2: Smile for the Monster

Damien Thorncroft’s hand closed around mine.

Warm.

Firm.

Possessive.

The same hand that had wrapped around my throat while the whole pack watched.

The same hand that had held mine around that black blade, forcing my fingers to understand the shape of my own destruction.

For one awful second, my body forgot I was alive.

I felt marble under my back.

Blood in my mouth.

Claws in my throat.

The moon above Thorncrest Keep splitting into silver cracks while something ancient screamed beneath the floor.

Then snow touched my cheek.

Soft.

Cold.

Real.

I was not in the hall.

I was not dying.

Not yet.

I was standing in the borderlands, beneath pine trees heavy with winter, with Alpha Damien Thorncroft smiling at me like he had not already killed me once.

“Thank you, Alpha,” I said again, because silence had lasted half a breath too long.

My voice came out steady.

That surprised me.

Inside, my heart was clawing at my ribs like an animal trying to escape a cage. My skin wanted to crawl off my bones where his fingers touched mine. Every instinct I had screamed at me to rip my hand away, grab the knife at my belt, and bury it in the soft place beneath his jaw.

But instinct had killed me before.

No.

Trust had killed me.

This time, I would be smarter than both.

Damien’s thumb moved over the back of my hand.

A slow, almost tender stroke.

Once, that small touch had unraveled me. I had thought it meant he saw the girl beneath the dirt and hunger. I had thought it meant the great Alpha of Thorncrest, feared by every human village north of the river, had found something in me worth gentleness.

Now I knew better.

Hunters did not always lunge.

Sometimes they let the trap warm in their palm first.

“You do not need to fear me,” he said.

The lie was beautiful.

That was what made Damien so dangerous.

His voice did not sound like a threat. It was low and calm, edged with command but softened by something that could pass for kindness if you were cold enough, hungry enough, desperate enough.

My people were all three.

Behind me, the camp had gone still.

Snow fell over torn canvas tents and half-dead fires. The wind slid through the trees, carrying the smell of smoke, damp wool, horse sweat, and sickness. Somewhere near the supply wagon, a child coughed until the sound turned wet. No one spoke over it.

They were watching him.

Watching me.

Watching the hand I had just placed in the wolf’s.

I could feel their hope pressing into my back.

It hurt worse than fear.

Because I remembered what I had done with that hope the first time.

I had handed it to Damien like an offering.

I had told them peace was possible.

I had told them he was different.

I had told them to follow me into Thorncrest Keep.

My throat tightened.

No wound.

Still, I felt the ghost of one.

I lowered my eyes before Damien could see the hatred gathering there.

“Everyone fears Thorncrest wolves,” I said.

A flicker of amusement touched his mouth.

“Everyone fears what they do not understand.”

No, I thought.

Sometimes people understand monsters perfectly.

They fear them because they are right.

I let my gaze lift just enough to meet his.

“Then help me understand.”

That pleased him.

I saw it in the subtle shift of his expression, the almost invisible deepening of his smile. Damien liked questions when he believed he owned the answers. He liked being studied. Admired. Feared. He liked the feeling of someone standing at the edge of his power and deciding whether to step closer.

He had no idea I had already seen what waited at the center.

“War has made enemies of us,” he said. “But war can end.”

A murmur passed through the camp.

I hated how quickly those words moved through people.

War can end.

Such a simple sentence.

Such a cruel thing to offer starving hearts.

Old Ben stood near the main fire with a hatchet in one hand and a strip of dried meat in the other. He was wrapped in three mismatched coats, his gray beard stiff with frost, his eyes narrowed under bushy brows. He had distrusted Damien the first time.

I had convinced him not to.

The memory made my stomach twist.

Mara stood a few steps behind him, one arm around Eli’s shoulders. She looked thinner than I remembered, her cheeks hollow from weeks of rationing, her hair tucked beneath a wool scarf patched so many times the original color had disappeared. Eli leaned into her without realizing it, all long limbs and teenage stubbornness, trying to look older than he was.

