"I can hold the flank."

The mercenary captain slammed his wooden mug onto the sticky tavern table. Foam sloshed over the rim, pooling near my knuckles.

"You can barely stand, sweetheart," he mocked.

"I killed three rogues to get to this border. Hand me a sword and I will prove it."

"You dragged yourself here." He pointed a thick, grease-stained finger at my right leg. "Your balance is completely shot."

"I adjust."

"You die. And you get my men killed in the mission."

"I do not need your men to protect me," I fired back. "I need the coin."

"Not my responsibility." He jerked his chin toward the tavern door. "Get out. The Sterling Pack border does not run charity."

"Give me one spar. First to draw blood."

"I do not fight cripples."

I pressed my hands flat against the wood. "I am not a cripple."

"Did you hear me?" he barked. He stood up, knocking his chair backward. It scraped harshly against the floorboards. "Roll out before I throw you out."

"Try it," I challenged.

I dropped my hand to the empty sheath at my hip. I had sold my blade yesterday for a loaf of bread.

He laughed. "You do not even have a weapon."

"I do not need one to break your jaw."

He stepped around the table. Two of his men stood up behind him, resting their hands on their hilts.

I did not argue further. I turned away. My right knee buckled instantly.

Loud, ugly laughter erupted from the table behind me.

"Watch your step, First Warrior!" someone shouted.

I caught myself on the heavy oak doorframe. I ground my molars together until a sharp ache shot up my jaw. I shoved off the wood and limped into the freezing rain.

The innkeeper at the edge of the Sterling Pack territory took my last silver coin. He handed me a rusted key and a torn linen towel.

"Room four," the old man muttered. He did not look up from his ledger. "Checkout is at dawn."

I pushed the door open. A single candle flickered on a wobbly wooden stool. The floorboards groaned under my weight.

I dropped onto the edge of the lumpy mattress. Dust plumed into the air.

"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Just the bandages."

I gripped the edge of the blood-soaked fabric wrapped around my calf. The wolfsbane was gone. The stranger's purifying elixir had burned it away. But the trap's iron teeth had chewed straight through muscle and tendon.

I pulled the first layer.

A sharp hiss escaped my teeth. The linen stuck to the raw, healing flesh.

"Come on," I urged myself.

I yanked the rest of the cloth free in one sharp motion.

The wound lay exposed in the dim candlelight. The skin had knitted together, leaving a jagged, violent groove stretching from my knee down to my ankle. The flesh was raised. Angry.

A permanent scar.

I traced the bumpy ridge with my index finger. The skin felt numb, yet a dull ache radiated straight to the bone.

A single drop of water hit my knuckle.

I blinked. A tear. I swiped the back of my hand across my cheek.

The sharp sting in my leg dragged me backward in time.

The scent of pine and fresh blood filled my memory.

"Hold still," Declan ordered.

His hands pressed a thick cloth against my ribs.

"It is just a graze," I told him, trying to push his wrists away.

"The rogue's blade was coated in silver, Elara." He pressed harder.

I flinched. My nails dug into the dirt.

"Stop moving," he scolded gently.

Declan wrapped his arms around my shoulders. He pulled my back flush against his chest. His chin rested on top of my head.

"You stepped in front of me," he whispered, his voice rough. "You took the hit."

"I am the First Warrior. It is my job."

"You are my mate." He turned me around. His golden eyes locked onto mine. "Look at me."

I met his gaze.

"I promise you," Declan swore. He traced the edge of the fresh cut on my collarbone. "You will never bleed while you stand by my side."

"I heal fast," I argued.

"I do not care. I will not let anything hurt you ever again."

I smiled at him then. "I hold you to that, Alpha."

The memory shattered.

I sat alone in the drafty room. No Declan. No pack. Just a ruined leg and an empty pocket.

A heavy knock rattled the thin wooden door.

I grabbed the iron poker from the cold fireplace. I stood up, ignoring the flare of agony in my calf.

"Who is it?" I demanded.

"Brought you hot water," a raspy voice answered.

"I did not ask for any."

"Comes with the room."

I cracked the door open. The old innkeeper stood in the hallway, holding a steaming wooden bucket. His eyes darted to the iron poker in my hand. He looked down at my exposed leg.

"Move," he instructed.

I stepped back. He walked inside and set the bucket on the floorboards.

"That is a nasty bite," he noted, pulling a small tin of salve from his apron. "Wolf trap?"

"Something like that."

