CHAPTER 5

ISMAY BELLWEATHER POV

Ismay had to be out of her mind. That was the only explanation for her decision to let Tobin live after the arrogant stunt he’d pulled on the cliff—and then agree to meet him at a tavern. A month of scorching weather, boredom, and barely contained bloodlust in Ravenridge City must have finally gotten to her.

*We can work out the pack’s strategy without leaving our wolves hungry,* he’d told her through the pack link earlier.

Bullshit. After his cocky remarks about claiming her with a fated kiss beneath the moon, Ismay was convinced the rogue was trying to get her into bed.

If that was his plan, he’d chosen the wrong woman. She wasn’t susceptible to cheap seduction, and she’d hired him to help her trap Prudence, not to pursue anyone else.

She switched off her engine and stepped onto the cobblestones just as Tobin climbed out of his vehicle with the effortless grace of a panther.

Ismay shot him a murderous glare. He ignored it completely.

“This place had better serve fresh meat,” she warned, her stomach growling. Her wolf was restless. She’d gotten into a furious argument with Prudence Harrowby that morning over the territory grounds and had spent the rest of the day running on sheer spite.

“It does.” Tobin swept open the heavy oak door. “After you, sweetheart.”

She narrowed her dark eyes, certain he was making fun of her status, but her hungry wolf had no patience for a fight.

The tavern was wedged between a blacksmith’s shop and a leatherworker’s stall in the lower district. Inside, it looked like every other rough-and-ready wolf tavern: uneven stone floors, heavy timber tables surrounded by battered chairs, and a roaring hearth at the back. Horns and animal hides decorated the dim walls, while bundles of dried sage hung from the rafters to help mask the mingled scents of different wolf bloodlines.

“Thursday is Alpha Edmund’s night off from court,” Tobin remarked when he noticed her surveying the room.

“I eat at taverns in the lower district all the time,” Ismay snapped.

She preferred silver platters and polished dining rooms, but some of the best roasted meat came from the rough little establishments frequented by outsiders. Her year spent near the northern borders had taught her that much.

“If you say so.” Tobin strode toward the counter and grabbed a parchment menu, tossing it to her. “Try the roast. They serve the best game in the territory.”

Ismay sniffed dismissively, but the smell of seared venison drifting from the kitchen made her mouth water.

A wave of nostalgia caught her off guard. Although she’d been born into the privileged Bellweather family, her pack no longer enjoyed feasts like this—not since Rosaline, their former cook, had been forced out of the main kitchen years ago.

Rosaline had raised Ismay from childhood and had been the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother.

Prudence’s role in Rosaline’s removal had devastated her. None of the cooks her father had hired since could prepare a proper feast. Their current cook insisted on serving bland herbal broths better suited to prey than to wolves.

They settled into a corner booth beside a heavy wooden window. Tobin dropped a pouch of copper tokens onto the counter to pay for their meal.

Ismay didn’t object. It was his money, after all.

Still, she felt the need to make one thing clear.

“This isn’t a date. You didn’t have to pay for me.”

“It’s called treating a woman properly.”

“You’re no gentleman.” She hesitated before draping her velvet cloak over the worn bench. “You’re far too arrogant for that.”

Tobin watched her arrange her cloak, amusement glinting in his golden eyes.

“Arrogance and good manners aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“People with real status don’t need to advertise it,” Ismay replied coolly.

“Maybe not.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes. “But you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who wants a timid man.”

Heat stirred low in her stomach, warming her skin despite the draft creeping through the tavern.

“Save your charm for Prudence,” she said. “It won’t work on me.”

Tobin smirked, briefly revealing the tips of his sharp canines.

Their server arrived with heavy pewter platters piled high with spiced boar and thick slices of roasted venison, accompanied by bowls of mashed wild roots.

Conversation ceased as they surrendered to their appetites. The food was rich, savory, and satisfying.

The quiet gave Ismay time to collect herself. She hated how easily this man could unsettle her instincts.

She’d never had much patience for men. They were either untrustworthy, politically motivated, or weak—too concerned with pack status to care about their mates. Her father, Alpha Edmund, was proof enough of that.

She would rather live as an outsider than bind herself to a mate she couldn’t respect.

Over the years, she’d rejected every noble-born suitor presented to her, satisfying her wolf’s physical needs through brief encounters when she felt the urge.

Yet Tobin stirred something primal inside her. The sight of his throat moving as he tore into the roasted meat made her skin tingle.

She reached for her horn of ale.

Was the hearth making the room hotter, or was it her own blood?

“How do you know this place?” she asked, breaking the silence. “The lower district is a long way from the building where your pack performs.”