Alive.

His face was not bruised.

His wrists were not chained.

He was not kneeling on black marble, looking up at me like I could save him.

Not yet.

The thought struck like lightning.

Not yet.

If I failed, all of it could happen again.

My fingers tightened in Damien’s.

His eyes dropped to our joined hands.

Then lifted slowly to my face.

“Something troubles you,” he said.

Of course he noticed.

Damien noticed everything that might become useful.

I forced a small, embarrassed smile.

A human girl overwhelmed by an Alpha’s attention.

That was the role.

Play it.

Survive it.

Use it.

“I was thinking of what war has already cost us,” I said.

A few humans lowered their heads.

It was not a lie.

That helped.

Damien turned slightly, allowing the entire camp to hear him.

“I know your losses have been great.”

The wolves behind him remained mounted, dark shapes against the trees. Their armor was polished black, their cloaks lined in fur, their horses well-fed and restless. None of them looked cold. None of them looked hungry.

My people looked like winter had been chewing on them for months.

Damien knew it.

He let the contrast speak for him.

“I did not come here to take more from you,” he continued. “I came to offer protection.”

The word moved through the camp like warmth.

Protection.

I almost tasted bile.

Old Ben snorted loudly enough for several people to glance at him.

“Protection from who?” he asked. “Your wolves?”

A Thorncrest guard shifted in his saddle.

Captain Roan.

Even before I remembered his name, my body remembered the shape of him. Scar across the jaw. Pale eyes. A mouth that rarely smiled unless someone smaller was in pain.

In my first life, Damien assigned Roan as my personal guard.

My protector.

That was what they called him.

He had stood outside my chamber door. Followed me through halls. Read my letters before they left the keep. Reported every conversation I had. Every meal I skipped. Every time I cried quietly enough that I thought no one heard.

When Mara disappeared, Roan had been the one to tell me she left willingly.

I later found his signature on her transfer order.

Breeding wing.

The memory went through me so sharply I nearly stepped toward him.

Damien’s hand tightened on mine.

Not painful.

Not yet.

A warning disguised as reassurance.

Roan looked down at Ben from his horse.

“Mind your tongue, old man.”

Ben smiled without warmth.

“I would, but it’s one of the few parts of me that still works right.”

Someone behind me coughed to hide a laugh.

Roan’s eyes flashed amber.

Damien raised his free hand.

One small movement.

Roan’s mouth snapped shut.

The entire camp seemed to notice.

That was Damien’s power.

Not just strength.

Control.

He wore it quietly. Beautifully. Like a cloak that never wrinkled. His wolves responded to the smallest shift of his fingers, the slightest hardening of his gaze.

I had once mistaken that control for safety.

Now I saw it for what it was.

A leash held by a patient hand.

“Your distrust is earned,” Damien said to Ben.

The camp stilled.

A wise answer.

A humble answer.

A calculated answer.

He turned his face just enough for the weak winter light to catch the sharp elegance of his profile. Snow gathered on his dark lashes and melted there.

“I cannot undo every wrong committed in this war,” he said. “I cannot return the dead. I cannot rebuild what has burned with words alone.”

Mara’s mouth trembled.

Thomas, standing near a broken supply cart, looked away. His leg was wrapped in stained bandages, the old wolf bite beneath it still troubling him in the cold.

Damien let the silence deepen.

Then he said, “But I can stop more graves from being dug.”

There it was.

The hook.

Not love.

Not peace.

Graves.

He knew exactly which wound to press.

I felt the camp lean toward him, not with their bodies, but with their need.

A child’s mother began to cry quietly. Someone whispered a prayer. Someone else said, “Maybe we should listen.”

I wanted to turn around and scream.

Do not.

Do not listen.

Do not hope.

Do not let him make survival sound like surrender.

But I had listened once.

That was the worst part.

