C-3

“You think you can just walk away from an Ashbourne pack threat, human?” Isolde snarls, her voice trembling with rage.

I push past her without another word, letting my heavy silk skirts brush against her boots, and head straight for my quarters inside the Royal Lodge Quarter. My plus-size human frame moves with a slow, deliberate weight, every step aching from the lingering strain in my ankle. I am a bloodless human in the heart of the Moonfang Province, but I do not cower before wolves.

By the time afternoon rolls around, the mountain air turns thick and heavy with the scent of gathering storm clouds.

Isolde gives me a wide berth for the rest of the shift. Her face is still bruised and pale from her encounter with the High Alpha, her wolf sulking deep beneath her skin. She slips out of the lodge early, driven off by the sting of public humiliation.

I sit at my dark oak desk, reviewing the harvest logs for the Whitlock Moonfang Dominion, when the heavy fur curtain at my doorway swishes open. High heels do not announce visitors here; only the heavy, silent tread of trained pack enforcers gives them away.

I do not look up until the women at the nearby weaving benches burst into hushed, breathless squeals.

“Ms. Whitlock,” Osric Fenwick says, his deep voice slicing through the sudden giggles of the lodge workers. “May we speak in private?”

I feel dozens of sharp wolf eyes burning into my skin. I set my quill down, folding my hands over my lap. “Of course, Enforcer Fenwick.”

I rise and lead him out into the quiet stone corridor leading to the courtyard. The chill from the Frostfang Refuge seeps through the high windows, biting at my skin.

“What does the chief enforcer of the Thorncroft Dominion need from a human clerk?” I ask, keeping my tone crisp.

Osric presses his broad lips into a hard line, his amber eyes flashing with silent reluctance. “High Alpha Thorncroft wishes to see you.”

My blood cold-flashes in my veins. My instinct is to turn around and walk right back to my desk, but I force my head to stay high. “Where is he?”

“In the shadow-carriages at the lower gate,” Osric replies.

I nod slowly. “Very well.”

I turn back toward my office chamber, but Osric takes a sharp step forward, his broad frame blocking the hall. “Ms. Whitlock, the High Alpha is waiting for you right now.”

I look at him, my expression unreadable. “I am aware, Enforcer Fenwick. I am getting my cloak.”

Osric blinks, caught off guard by my flat response. His stiff shoulders relax a fraction. “I will wait here.”

Caelan Thorncroft and Osric Fenwick have run the Alpha Dominion District together for over a decade. They move alike, speak with the same terrifying authority, and expect humans to jump at their command. I refuse to give them the satisfaction.

I fetch my wool cloak, drape it over my shoulders, and walk back out. Osric lets out a quiet breath of relief, as if he genuinely believed I might vanish through a secret passage just to avoid his master.

We descend the winding stone steps into the lower courtyard. The heavy iron-reinforced doors of a black timber carriage stamped with the Thorncroft crest stand wide open.

Osric bows his head slightly and vanishes into the tree line, leaving us alone.

I step up into the carriage. Caelan sits on the padded leather bench, illuminated by the dim glow of a blue rune lantern. He is dressed in dark velvet and silver-studded armor, intensely focused on a parchment map of the Silver Tide Haven territory.

“It is past the second bell,” I say, breaking the silence as I sit across from him. “I have duties at the healing sanctuary later.”

Caelan pauses, his thick fingers freezing over the parchment. He rolls the map closed with a crisp snap and lifts his gaze to mine. The raw intensity in his stormy gray eyes makes my pulse jump against my ribs, a sudden wave of heat washing over my skin.

“I am taking you to the feast hall in the Moon Treasury Quarter,” he says, his voice deep, gravelly, and commanding. “You will return to your work after we eat.”

The Moonfang Province is rugged, filled with rough hunting lodges and cold stone halls, but Caelan always finds the places that cater to delicate, exalted tastes. The carriage stops at a secluded timber pavilion overlooking the roaring mountain river, a place where high-ranking pack leaders dine away from lower-caste eyes.

Because Caelan’s warriors reserved the entire terrace, the servants lay out steaming platters of roasted meats and rich root vegetables the moment we take our seats.

I look out the grand arched window at the pine trees swaying in the dusk wind. Time moves too fast in these mountains. July is already slipping away, and the harsh northern winter will descend upon the Frostfang Refuge before the month closes.

Caelan remains silent. He reaches across the wooden table with a silver carving knife, slicing prime cuts of peppered stag and dropping them onto my wooden plate. He does not stop until the plate is piled high.

“Eat,” he says softly, his dark eyes searching my face. “These are the spiced roasts you used to demand from the kitchen masters in the Royal Alpha Quarter.”

I stare down at the mountain of rich, heavily spiced meat. My mouth tightens.