"You did not clean it right." He placed the tin next to the bucket. "It is going to rot if you just wrap it."

"I know how to treat a wound."

"Clearly not." He crossed his arms. "Who did this to you, girl?"

I stared at the closed door. I thought of the rogue leader's silver blade. I pictured Ivy's perfect, tearless face in the pack hall. I saw Declan's broad back as he walked away with her.

"An accident," I answered.

The old man scoffed softly. "Accidents do not leave people sleeping with iron pokers."

"It is the truth."

"Suit yourself." He wiped his hands on his apron. "You are a long way from Ashgrove."

I stiffened, raising the poker an inch. "How do you know where I am from?"

"Your accent. And the way you stand."

"How do I stand?"

"Ashgrove fighters always keep their shoulders squared. Even when they are wounded."

He turned the rusted doorknob.

"Keep the salve. You will need it if you want to walk by morning."

"I do not have money for it."

"Consider it a welcome gift to the border."

The door clicked shut.

I limped toward the narrow window. The glass was caked with grime. Through the smudge, the distant peaks of the Ashgrove mountains cut into the night sky.

I pressed my forehead against the cold pane.

No one here expected me to be fine. That was the only mercy this place offered.

I turned away from the window and reached for the hot water.

A shadow detached itself from the darkest corner of the room.

"I told you I needed a mate," a familiar, icy voice said. "I did not say you could run off to Sterling territory without me."

I spun around, raising the iron poker.

The stranger from the woods stepped into the candlelight. He caught the heavy iron rod with one bare hand.

"Put the toy down, Elara. We have work to do."

"Why are you still here?" Elara asked.

She sat on a rotting log at the edge of the clearing. Her ruined leg stretched out stiffly in front of her, the crude bandages stained a faint yellow.

I tossed a small, corked vial into the crisp morning air and caught it.

"Your wolf magic is unstable," I told her, leaning my shoulder against a pine trunk. "If you lose control and blow a crater in this forest, it brings the border patrols right to us."

"So you are playing the wandering healer just to keep me controlled?"

"I am monitoring a volatile asset."

She narrowed her eyes, studying the silver dagger strapped to my thigh.

"You could just leave me behind. You do not owe me anything."

"I don't do 'needed'," I stated flatly, stepping away from the tree. "Needed people leave marks."

She tilted her head. An unexpected smirk broke through her exhaustion.

"Good. Because I do not need you."

I ignored the strange jolt in my chest. That was exactly what I wanted to hear. My family had spent my entire life bleeding me dry with their endless demands. Duty. Obligation. I left that cage to avoid anchors.

I just needed to make sure she didn't get herself killed before we parted ways.

"Stand up," I ordered.

Elara grabbed her makeshift oak crutch and forced herself upright. Her jaw tightened, but she didn't complain.

"Drop the stick."

"I will fall."

"Then fall."

She glared at me, her fingers digging into the rough bark. Then, she let it go. The heavy branch hit the dirt. She swayed, heavily favoring her left side.

"Close your eyes," I instructed, circling her. "Find the knot in your chest. The wolfsbane severed your connection to your wolf. You are trying to force the door open. Stop forcing it."

"How do I open a door without pushing?" she snapped.

"You pick the lock. Pull the energy from your healthy veins. Route it around the dead tissue in your calf."

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her fists clenched at her sides.

The air around us grew heavy. The scent of ozone and dried pine needles spiked sharply.

"You are pushing too hard," I warned.

"I have it," she gritted out.

A sudden, sharp crack echoed in the clearing.

Invisible force blasted outward, kicking up dead leaves and dirt. Elara gasped, her eyes flying open. She stumbled backward, landing hard on the forest floor.

A thick line of crimson spilled from her left nostril, dripping over her top lip.

I walked over and stood above her. I didn't offer my hand.

I pulled a folded linen cloth from my pocket and tossed it onto her lap.

"Again."

She wiped the blood from her mouth, smearing it across her cheek. She didn't cry. She didn't ask for a break.

She grabbed the tree trunk, hauled herself up, and locked her knees.

"Tell me what I did wrong."

"You panicked when the energy hit the scar tissue," I explained, keeping my voice entirely detached. "You have to trust the detour."

By midday, we moved deeper into the northern ridge.

"Stop," Elara commanded, throwing her arm out.

I halted a foot behind her.

She pointed to a faint depression in the mud beneath a patch of ferns.

"Tripwire," she explained, her voice low. "The poachers coat the barbs in paralytic venom. You step there, you won't wake up for three days."