I understood them.

I understood the ache of wanting one powerful person to say, “You can stop fighting now.”

When every day was hunger, fear, and mud, a cage with warm walls could look like mercy.

Damien released my hand.

The absence of his touch felt like stepping out of a trap only to realize the floor beneath me was full of them.

He faced the camp fully.

“My wagons are waiting beyond the ridge,” he said. “Food. Medicine. Blankets. Enough to get every person here through the next week.”

A sound passed through the humans.

Not joy.

Not yet.

Something more fragile.

A collective inhale.

Hope entering starving lungs.

Old Ben’s eyes cut to me.

He was asking without words.

Is this real?

No, I wanted to say.

It is bait.

But bait could still feed people before the hook caught.

That was what made this difficult.

Damien had not arrived empty-handed. He never did. He would give just enough truth to make the lie digestible. Food would arrive. Medicine would be real. Children would sleep warm tonight if I allowed it.

And after that?

After that, he would stage the attack.

Rogues in the dark.

Screams in the snow.

Blood on the tents.

Then Damien would return just in time to save what remained.

The first time, that attack had shattered the last of our resistance. Mara had begged me to go with him. Thomas said any wolf willing to return and fight his own kind must mean what he promised. Even Ben, stubborn Ben, had gone quiet after seeing Eli dragged from the burning edge of camp with claw marks down his arm.

I had thought fate was pushing me toward Thorncrest.

Now I knew Damien had been pushing from the shadows.

My gaze slid toward the tree line.

Pines stood thick and black beyond camp, their branches heavy with snow. The spaces between them looked empty.

But they were not.

Not if memory had kept its shape.

They were already out there.

Waiting for night.

Waiting for fear.

Waiting for Damien to leave so his monsters could arrive wearing the name rogue.

A strange calm spread through me.

Good.

Let them wait.

This time, I was waiting too.

Damien turned back to me.

“I ask only that you come to Thorncrest Keep and speak for your people at council.”

Only.

The word was almost funny.

Only come to the wolf’s palace.

Only stand among predators.

Only offer your trust.

Only bring your blood within reach of the blade.

I tilted my head.

“And if I refuse?”

Roan scoffed from his horse, but Damien’s gaze stayed on me.

“You can.”

That answer rippled through the humans.

A choice.

He made it sound like one.

“But winter does not pause for pride,” Damien continued. “Neither do the packs who do not want peace. Without protection, this camp will not survive another month.”

My jaw tightened.

Threat wrapped in concern.

He had always been good at making chains look like hands reaching to help.

“Protection sounds expensive,” I said.

His smile returned.

“What price would you pay for your people’s lives?”

Cruel question.

Beautifully delivered.

A few humans looked at me.

I knew what they wanted me to say.

Anything.

I would pay anything.

That was what good leaders did in stories. They sacrificed themselves. They walked into danger with open eyes and called it duty.

I had done that.

I had died for it.

The problem was, Damien did not want my sacrifice.

He wanted my usefulness.

There was a difference.

I let my eyes move over the camp slowly.

Mara.

Eli.

Ben.

Thomas.

The children under threadbare blankets.

The wounded curled near fires that gave more smoke than heat.

Then I looked back at Damien.

“I need time.”

Roan’s head snapped toward me.

One of the horses stamped.

Damien’s expression did not change, but I felt his displeasure in the air between us.

“How much?”

“Until sunset.”

Roan made a low sound.

“The Alpha does not wait on human permission.”

I looked at him.

Really looked.

The kind of look I had wished I had given him the first time. Before he became my shadow. Before his polished politeness hid every report he sent to Damien. Before he smiled and told me Mara had chosen to leave.

My voice dropped.

“Your Alpha came to my camp.”

Roan’s eyes flashed.

“So unless you are the one offering peace,” I continued, “you can let him answer.”

The camp went so quiet I could hear snow sliding from a branch somewhere behind me.

