Chapter Four

The next four days blur into a rhythm of pain and progress.

Mornings start before dawn. Sarah drags me out to the training circle while the sky is still bruised purple. Jace and Cole don’t go easy anymore, they never did, but now there’s a grudging respect in the way they correct my form instead of just laughing when I hit the dirt.

I’m still weak. The suppressants are finally flushing out of my system, leaving me raw and jittery, like my wolf is waking up from a long, drugged sleep. Every muscle aches. My reflexes are sluggish. But hunger isn’t the enemy anymore; Maya makes sure I eat three solid meals a day, and the venison stew starts tasting like fuel instead of charity.

I compensate with my head.

Silver Moon never let omegas train seriously, but they did let us sit in on strategy sessions when the alphas were too busy to notice. I used to hide in the back of the war room, memorizing maps, listening to arguments about patrol rotations, supply lines, weak points in rival borders. I never spoke up,omegas don’t, but I learned.

Now I use it.

During sparring, I watch patterns. Jace always leads with his right shoulder when he’s about to sweep low. Cole shifts his weight to his back foot before a spinning kick. I start anticipating. Dodging. Countering. Small wins, but they add up.

By day three, Jace actually grunts approval when I block one of his combos and land a solid elbow to his ribs.

“Getting faster,” he says, rubbing the spot. “Still ugly, though.”

“Ugly wins fights,” I shoot back, wiping sweat from my eyes.

Cole just nods once. From him, that’s practically a standing ovation.

Afternoons are different. Sarah switches me to tactical drills, scouting simulations, mock ambushes, territory defense scenarios using painted markers on the ground to represent borders and choke points. The warriors treat it like a game at first, but I don’t.

I study the terrain the way I used to study my father’s maps. I notice how the eastern ridge funnels attackers into a narrow pass, perfect for an ambush if you position archers high. I spot the blind spot behind the old oak where a small team could flank anyone coming up the main trail.

During one exercise, a simulated raid on the lodge, I’m paired with Cole to defend the north approach.

He expects me to follow orders. Instead, I point to the ridge.

“If they come straight, we’re exposed. But if we pull back here....” I drag my boot through the dirt, sketching a quick line....“and let them think we’re retreating, they’ll bunch up in the pass. We hit them from above and behind. Pin them.”

Cole studies the mark, then me. His dark eyes narrow.

“You’re not just guessing.”

“I’m not.”

He considers for a long moment. Then he nods. “Run it.”

We reposition. When the “attackers” (Jace and three others) charge, we fall back exactly as planned. They pour into the pass, overconfident. Cole gives the signal. We drop from the ridge, me included, even though my legs scream, and hit them from both sides. Chaos. They’re tagged out in under two minutes.

Sarah calls end. The warriors are breathing hard, laughing, cursing good-naturedly.

Cole walks over, arms crossed. “That was smart.”

I shrug, trying not to look too pleased. “Just paid attention.”

He studies me again, longer this time. “Most new blood would’ve charged in swinging. You thought three steps ahead.”

Before I can answer, I feel it, eyes on me from across the clearing.

Kade.

He’s standing on the lodge porch, one shoulder against a post, arms folded. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s too far to hear, but close enough that I feel the weight of his stare. Not cold today. Curious. Maybe even intrigued.

My stomach flips.

He doesn’t move. Just watches as Cole claps me on the shoulder, hard enough to make me stagger, and walks away.

I hold Kade’s gaze for a beat longer than I should. Then I turn back to the circle, pretending my pulse isn’t racing.

That night I can’t sleep.

The room is too quiet after days of constant noise, grunts of effort, shouts, the crack of fists on pads. My body hurts in new places, but it’s a good hurt. The kind that means I’m getting stronger.

I’m lying on my back staring at the ceiling beams when the door opens.

No knock.

I bolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs.

Ronan stands in the doorway, filling it completely. He’s barefoot, wearing only loose black pants that hang low on his hips. No shirt. The firelight from the hall spills across his chest, catching on the faint scars that crisscross his skin and the dark tribal tattoos curling over his left shoulder and down his arm. His silver eyes gleam in the dim light.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

I pull the blanket up instinctively, even though I’m wearing a T-shirt and shorts. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” His voice is low, rough from disuse. “Thought you might be awake.”

I swallow. “You could’ve knocked.”

“Would you have opened the door?”

Probably not.

He moves closer, slow, deliberate, like he’s giving me time to bolt. I don’t. I hold my ground, even as my pulse kicks up another notch.

He stops at the foot of the bed. Too close. The air between us thickens with his scent, smoke, cedar, something darker and wilder. My wolf stirs, not in fear, but in awareness. Dangerous awareness.

“You did well today,” he says. “The ridge maneuver. Cole told me.”

“It wasn’t just me.”

“You saw it first.”

I shrug, uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. “I watch. I listen. That’s all.”

He tilts his head. “You watch everything. Everyone. You’ve been doing it since you got here.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “Habit.”

“From Silver Moon?”

The question lands like a stone in still water.

I look away. “Something like that.”

He doesn’t let it drop. “What were you running from, Lila?”

The way he says my name, quiet, deliberate, makes my skin prickle.

“I already told Kade. I wasn’t going to be traded like livestock.”

“There’s more.”

I meet his eyes again. They’re unreadable, but there’s something beneath the surface. Not pity. Not judgment. Just… knowing.

“My father didn’t care what I wanted,” I say finally. “My intended mate didn’t care what I felt. They both thought obedience was my job description.”

Ronan’s jaw tightens. Just a flicker, but I catch it.

“And the bruises?” he asks softly. “The ones that were already fading when you arrived.”

My breath catches.

He saw.

Of course he saw.

I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “Marcus didn’t like being told no.”

Silence stretches. Heavy. Dangerous.

Ronan shifts, sitting on the very edge of the mattress. Not touching me, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin. My wolf whines low in my throat, part fear, part something else I don’t want to name.

“Did he force you?” The question is careful. Controlled.

“No.” I force the word out. “Not like that. But he made it clear what he expected. And when I pushed back…” I touch my cheek unconsciously, remembering the sting. “He reminded me of my place.”

Ronan’s hands curl into fists on his thighs. The knuckles go white.

“You’re not there anymore,” he says, voice rougher now.

“I know.”

He leans forward slightly. Just enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my temple. “You don’t have to carry that alone here.”

I turn my head. Our faces are inches apart. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second, long enough to make my breath hitch, then back up.

“I’m not used to people asking,” I whisper.

“I’m asking.”

“Why?”

“Because I see you watching us the way you watched them. Waiting for the blow that never comes. Waiting for the cage.”

My throat tightens. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.

“I’m not waiting anymore,” I say. “I’m fighting.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I know.”

He stands then, slow and fluid. The mattress shifts under his weight as he rises.

“Get some rest,” he says. “Tomorrow’s harder.”

He moves to the door.

“Ronan.”

He pauses, hand on the knob.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For asking.”

He doesn’t turn around. Just nods once.

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut.

I lie back slowly, heart still pounding. The room feels colder without him in it.

I stare at the ceiling again,

replaying the way he looked at me, like he saw every crack, every scar, and didn’t flinch.

For the first time since I ran, I don’t feel quite so alone.

But I also feel something new.

Something dangerous.

Want.

And that scares me more than any bruise ever did.