Once, when I was younger and naive enough to think a High Alpha could truly love a human, I craved strong spices and raw heat. But four years of raising a fragile child in the cold mountains changes a woman’s blood.

“Spicy game inflames human digestion,” I say, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “My body can no longer tolerate heavy seasonings. I eat light broth and simple roots now.”

Briar was born with sensitive human lungs. When she was an infant, I stripped all heavy spices, wild garlic, and pungent herbs from my kitchen so my milk would not upset her stomach. I grew accustomed to the blandness. It became my life.

Caelan’s throat works as he swallows down a sudden surge of emotion. His broad chest heaves beneath his armor. He nods slowly, his jaw clenching hard.

“I will have it changed,” he rasps.

He snaps his fingers, summoning the head lodge steward. Within minutes, the heavy spiced meats are carried away, replaced with clear fowl broth, steamed winter greens, and soft barley bread.

I want to tell him not to waste the pack’s game, but I realize arguing with him only prolonged our proximity. I pick up my silver spoon and begin to eat in quiet, methodical bites.

Caelan reaches out, placing a glass of clear mountain spring water beside my hand. “Eat slowly, Elowen. No one is taking it from you.”

I keep my eyes lowered, refusing to meet his gaze.

Thirty minutes pass in heavy, suffocating silence. Caelan does not touch a single morsel of his own food. He simply sits there, towering and dangerous, watching every drop of broth I swallow, his eyes burning with a desperate, unspoken hunger that makes my skin prickle with erotic heat.

When I set my spoon down and wipe my lips with a linen cloth, he leans back. “Finished?”

“I am,” I reply smoothly. “Thank you for the meal, High Alpha. The sun is setting, and I must return to the lodge.”

I do not show him anger. I do not show him bitterness. Cold, absolute indifference is the only armor a human has against an Alpha who once held her heart in his clawed hand.

He rises instantly, pulling his heavy cloak around his shoulders. “I will escort you.”

I do not refuse. Hiring a runner or flagging a pack transport in the Moon Treasury Quarter at dusk is impossible for a human woman without an escort.

The carriage ride back is as silent as the grave. The rumble of the iron wheels against the cobblestones is the only sound between us.

He watches my profile in the dim rune-light. When he realizes I will not break the quiet, he finally speaks, his voice low and gravelly. “Do not concern yourself with Isolde Ashbourne or her father’s guards. I will handle the Ashbourne Pack. You only need to focus on your work at the sanctuary.”

My brows draw together into a tight line. “That is unnecessary, High Alpha Thorncroft.”

I have already sent word to Uncle Dorian Wolfhart. The Grand Alpha Tribunal is already moving against Magistrate Ashbourne. I do not need Caelan’s protection, nor do I want to owe the Thorncroft Alpha Dominion a single copper coin or favor.

Caelan lowers his dark gaze, his thick lashes casting long shadows over his high cheekbones. He does not argue with me. He simply sits there, accepting my rejection like a heavy stone resting on his chest.

When the carriage pulls up to the stone gates of the Royal Lodge Quarter, I gather my cloak around my full curves. “Thank you for the ride.”

He bows his head slightly, maintaining his refined, high-born posture. “Walk safely, Elowen.”

I step out into the cool evening air without looking back.

By the fifth bell of the evening, the air inside the main lodge grows charged and electric. Uncle Dorian Wolfhart arrives at the gates accompanied by a dozen heavily armored justices from the Grand Alpha Tribunal. An hour later, black-clad war steeds thunder into the courtyard, carrying High Magistrate Ashbourne and the regional pack leaders of the surrounding territories.

Dorian steps into the high hall, his dark cape sweeping behind him as his golden Alpha eyes sweep over the gathered lords. He looks straight at me, standing near the archive pillars, and gives me a single, firm nod.

Isolde Ashbourne stands beside her father, her eyes widening in absolute horror as she realizes the trap she has walked into. Her father attempts to speak, to assert his authority as magistrate of the province, but Dorian pulls a heavy, gold-sealed scroll from his belt and unrolls it before the entire assembly.

“By order of the High Council and the Whitlock Bloodline,” Dorian’s voice booms through the hall, echoing off the stone rafters, “Magistrate Ashbourne is hereby stripped of his rank, his territory holdings, and his seat on the Silvermoon Healing Council for high embezzlement and treason against the human populace!”

Isolde lets out a sharp, hysterical shriek, reaching out to grab her father’s arm as armored guards from the Guardian Pack Command step forward, their silver chains rattling in the dim torchlight.

I stand near the stone archway, my arms folded over my chest, watching the Ashbourne bloodline crumble into ash.

Caelan Thorncroft stands in the shadows across the hall, his massive frame leaned against a pillar, his dark eyes never leaving my face. The scent of pine and heavy storm-ozone fills my lungs, thick and intoxicating, reminding me that while one nightmare has ended, the High Alpha who broke my heart is still standing right in front of me.