Ben’s eyebrows rose.

Mara’s lips parted.

Damien studied me with new interest.

That was dangerous.

I knew it as soon as I saw the spark in his eyes.

The first time, I had been careful. Grateful but cautious. Strong enough to interest him, not sharp enough to threaten him.

This was sharper.

But maybe that was fine.

Damien liked fire.

He just assumed all fire could be contained.

“Sunset,” he said.

Roan looked at him in disbelief.

Damien did not look away from me.

“You may have until sunset.”

I bowed my head slightly.

Not submission.

A performance.

“Thank you.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the edge of his cloak brushed my skirt. The camp faded behind him again, swallowed by the force of his presence.

“You are not what I expected, Lena Frost.”

My skin prickled.

He had said something like that in my first life.

Later.

After I had stood up to a wolf elder who called humans breeding stock. Damien had smiled at me like my anger delighted him.

I had loved that smile.

I had thought it meant he was proud.

Now I knew it meant he had found another way I could be useful.

I made my voice soft.

“What did you expect?”

His gaze dropped.

Not to my mouth.

Lower.

To my throat.

The place he would one day tear open.

The place where my pulse beat beneath human skin.

The place Selene had called the key.

A cold thread slid down my spine.

He already knew.

Maybe not everything. Maybe not the exact shape of my bloodline. But enough.

He looked at my throat too long.

Then his eyes returned to mine.

“Someone easier to read.”

I smiled.

“You may be disappointed.”

“No,” he said. “I am rarely disappointed by things that surprise me.”

My stomach tightened.

The old Lena would have blushed.

This Lena wanted to cut out his tongue for making even a compliment sound like ownership.

Behind him, one of the Thorncrest wolves gave a low whistle.

Damien’s gaze did not shift, but the whistle died instantly.

Again.

Control.

Leash.

Obedience.

Someday, I promised silently, I will make you feel what it is like when no one answers your hand.

Damien stepped back.

“My wagons will be brought in under guard,” he said. “No weapons raised, unless yours rise first.”

Ben muttered, “Generous of him not to stab us while feeding us.”

I nearly smiled.

Damien’s mouth curved as if he heard.

Of course he did.

Wolf hearing.

Another thing I had forgotten to fear.

“I will return at sunset for your answer,” Damien said.

He turned toward his horse.

The movement sent his cloak sweeping behind him, black against the snow. His wolves shifted with him like one creature made of many bodies.

Before mounting, he looked back at me.

For just a second, the mask slipped.

Not enough for the camp to notice.

Enough for me.

His eyes were not warm now.

They were measuring.

Calculating.

Impatient.

There you are, I thought.

My murderer.

Then he smiled again.

And the mask was perfect.

“Until sunset, Lena.”

The way he said my name made several women in camp glance at me with wide eyes.

The old version of me had carried that sound around in my chest like a secret.

Now it felt like a hand at my throat.

“Until sunset,” I said.

Damien mounted his horse.

The Thorncroft riders turned with him. Hooves crushed snow and dead leaves, leaving dark prints behind as they moved back toward the trees. Roan lingered half a breath longer than the rest.

His pale eyes met mine.

Suspicion.

Good.

Let him be suspicious.

It would make humiliating him later more satisfying.

Then they were gone.

For three seconds, no one spoke.

Then the camp exploded.

“What were you thinking?”

“We need that food.”

“You cannot go with him.”

“She has to go. Did you not hear him?”

“He’s a wolf.”

“He is an Alpha. There is a difference.”

“Yes. Alphas kill more efficiently.”

Voices crashed over one another.

Fear. Hope. Anger. Hunger.

All of it familiar.

All of it human.

I lifted a hand.

No one quieted.

I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled.

Sharp.

Piercing.

The sound cut through the camp like a blade.

Everyone stopped.

Old Ben grinned.

“Still rude,” he said.

“Still useful.”