Ismay rarely made small talk with outsiders, but the warm food and strong ale had softened her usual sharp edges. She found herself wanting to know what lay beneath Tobin’s rough exterior.

“My mother,” he said, his expression changing. “She loved exploring the outer territories and finding hidden places. She couldn’t track prey to save her life, but she could find good ale anywhere. This was her favorite spot.”

Ismay noticed the distant look in his golden eyes.

“Was?”

The warmth vanished from his face.

“A rogue patrol slaughtered her pack at the border five years ago.”

Something tightened in Ismay’s throat. Sympathy was an unfamiliar feeling, but she couldn’t help feeling it for him.

“She must have raised a strong wolf.”

It was the only comfort she could offer. She hated empty words of consolation, so she refused to give him any.

“She did.” Tobin’s jaw relaxed a little, as though he appreciated her restraint. “I bring my younger sister, Nellwyn, here sometimes. But she’s preparing for her first full-moon shift, and between patrols and performances, I barely have time for anything else.”

The knowledge that he’d brought her to a place connected to his late mother stirred a strange feeling in Ismay’s chest.

“My mother is gone, too,” she blurted out.

She immediately regretted saying it. She never talked about her mother. Never.

“She didn’t die,” Ismay added quietly. “She abandoned the pack. She left Bellweather territory when I was two winters old.”

She stabbed a piece of meat with her iron fork.

Her parents had been fated mates—or so Alpha Edmund claimed. But if the mate bond was supposed to be unbreakable, how could a Luna walk away from her mate and child?

After her mother left, Alpha Edmund had forbidden any mention of his former mate. He’d erased every trace of her from the pack house. No portraits. No scent marks. No family keepsakes.

“Her loss,” Tobin said softly.

Ismay looked up sharply. A rare, small smile touched her lips.

“Yes. It is.”

They stayed long after their platters had been cleared, trading stories about territory hunts, border skirmishes, and pack laws. Tobin argued that the warriors from the outer districts were the strongest in the territory, while Ismay recounted the long history of the Bellweather family.

“The northern packs are more disciplined, but our wolves have more fire,” she declared.

“Good to know.” Tobin leaned back in his seat. “I have no plans to travel north. My wolf hates the cold.”

Ismay paused with her ale halfway to her lips.

“You’re the heir to your pack. If you want to lead, you’ll have to deal with the northern packs eventually.”

He shrugged. “If a pack war forces me to cross those snowy passes, I’ll go. But I’m not heading there for fun.”

She studied his guarded expression.

“Have you always hated the cold, or did that start five years ago?”

Tobin’s golden eyes narrowed.

“Drop it, sweetheart.”

“If you say so.”

He let out an impatient breath and pushed back his bench.

“It’s getting late. The tavern keeper is putting out the fire.”

The servers were already lowering the oil lamps, making it clear that closing time was approaching.

Ismay glanced at the moon outside and was surprised by how much time had passed. Usually, spending this long with a man made her want to claw her way out of the room. Somehow, she’d actually enjoyed Tobin’s company.

She placed three silver tokens on the table to cover the tip, then followed him into the chilly night.

“No ambushes on the way out. Looks like you chose a safe place,” she said, her voice softer than usual.

Tobin smirked. “Lucky you.”

Moonlight fell across his face, accentuating his sharp jawline and the unruly hair hanging over his forehead.

An unexpected urge to reach out and brush that stray lock aside swept through her. She folded her arms tightly across her chest to resist it.

The air between them seemed charged. Her wolf paced restlessly inside her, yearning to close the distance between them. Tobin’s eyes appeared to darken from bright amber to a deep, possessive hazel, drawing her in despite her better judgment.

Then she noticed the tiny scar near his upper lip. It looked like an old battle wound, and somehow, it made his mouth even more dangerously attractive.

Her heart pounded.

They stood only inches apart. All she had to do was lean forward—

Tobin suddenly stepped back, his expression hardening.

“Saturday at noon, then?”

His detached tone broke the spell.

Ismay blinked, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change. Then she remembered exactly what they were to each other.

They weren’t mates leaving behind a night of passion. He was a hired blade, and their arrangement was strictly business.

Besides, kissing him now would be ridiculous.

At least, that was what she told herself.

“Yes. See you then.” Saturday at noon was when Prudence would be occupied with her spiritual adviser on the pack house training grounds.

Ismay flashed Tobin a cold smile, turned on her heel, and strode toward her vehicle, furious with herself for nearly losing control.

Tobin Calder was a pawn in her game. Nothing more.

As she reached her vehicle, the heavy iron ring on her index finger—the Bellweather signet—suddenly grew scorching hot against her skin. A sinister red glow spread across its surface.