the ditch like a sacrifice.

Caelan’s presence surged again, holding Sable tight where she hurt, making the air taste like snow.

Don’t let him touch you, Caelan warned.

Sable’s breath shook. “I need answers.”

Lyra’s eyes locked onto Sable’s wrist. “You’ll get them—under pack law.”

Garrick’s voice lowered, velvet. “Under pack law, you’ll be judged. Scented. Bound. They’ll decide if you’re an omen… or an infection.”

Sable’s stomach rolled. “Cut the bond out,” she whispered, remembering the fear.

Garrick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s ugly.”

Caelan’s voice came harsh, vibrating through Sable’s bones.

If they try, I’ll kill them.

Sable flinched. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Caelan said, and for the first time his voice sounded less ghost and more predator.

Lyra lifted her hand, palm down.

Nightfell wolves lowered, ready.

Garrick’s wolves tensed in answer.

Sable’s mark pulsed wildly, hot and insistent, and she realized the bond was pulling—pulling her away from both packs.

Away.

Toward something else.

Toward the only name she’d heard that sounded like an answer.

Maeven Crowe.

Sable grabbed her wrist beneath her sleeve and focused hard on the compass-line.

Maeven, she thought desperately. Now.

The mark flared.

The engine—dead a second ago—roared without her touching the key.

Lyra’s eyes widened a fraction.

Garrick’s smile vanished.

Sable slammed her foot on the gas.

The car lurched out of the ditch like something lifted it from below. Mud exploded. Wolves scattered, snarling, barely missing tires.

Lyra shouted a command—too late.

Sable shot onto the road, rain blinding, heart tearing—

And Garrick’s amber-eyed gaze followed her like a vow.

“We’ll see each other again,” he called over the storm.

Caelan’s cold hand wrapped around Sable’s wrist like a shackle.

“Find Maeven,” he said.

Then he leaned close, voice turning intimate in the most dangerous way.

“Because I wasn’t the only thing that came back.”