Chapter 2

Warmth is the first thing I notice.

Not numbness. Not pain. Not cold damp earth or matted leaves.

Warmth.

It wraps around me like heavy wool, pressing against my skin, seeping into every one of my bones. My body feels weightless and impossibly heavy at the same time.

Then the pain returns.

Duller now. Blunted. But entirely still there. The more my mind cleared the fog, the more I began to realize just how bad a shape my body was in. Deep, dark bruises littered my pale skin from my shoulders to my ankles. Scratches and a couple of gashes sprinkled my feet as I had lost my shoes not long into my escape. My head had a dull throbbing ache in the back, probably from hitting my head on a rock when I fell.

I inhale sharply — and instead of wet earth and blood, I smell herbs. Crushed leaves. Something bitter and medicinal layered over wood smoke.

I'm not in the forest anymore. And looking around, it was clear this wasn't Kansas either. Sorry Toto.

My eyes snap open.

The ceiling above me is wooden, beams exposed and worn smooth with age. Light filters in through gauzy curtains, pale and early-morning soft. The air is thick with unfamiliar scents — wolves. Many of them.

Territory.

I try to sit up. A mistake.

Pain lances through my ribs, and I hiss, falling back against pillows that smell faintly of lavender and antiseptic.

"Don't," a voice says gently.

Not his.

I turn my head, ignoring the twinge of pain it causes.

A girl — no, a young woman — sits beside the bed. Dark hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Storm-grey eyes studying me with open curiosity instead of fear. She doesn't look Alpha, but she doesn't look weak either.

"You're safe," she adds.

Safe.

The word feels so foreign, I almost scoff.

"Where am I?" My voice comes out rough, scraped raw.

"Healer's cottage," she says. "On D'Am—" She pauses, correcting herself smoothly. "On our territory."

Our.

I tense immediately.

She notices.

Everyone here notices everything.

"You were found," she continues carefully. "Badly injured."

Found.

By him.

My throat tightens.

"I didn't ask to be brought here," I mutter.

"No," she agrees calmly. "You didn't, but you would've died if he hadn't."

Something about the way she says it makes me study her more closely.

"You're related to him," I say.

It's not a question.

A flicker of amusement crosses her face. "Everyone says we have the same eyes."

Gray.

Storm-colored.

Dangerous.

"I'm Fiorella," she says. "But most people call me Fio."

Her scent is lighter than the others in the room. Still wolf — but steadier. Warmer. Less sharp. It smelled of vanilla and cotton, not earthy like the wolves I was used to.

"You shouldn't try to shift yet," she adds. "The healers tried to get your wolf to come out earlier thinking it might help you heal faster but it nearly reopened the wound."

My pulse stutters but I don't speak yet, watching her with bated breath.

"You were unconscious," she explains gently. "But you reacted when Aaron came in."

Heat crawls up my spine before I can stop it. Aaron? So that was my savior's name.

"He was here?" I ask, hating how quickly the question leaves me.

Fio's eyes sharpen slightly.

"Yes."

Just that.

No elaboration.

Before I can press further, the door creaks open.

Another scent enters the room.

Stronger. Colder. Controlled.

My muscles tense automatically.

She steps inside as if she belongs to power — tall, composed, dark hair swept back in a way that looks effortless but isn't. Her posture is perfect. Her expression was unreadable.

Assessing.

Isabella.

I don't know how I know her name.

But I do.

Her gaze drags over me once, precise and surgical.

"So," she says softly, "this is him."

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Measuring.

Fiorella shifts slightly in her chair — not defensive, but aware.

"You should be resting," Isabella continues, eyes returning to mine. "Recovery requires cooperation."

"I didn't agree to stay," I reply.

A faint smile curves her lips. It never touches her eyes.

"No," she says smoothly. "But you will."

The air shifts.

Not dominance like Aaron's.

Something subtler.

Political.

Calculated.

She steps closer to the bed, close enough that I can feel the control radiating off her — not brute force, but influence.

"You've caused quite a stir," she says lightly. "Our Alpha rarely carries anyone through the forest."

The statement sounds casual.

It isn't.

"That wasn't my choice," I snap.

"Of course not."

Her gaze lingers a beat too long.

"Be careful," she adds quietly. "This pack does not tolerate weakness for long."

Warning. Or maybe promise.

Then she turns and leaves as gracefully as she entered.

I blink once. Twice. A chuckle sounds to my right, and I turn my gaze back to Fio.

"She's a sweetheart." Sarcasm dripped through her voice.

A smile creeps onto my face before I even realize it. As Fio sobers, a new presence appears behind the door, and the faint scent of pine, bourbon, and smoke hits my nose right before the door opens without a single knock.

The door doesn't slam. It doesn't need to. It opens slowly, deliberately — and the air changes.

Not warmer, but heavier.

My pulse stumbles before I can stop it. Fiorella straightens automatically. And Isabella—who had only just reached the doorway—pauses. He steps inside, a pair of worn sneakers in his left hand. My sneakers that I had lost in the forest....

He doesn't fill the room with noise. He fills it with presence. Broad shoulders. Dark shirt pulled tight across muscle. Controlled expression carved into something unreadable. But his eyes— They go straight to me. Not to his sister. Not to Isabella.

To me.

A slow, assessing sweep. Checking for injury. For weakness. For movement.

Something tightens in his jaw.

"He woke," Fiorella says gently, eying her brother.

"I can see that," Aaron replies curtly. "Thanks for informing me."

His voice is calm. Even toned but with a hint of sarcasm towards the end. Fiorella almost looks guilty. For some reason I can't help but feel there's something underneath it all. A low vibration. Contained. My body reacts before I can stop it — shoulders tensing, breath shortening, heat crawling slowly up along my spine like anticipation I refuse to name.

I push myself up slightly against the pillows.

"I didn't ask to be brought here," I say again, to Aaron this time.

His gaze sharpens.

"You weren't in a position to ask."

Not cruel.

Not apologetic.

A fact.

"You crossed into my territory bleeding," he continues evenly. "Hunters were still tracking your scent."

My throat tightens as he steps closer. Not rushed, measured. Each step deliberate, as if giving me the chance to protest.

I don't.

He stops beside the bed. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him again. Close enough that my wolf—silent for so long—stirs faintly.

"You're alive," he says quietly.

The words shouldn't feel intimate.

They do.

"I would've survived," I mutter.

His eyes darken. "Not another hour."

Silence.

Isabella watches from the doorway. Not speaking. Observing. Aaron's hand lifts slightly, hovering near my shoulder the way it did in the forest. He doesn't touch. But the restraint is visible. His fingers curl once.

Then still.

"You'll stay until you're healed," he says.

Not a suggestion. A decree.

I stiffen.

"I don't belong here."

Something flashes in his eyes. Possession. Gone in an instant.

"You're here," he replies. "That's enough."

The room feels too small. Too charged.

Fiorella rises slowly. "He needs rest."

Aaron doesn't look at her. His gaze never leaves mine.

"Yes," he agrees.

But he doesn't move. And for one suspended second, the world narrows to the space between us. His scent thickens. Mine reacts. My pulse stammers, and deep inside my chest, quiet but undeniable—

Arrow.

His eyes flicker. Like he heard it too. Then, finally, he steps back.

The pressure in the room lessens slightly.

"Get stronger," he says.

It sounds like a command. It sounds like a promise. It sounds like something else entirely. Then he turns and walks out. Isabella follows him, but not before glancing back at me. Calculating. The door closes. Silence settles. My heart is still racing. I shakily released a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

And I don't know which part unsettles me more—

The hunters who nearly killed me.

Or the Alpha who decided I wouldn't die.