Mara pushed through the cluster of people, Eli close behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, keeping her voice low enough that the others would not hear the tremor in it.

Saving you, I thought.

Trying to.

Instead, I said, “Preparing.”

Her eyes searched my face. “For what?”

I looked toward the trees where Damien had disappeared.

“For what comes after kindness.”

Mara went still.

She knew me well enough to hear the warning under the words.

Ben stepped closer.

“You know something.”

He said it like a statement, not a question.

In the first life, I had missed him more than I let myself admit. Not because he was gentle. He was not. Ben was all sharp edges, bad jokes, and opinions nobody requested. But he saw what others tried not to see.

He had seen Damien, at least partly.

I wished I had listened.

Now I would.

“I know wolves do not stage mercy without preparing teeth behind it,” I said.

Ben’s smile faded.

Mara tightened her arm around Eli.

Eli looked between us.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you are going to listen to your mother.”

Mara glanced at him. “I am not his mother.”

Eli muttered, “She just acts like it.”

Mara pinched his ear without looking.

He hissed but stayed close.

For one brief, terrible second, my throat tightened with something like laughter and grief tangled together.

They were alive.

Alive enough to bicker.

Alive enough to annoy each other.

Alive enough that I could still change things.

I turned to Ben.

“I need the children and the sick moved before dark.”

He did not argue.

His eyes sharpened.

“Where?”

“The old quarry trail.”

Thomas, who had limped closer during the argument, frowned. “That trail is unstable.”

“So is this camp.”

Mara’s face paled. “You think he will attack tonight.”

“I think someone will.”

The words landed heavily.

Several nearby people heard.

Whispers began again.

Ben leaned on his hatchet.

“Damien’s wolves?”

“Not openly.”

Thomas swore under his breath.

Mara looked toward the woods. “Rogues?”

“That is what they will be called.”

Ben watched me carefully.

“You sound very sure.”

I was.

That was the problem.

Memory was not perfect. Death had torn holes in it. Some things came back in pieces: smoke, screams, Eli’s blood on snow, Damien riding in through firelight like a god answering prayer.

But the shape of the night remained.

Damien’s wagons would arrive soon.

People would eat.

Children would sleep warmer than they had in weeks.

At dusk, Damien would return for my answer.

I would hesitate.

Then, after dark, wolves would come.

Not enough to wipe us out.

Enough to break us.

Enough to make his protection feel necessary.

A staged wound.

A staged rescue.

A staged beginning to my cage.

Not this time.

“Start quietly,” I said. “No panic. No big announcements. Mara, take the youngest first. Say they need rest away from the wagon traffic.”

Mara nodded, but her eyes were still on my face.

“And if people refuse?”

“Tell them I gave the order.”

“That may not work.”

I smiled faintly.

“Then tell them I will personally come argue.”

Ben grunted. “That should do it.”

Thomas looked toward the remaining food stores. “What about the wagons Damien sends?”

“We take them.”

Mara blinked. “We do?”

“Yes.”

Ben’s grin returned slowly. “Now I am listening.”

“Food feeds children whether the hand that gives it is clean or not,” I said. “We accept everything. We thank him. We look desperate, grateful, and divided.”

“And while looking pathetic?” Ben asked.

“We move what matters.”

His eyes gleamed.

There was the old rebel in him.

The one I had almost forgotten beneath age and frost.

“What else?”

I looked at the tree line.

“We leave the main fires burning after dark. We leave shapes under blankets near them. We make the camp look full.”

Mara’s lips parted. “Bait.”

“A stage.”

Her face tightened.

She did not like it.

Neither did I.

But survival rarely arrived in clean clothes.

“What if they attack before we are ready?” Thomas asked.

“Then we make noise. Fire line by the supply tents. Ben, pitch branches if we have them.”

“We have a little.”

“Use all of it.”

Ben nodded.

“And weapons?” Thomas asked.

