CHAPTER 2

TOBIN CALDER’S POV

Tobin Calder’s good mood vanished the moment he stepped into his family’s stone house on the edge of the territory. The sharp, sour smell of spilled moonshine and unwashed fur filled his nostrils. His father was sprawled across a low wooden bench, fast asleep with a half-empty jug of cheap liquor clutched in his hand. The sight wiped away whatever satisfaction Tobin had taken from his conversation with Ismay Bellweather.

Ismay Bellweather.

She had been the talk of the men at the Silverpaw Café ever since she first appeared in the border markets a few weeks ago. She was a regular now, but her impeccable posture and silver-embroidered cloak made her noble background obvious. Tobin had deliberately kept his distance. The other men could admire her icy beauty and sharp tongue all they wanted. He wanted nothing to do with an arrogant Alpha’s daughter.

Yet Ismay had turned out to be far more dangerous than he had expected. She was fierce, calculating, and nothing like the spoiled women he had encountered from the inner city.

Her offer of twenty thousand silver marks was tempting, too. Tobin might despise the Bellweather family’s arrogance, but his own family desperately needed the money.

Still, the thought of selling his pride for silver—even if he was only pretending to pursue another man’s prospective mate—made his stomach churn.

He had forty-eight hours to decide whether his pride was worth more than keeping a roof over his family’s heads.

*I’ll deal with it later.*

He had more pressing matters to attend to: getting his father to bed and airing out the house before Nellwyn returned from training.

Roger Calder, once a warrior in Alpha Edmund’s service, stirred on the bench and let out a grunt. He had once been a proud and formidable fighter, with the same sharp jaw and amber eyes as his son. But age, grief, and cheap liquor had reduced him to a shadow of the man he used to be.

Resentment, exhaustion, and a stubborn sense of loyalty churned inside Tobin as he threw open the heavy wooden shutters. He sprayed a pine-scented cleaner across the stone floor, hoping to mask the stench of liquor. Then he straightened the fallen weapons rack in the entryway and righted the carved wooden frame holding a picture of himself at ten and Nellwyn at four.

Finally, he tried to pry the jug from his father’s calloused hand.

Roger stirred, his fingers tightening instinctively around the handle.

“Tobin?” His bloodshot amber eyes struggled to focus on his son. “What are you doing back from the border?”

“I live here, remember?” Tobin replied, his voice hard. “Is this how you’ve spent the entire day?”

Roger was supposed to patrol the perimeter for the local guild. He had lost the position two months ago after showing up for the night watch reeking of liquor. At the time, he had promised to get his act together and earn his place back.

He hadn’t gone on a single patrol since.

“I checked the outer fence,” Roger muttered, turning his face away. “Must’ve nodded off after noon.”

Tobin exhaled slowly, fighting to keep his temper under control. His patience with his father had worn thin long ago, but he understood the grief that had broken the older man. He and Nellwyn carried that same pain. No matter how many years passed, their mother’s death still hung over their home like a dark cloud.

Life went on, even when a wolf lost the will to fight. Roger had two children depending on him, yet ever since he had abandoned his duties and turned to alcohol, Tobin had been forced to take responsibility for the entire household.

He was only twenty-three, but he often felt more like his father’s caretaker than his son.

“Wash your face and put on a clean tunic. Nellwyn will be back from the training grounds soon,” Tobin ordered.

He knew better than to push his father too hard when he was in this state. It only brought out that empty look in Roger’s eyes—the look of a man who no longer saw a reason to keep going.

Roger had begun to give up five years ago, when Rosaline Calder boarded a trading vessel bound downriver. A sudden flood sent the boat crashing into the rapids, killing everyone aboard and leaving dozens of families in mourning.

Tobin still remembered the day their mother never came home.

Roger struggled to sit upright. “Did the stage manager give you any lines for the upcoming solstice performance?” he asked gruffly.

Performing at the solstice festivals was one of the few ways an outsider could earn recognition in Ravenridge City. Tobin dreamed of building a respectable future through his own talent. His father, on the other hand, seemed interested only in whether Tobin could earn enough money to keep the liquor flowing.

*Not a chance.*

Once Tobin had enough money, he intended to send his father to the mountain healers near the upper sanctuary. Perhaps they could help Roger recover some of what he had lost—and give their family a chance to start over.

“I spent the morning hauling supplies for the blacksmith,” Tobin replied, ignoring the question as he helped his father to his feet.

He took every odd job he could find to supplement his meager wages from the Moonlit Hearth. Metalwork, border scouting, hauling timber—he did whatever it took to bring home a little extra silver.

