3. Ash and Quiet

Hannah’s house smelled like pine sap and the sharp, comforting tang of boiled linens when she pushed the door shut behind her. The cold that had lived in her bones since the ball clung to her like a second skin, but inside the small sitting room a coal fire eased it away in slow, honest waves. She kept her cloak on, shoulders hunched, and let the warmth pull the tremor from her fingers. The bandage at her calf soaked through with blood where it had rubbed against ruined fabric; every shift sent a fresh flare of pain up her leg and into the place behind her sternum that belonged to Marcus.

Her father was at the table, as he always was in the evenings - maps rolled out, a cup of bitter tea steaming, the gamma’s posture both blade-sharp and tired. When he looked up, she saw him measure her like a pack leader reads the weather: the way she held herself, the pallor to her cheeks, the limping step. He didn’t ask for the story; he already knew she had it.

“You’re not dressed for the cold,” he said, voice even. His hands folded on the map. “Sit.”

Hannah eased onto the chair and drew her cloak tighter. “There was an attack at Larkspur,” she said. The words scraped out of her - small, exact. She kept her gaze on the steaming rim of her teacup. “Silver. Wolfsbane. Marcus - ”

Her father’s hand went to the table as if to steady himself. The gamma’s face was a map of decisions and scars. “Marcus?” His voice softened, not from surprise but from the weight of the name. “He was there?”

“Yes.” She pressed her palm to her chest where the bond still throbbed like a living thing under skin. “He saved me. He got cut. He left to help - was dragged away by the leaders. He kissed my fingers before they took him.” Saying it aloud loosened the memory until it hurt.

Her father’s brows knit. “You know his name, and he left you a promise.” He set his cup down with deliberate care. “He’s not one of the wolves we sent, I don’t recognize the description from our rosters.”

Hannah’s eyes lifted. “Do you think he belonged to another pack?”

He studied her, fox-slow. “Possibly.” He tapped a knuckle on the map. “Larkspur draws allied packs for a mating ball. It’s the kind of night strangers meet and bonds are revealed. Marcus could belong to any pack in the north - Larkspur keeps lists, but in the chaos of an attack, names get muddled and scents cross like spilled ink.” His hand flattened over the edge of the map, an attempt at order. “Why do you ask, Hannah?”

She swallowed. The bond hummed under her ribs, steady and imploring. “Because I need to know," Her voice cracked on the last word. “Because I… because he’s my mate.”

For a long beat, the room held only the hiss of the fire and the faint scrape of snow dropping from her cloak. Her father’s face shifted - gamma into father, strategy folding into something rawer. He reached across the table and covered her hand with one of his, the same hand that once steadied her as a child learning to climb.

“That is not something to rush,” he said softly. “A bond changes a pack’s shape. If Marcus is your mate, we will do this properly. We will find out who he answers to, and we will find him.” He squeezed her fingers once, an anchor. “But you will be tended first. No more running into the night.”

She wanted to protest, to argue that he had told her to stay in the hall, that Marcus had asked her to remain, that she had disobeyed and followed instead. Instead she relaxed against his palm and let the exhaustion of the last hours fold her small.

“You’ve got this,” he added, the words almost shy in his mouth, like a promise he hadn’t said since she was small. “We’ll make it easier - by not leaping blind.”

Hannah let out a breath that trembled into a laugh and a sob at the same time. “I don’t know how to make any of it easier.”

“That’s why I’m here.” He stood and went to fetch the healer’s satchel. The rustle of herbs, the clink of glass - mundane noises anchoring them to practical care - settled her. As he worked, he glanced up and said, quieter: “If Marcus is your mate, then it will not be hard. There are politics, packs, and old grudges. But a mate is a thing that roots you. Don’t trade that for fear.”

She let the heat of the poultice meet her calf; it stung fresh wound and older ache both. Her father’s hands were precise, efficient, and infused with that steady calm that had kept the pack whole through winters. Outside, the courtyard was quiet. Inside, the bond thrummed, private and insistent.

“Find out who Marcus answers to,” she said finally. “And tell them… tell them he will not be alone if he returns wounded or worse.”

Her father’s jaw set. “I’ll send scouts at first light. I’ll call in favors. But Hannah - ” He stopped, choosing his words with care. “You can’t rush toward the danger because your heart is loud. Let the pack carry the risk with you.”

She pressed her forehead toShe pressed her forehead to the table for a second, feeling the grain bite into her skin, and the quiet in the room wrapped around her like wool. “I’m not asking to run off,” she said. “I’m asking you to tell me what to do next.”

He gave a small, tired smile - father, gamma, man who knew how to bear weight. “Rest. Heal. Eat.” He pushed a bowl of thin stew toward her and the scent of broth and marrow filled the small room, ordinary and fierce. “Tomorrow we make calls. Tonight, you sleep. I’ll be outside the door.”

When she lifted the spoon, it trembled. The food tasted like home and like survival; each mouthful steadied something inside her that had been raw since the silver flashed in the hall. She ate because he told her to, and because the bond thrummed approval at the smallest, sensible action.

While he checked the bandage again, his voice quiet and businesslike, Hannah let her mind try to sort through the images that kept looping: Marcus’s fingers on her wrist, the pale thread of light, the way his mouth had shaped her name. She let the ache of longing sit beside the fear of wolfsbane and silver; both could be true. Love didn’t cancel danger, nor did danger nullify the fierce certainty that had taken her in a single look.

Her father’s hands worked with a practiced care, and occasionally he hummed under his breath - a tune she recognized from childhood, something to scare away the darker thoughts. When he finished, he left the room for a moment and returned with a folded square of cloth and a small tin.

“For the scent,” he said simply, placing them on the table. “Heat it near the flame. If you feel the bond pull so hard you can’t breathe, hold the cloth. Let it be a thing you touch, not the whole world.”

Hannah nodded and picked up the cloth. It smelled faintly of lavender and something mossy - her mother’s touch even though her mother had been gone for years. She closed her fingers around it and felt steadier.

Her father sat back down. “I’ll be blunt. If Marcus is tied to a pack that associates with hunters, We may need to strike alliances, or protect borders, or... make hard choices.” He let that hang for a moment. “But you are not a child. You will be involved in decisions that affect you.”

The implication made her chest tighten. In the map’s shadowed lines, she could see the world rearranging - alliances forming, old rivalries flaring. Being a mate wasn’t just the pull between two bodies; it was a locus of politics and protection. She swallowed. “I know.”

Outside, a wind lifted flakes of snow against the window. Inside, the fire flared and clicked. Marcus’s scent threaded through her memory like a melody she hadn’t yet learned to hum without quivering. She pressed the cloth to her chest and let that private music steady her.

“You’ve got this,” her father said again, softer this time. “Because you’re not alone. We’ll find Marcus, and we’ll find out what he is. If we have to, we’ll bring him to the pack, properly. If he’s enemy - ” he paused, eyes fierce as flint - “we’ll protect you.