“Anyone who can shoot gets a bow. Anyone who cannot shoot gets a torch. Fire scares wolves long enough for panic to become movement.”

Eli straightened.

“I can shoot.”

“No,” Mara and I said together.

His face flushed. “I can.”

“You can help move the younger children,” I said.

“That is not fighting.”

“It is harder than fighting.”

He looked unconvinced.

I stepped closer and lowered my voice.

“Eli.”

His eyes met mine.

I saw him on marble.

On his knees.

Blood on his mouth.

Please, Lena.

My chest hurt.

“You trust me?”

His stubbornness softened into confusion.

“Of course.”

“Then live through tonight.”

The words came out rougher than I meant them to.

Mara heard.

So did Ben.

Eli swallowed.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Good.

I had saved him for the next few hours.

Now I had to save everyone else.

The Thorncroft wagons arrived before noon.

Six of them.

Each pulled by heavy horses and guarded by wolves who kept their faces carefully neutral. Sacks of grain. Salted meat. Dried apples. Medicine jars wrapped in straw. Wool blankets stacked so high a child near Mara began crying at the sight.

I watched my people receive Damien’s kindness with shaking hands.

That was its own kind of torture.

A little girl bit into a dried apple and sobbed while chewing.

An old man clutched a blanket to his chest like treasure.

Mara opened a medicine crate and pressed one hand over her mouth.

I did not blame them.

Hunger did not care who baked the bread.

Cold did not care who wove the blanket.

Need was not moral.

Need was how Damien entered.

One of the Thorncroft guards approached me with a folded bundle.

“From the Alpha,” he said.

I knew what it was before he unfolded it.

A black cloak.

Damien’s cloak.

The same one he had placed around my shoulders the first time.

The guard held it out.

The camp watched.

A refusal would be noticed.

An acceptance would be remembered.

I took it.

The fur lining was soft under my fingers. Expensive. Warm. It carried Damien’s scent, cedar smoke and cold air, strong enough that my body betrayed me with a flash of memory.

His arms around me after a nightmare.

His mouth against my temple.

“You are safe now, Lena.”

I almost dropped the cloak into the mud.

Instead, I wrapped it around my shoulders.

The guard looked satisfied.

I smiled at him.

“Please thank the Alpha.”

He bowed and left.

The moment he turned away, my smile died.

Ben appeared beside me, chewing something.

“Nice cloak.”

“I hate it.”

“Looks warm.”

“I hate that too.”

He offered me a strip of dried meat.

I took it.

For a while, we stood side by side, watching the camp pretend not to look alive again.

Finally, Ben said, “You want to tell me what really happened?”

I looked at him.

Snow had gathered on his shoulders. His face seemed older in this life than I remembered, though it was actually younger than when I lost him.

“What do you mean?”

He snorted. “Do not insult me. You looked at that Alpha like a woman looking at her own grave.”

The meat turned to ash in my mouth.

I swallowed anyway.

“Maybe I am just good at reading wolves.”

“No.” His voice softened, which was rare enough to frighten me. “That was not reading. That was remembering.”

I said nothing.

Ben’s gaze stayed on the tree line.

“I do not need your secrets today,” he said. “But if your ghosts know where the knives are hidden, I suggest you keep listening to them.”

My throat tightened.

“I will.”

He nodded once and walked away.

By late afternoon, the camp had changed shape.

To anyone watching from the woods, it would look nearly the same.

Fires burning.

Tents standing.

People moving.

But the heart of it was gone.

Children, sick, and half our supplies had been moved toward the quarry trail. Blankets stuffed with straw lay under furs near the main fire. Pitch-soaked branches were stacked beneath snow by the supply tent. Bows had been restrung. Torches hidden in easy reach.

Not enough to win a battle.

Enough to ruin a performance.

The sun lowered behind the trees, turning the snow blue.

My nerves tightened with every shadow.

Damien would return soon.

And after him, the wolves.

I ducked into my tent for one moment alone.