The Calders weren't starving, but with Roger out of work, Nellwyn preparing for her advanced warrior trials, and Tobin paying for his stage auditions, money was always tight. Every month, the arrival of the tax collector filled him with dread.

If he were completely selfless, he would abandon his ambitions and devote himself to earning a steady living. Preparing for the solstice performances cost money: costumes, travel permits to enter the inner city, and time away from better-paying jobs. He had already given up his formal combat training when his father lost his position, yet even that sacrifice hadn't been enough.

Tobin wasn't a saint. He was a young man with his own dreams and a stubborn determination to see them through. He had carried the responsibilities of an adult since he was eighteen, and he refused to let his future disappear simply because his family had fallen on hard times.

A heavy door slammed somewhere in the courtyard.

Tobin stiffened and helped his father into the small bedroom. By the time he had removed Roger’s leather boots and pulled a thick fur blanket over him, the older man was already snoring.

“Tobin? Are you home?” Nellwyn called from the hallway.

Tobin stepped into the living area and firmly shut his father’s bedroom door behind him.

Nellwyn stood by the entrance in her leather sparring vest and linen trousers, a wooden practice sword strapped to her hip. Her cheeks were flushed from training, and her dark hair was pulled into a tight braid. She had inherited their mother’s hazel eyes and golden-brown coloring, and sometimes the resemblance hit Tobin harder than he cared to admit.

Her face brightened when she saw him.

“Tobin!”

She threw her arms around his waist. He gave an exaggerated grunt of protest, making her laugh.

“Get off me. You smell like sweat and wet fur,” he teased, though he slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“I’ve just finished spear drills,” Nellwyn said, rolling her eyes. Then she paused and sniffed the air. “Ugh. Why does it smell like stale liquor in here?”

“Blame your training gear.”

“Very funny. My gear smells fine.”

She narrowed her eyes and walked past him toward the table. Her gaze settled on the jug he had forgotten to hide beneath the bench.

Her smile faded.

Nellwyn knew about their father’s drinking, but Tobin did everything he could to shield her from the worst of it. She still hoped Roger would recover from his grief and become the proud warrior he had once been.

“Watch what you say,” Tobin warned quietly, nodding toward the jug.

Nellwyn sighed and dropped her training bag onto a chair.

“Fine. Is he sleeping it off again?”

“He’s resting,” Tobin replied, steering the conversation elsewhere. “How did your trials go today?”

“Great!”

Her face lit up again as she settled onto the bench. Nothing excited her more than combat strategy and border lore. She was a gifted apprentice with her sights set on entering the Academy the following spring.

For someone without a powerful family name, getting in wouldn't be easy. Her best chance was to earn a full scholarship from the council.

To secure it, she would have to outperform every noble-born apprentice in the city. That was why Tobin had spent most of his savings enrolling her in summer masterclasses taught by retired pack commanders.

“Commander Vane said that if I master the double-blade forms by moonrise tomorrow, he’ll send a recommendation straight to Alpha Edmund,” she said proudly.

“That’s incredible, Nell.” Tobin smiled, genuinely happy for her.

He had put his own combat training on hold after their mother died, but he would work himself to the bone before allowing their family’s circumstances to stand in the way of Nellwyn’s future.

“By the way,” Nellwyn said, adjusting her wrist wraps with exaggerated casualness, “could you walk me to the market square tomorrow night? I’m meeting a friend from the training grounds.”

Tobin relaxed a little. At least she wasn't asking him to escort some arrogant young man who wanted to court her.

“Sure. I’ll take you.”

“Thanks, big brother!” She grabbed her wooden sword and headed toward the washroom at the back of the house. “Order some roasted boar skewers while I clean up!”

“Who said I was buying you dinner?” Tobin called after her.

Her laughter rang down the hallway.

Tavern food was a luxury they could rarely afford, but Saturday-night market food had been their tradition since they were children. It was one small expense Tobin refused to cut from the family budget.

Once Nellwyn disappeared into the washroom, silence settled over the house.

Tobin took out the parchment scroll and ran his thumb over the glowing red ink of Ismay’s pack mark.

Her fierce eyes, sharp features, and curvy figure flashed through his mind. His inner wolf stirred, sending an unwelcome rush of heat through him.

She was trouble. Alpha’s daughters always were.

But twenty thousand silver marks...

The money would cover their household taxes for a year, pay Nellwyn’s Academy entrance fees, and give him enough breathing room to concentrate on his stage auditions.

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, caught between pride and desperation. The thought of helping Ismay set a trap for another wolf’s prospective mate sat heavily in his stomach.

He didn't have to decide right away.

Ismay had given him forty-eight hours.

Forty-five remained.

Before he could put the parchment away, a frantic pounding rattled the front door. Someone was shouting his name from the other side.