It smelled the same as I remembered.

Smoke.

Leather.

Damp cloth.

A faint trace of lavender from the bundle Mara had given me months earlier, saying every leader needed one thing that did not stink.

My bedroll lay in the corner. A cracked cup beside it. A small chest at the back. The rug with the loose corner.

I knelt and lifted it.

My hidden knife waited beneath.

Small.

Ugly.

Human-made.

Mine.

I strapped it to my thigh.

Then I pulled the chest forward and opened the false bottom.

The rebel map was still there.

I spread it across the floor, smoothing the creases with shaking fingers.

Thorncrest Keep to the east.

The quarry trail to the south.

Human villages scattered like fragile sparks across the borderlands.

And north, inked in black, a place no one willingly entered.

Black Hollow.

The name seemed darker than the rest of the map.

I touched it.

A chill passed through the tent.

Not from outside.

From below.

From memory.

Chains dragging across stone.

A voice in death.

Finally. I found you.

My fingers stilled.

“What are you?” I whispered.

The candle beside me flickered.

There was no wind.

I reached for my knife.

Too late.

A voice answered from behind me.

“That depends on who is asking.”

I spun.

A man stood inside my tent.

No sound.

No warning.

No right to be there.

He wore a dark hood dusted with snow, his clothes rough like a traveler’s, his boots muddy from the forest. His face was half-shadowed, but I could see the hard line of his jaw, the faint scar through one eyebrow, the stillness of someone who had never been prey a day in his life.

Then he lifted his head.

Silver eyes met mine.

My breath stopped.

Not gold.

Not amber.

Silver.

Bright as moonlight on a blade.

Cold.

Ancient.

Familiar.

The voice from the dark had found its face.

I raised my knife.

The stranger looked at it, then back at me.

“Lena Frost.”

I hated how calmly he said my name.

“I did not tell you who I was.”

“No.”

My grip tightened.

“Then you have three seconds to tell me who you are before I start cutting answers out of you.”

One corner of his mouth lifted.

Not a smile.

Almost.

“I was told you were dramatic.”

“I was told nothing about you, which already puts you at a disadvantage.”

This time, he did smile.

Brief.

Dangerous.

Then his gaze dropped to the map spread across the floor.

To Black Hollow.

His amusement vanished.

“You should not go there.”

The hair on my arms rose.

“Interesting. I do not remember asking for travel advice.”

“You will go anyway.”

“Probably.”

His eyes returned to mine.

“You always were stubborn.”

My blood chilled.

Always?

The knife felt too small in my hand.

“Who are you?”

The stranger stepped forward, and the candle flame bent toward him.

Not away.

Toward.

Like even fire recognized something in him.

“My name is Cassian Vale.”

Vale.

The word struck harder than a hand.

Selene Vale.

Silver dress.

Blood-colored lips.

Poor thing.

She really thought a human could be Luna.

I moved without thinking.

The knife point touched Cassian’s chest.

His eyes did not flicker.

Not even slightly.

“Wrong name,” I whispered.

His expression sharpened.

“You know Selene.”

“I know enough.”

“No,” he said softly. “You remember enough.”

The tent seemed to shrink around us.

Outside, people moved through the snow, unaware that a stranger with silver eyes had just reached into the deepest, bloodiest secret of my life and closed his hand around it.

I forced air into my lungs.

“Remember what?”

Cassian leaned just slightly closer.

The knife pressed harder into his coat.

He still did not move away.

“Death.”

The word dropped between us.

Heavy.

Final.

My hand went numb around the knife.

For one second, I saw the hall again.

Black marble.

White gown.

Damien’s claws.

The blade sinking into my heart.

Cassian watched every flicker cross my face.

“You do remember,” he said.

I should have denied it.

I should have screamed for Ben.

I should have stabbed him and asked questions after.

Instead, I whispered, “How?”

Before he could answer, a howl split the evening.

Low.

Long.

Too close.

My stomach dropped.

No.

Not yet.

The attack was early.

Cassian turned toward the sound, his jaw tightening.

“They moved faster than I expected.”

I stared at him.

“You knew they were coming?”

“Yes.”

“And you led with creepy tent entrance instead of that?”

His silver eyes slid back to me.

“You had a knife pointed at me.”

“I still do.”

Another howl rose.

Then another.

From the south.

The quarry trail.

My people.

Mara.

Eli.

I shoved past Cassian and ran from the tent.

Cold air hit my face like water.

The camp had shifted from tense to terrified in seconds. People were turning toward the trees. Ben stood near the fire line, torch in hand. Thomas shouted orders, but his voice was nearly swallowed by the sound coming from the forest.

Growls.

Footsteps.

Branches snapping.

Not horses.

Wolves.

Huge shadows slid between the pines, low to the ground, eyes glowing gold in the falling dusk.

Not rogues.

Damien’s actors had arrived.

Only now, the stage was mine.

I pulled the knife from my thigh.

“Ben!” I shouted. “Light it!”

He did not hesitate.

The torch dropped.

Pitch-soaked branches caught with a hungry roar, fire leaping blue-orange into the snow-heavy air.

The wolves paused.

For one breath, the whole world held still.

Then a scream cut from the quarry path.

Mara.

I ran.

Snow tore beneath my boots. Branches whipped my face. My lungs burned with cold. The cloak Damien had sent dragged at my shoulders, heavy and warm, slowing me like his hand still trying to hold on.

I ripped it free and let it fall.

Ahead, near the edge of the trees, Mara was on the ground.

Eli stood in front of her with a broken spear.

Too small.

Too young.

Too brave.

A black wolf crept toward him, shoulders rolling, lips peeled back from teeth wet with saliva.

The scene folded over another.

Eli on marble.

Eli in chains.

Eli saying my name.

No.

Not again.

The wolf lunged.

I threw my knife.

The blade spun once through the firelit dusk.

For one impossible second, I saw everything.

The snow around the wolf’s paws.

The steam from its open mouth.

Eli’s eyes widening.

Mara’s hand reaching.

Then the knife buried itself in the wolf’s eye.

The beast crashed into the snow so hard the ground shook.

Silence broke open.

Eli stared at the dead wolf.

Mara stared at me.

I stared at my own empty hand.

I had never made that throw before.

Not in this life.

Not in the last.

Behind me, Cassian’s voice came low and careful.

“Interesting.”

I turned on him, breathless.

“Help or leave.”

His silver eyes moved to the wolves gathering at the tree line.

Then he smiled.

Not like Damien.

Damien smiled to hide the monster.

Cassian smiled like he had decided to let his out.

“With pleasure.”

He stepped past me.

The nearest wolf froze.

Not paused.

Froze.

Its ears flattened.

Its body lowered into the snow.

A whine crawled from its throat.

Cassian did not raise a weapon.

He did not shift.

He simply stood there, dark coat moving in the winter wind, silver eyes bright enough to make the shadows around him recoil.

“Run,” he said.

The wolf ran.

So did the others.

One by one, the attacking wolves backed away, then turned, then disappeared into the trees like something worse than death had just spoken their name.

I watched them go, my pulse thundering in my ears.

The camp stayed silent.

Even the children.

Even Ben.

Cassian turned back to me.

Behind him, his shadow stretched across the snow.

For a heartbeat, it was not the shape of a man.

It was taller.

Broader.

Crowned in jagged darkness.

Then the fire snapped, and it was gone.

Cassian looked at me with those impossible silver eyes.

“The Alpha will come next,” he said.

My knife was still buried in the dead wolf’s skull.

My people were alive.

Damien’s plan was bleeding in the snow.

I looked toward the dark trees where my murderer would soon ride in pretending to be a savior.

Then I smiled.

“Good,” I said. “Let him see what his peace looks like when it fails.”