"You know these routes well."

"I patrolled them for years." She shifted her weight, wincing slightly. "I show you the blind spots in the border security. You teach me how to fix my energy flow."

"A transaction," I agreed.

"Exactly. No debts."

"I prefer it that way."

We navigated the treacherous path side by side. She mapped the physical dangers. I corrected her breathing every time her aura flared out of control.

She didn't thank me. I didn't praise her.

It was a perfect, sterile arrangement.

Night fell fast, bringing a bitter frost that coated the tree branches in thin ice.

We took shelter in a shallow cave hidden behind a frozen waterfall. Elara sat near the small fire, wrapping a fresh bandage around her scarred leg.

I sat across from her, sharpening my blade with a whetstone.

The rhythmic scrape of metal filled the silence.

She tossed a piece of dried meat into the flames. It sizzled loudly.

"You missed a spot," she murmured, gesturing to my dagger.

I paused. I checked the blade. She was right. A tiny nick remained near the hilt.

"Keep your eyes on your own weapons," I replied, though the edge in my voice had dulled.

She let out a short, unexpected laugh. It wasn't bitter. It was just tired.

"Just trying to be helpful, healer."

"I don't need help."

"Good. Then we have something in common."

I stared at the fire, the whetstone perfectly still in my hand.

I knew her breathing pattern now. I knew she favored her left side when she sat. I knew she hated the smell of roasted rabbit but ate it anyway to keep her strength up.

I was getting used to her being here.

My grip tightened on the hilt.

Being needed meant being trapped. I had sworn I would never let anyone sink their hooks into my life again.

So why did I feel an overwhelming urge to stay right here in this freezing cave?

A twig snapped in the darkness outside.

Elara's head snapped up. Her eyes flashed a brilliant gold.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered.

I stood, sliding the dagger into its sheath.

"We aren't alone."

Declan stared at the sprawling parchment covering his mahogany desk.

"The rogues shifted their camp," Garrett reported, standing at attention by the door. "They bypassed the river entirely."

"Pincer formation." Declan tapped the red ink marking the eastern ridge. "Send two units through the gorge. Cut off their retreat."

Garrett hesitated, crossing his arms. "That leaves the southern flank exposed. If they double back, they breach the perimeter."

"Only if they know we moved the sentries." Declan pointed to a faded blue line on the map. "We use the old smuggling tunnels to rotate the guards. They stay out of sight."

Garrett leaned closer. He inspected the blue ink.

"That is Elara's handwriting," Garrett noted.

Declan pulled his hand back. His knuckles brushed the edge of the desk.

"The strategy works," Declan stated, his voice flat.

"She drew those supply lines two years ago," Garrett argued. "The terrain has shifted. We should map a new route."

"The tunnels remain intact."

"Are you trusting the tunnels, or are you trusting her?"

Declan's eyes flashed gold. "Execute the order, Beta."

"Yes, Alpha." Garrett turned and exited the study.

Declan sank into his leather chair. He stared at the blue ink. The sharp, aggressive strokes mirrored the woman who drew them. Even gone, she directed his pack. Every defensive line he relied on bore her signature.

The study door pushed open.

Ivy slipped inside, carrying a silver tray.

She paused by the bookshelf. Her eyes darted toward the empty hallway before she whispered to herself.

"As long as she stays away, he will need me."

Ivy smoothed the front of her pale dress. She knew the truth. Two years of playing the perfect caretaker couldn't mask the silence in her blood. No spark. No bond. Just a title she had to steal before the pack realized she was empty.

She pasted a soft smile on her face and approached the desk.

"You are staying up too late, Declan."

He looked up. The hard lines around his mouth softened slightly. "The border requires attention."

"You handle it perfectly." She set the tray down. "Everyone feels safe under your command."

"Garrett questioned the flank rotation just now."

"Garrett worries too much." Ivy poured the tea, keeping her head bowed. "You are the Alpha. Your instincts are always right."

Declan accepted the porcelain cup. The tension in his shoulders melted.

"Elara would have argued for a frontal assault," Declan murmured, staring into the dark liquid.

Ivy's hand froze on the teapot. "My sister was reckless. She never understood the burden you carry."

"She won battles."

"And left you to clean up the politics." Ivy stepped around the desk. "You do not need a soldier, Declan. You need peace."

He looked at her. She didn't challenge him. She didn't demand perfection or question his authority in front of the warriors.

Ivy just agreed. She made him feel invincible.

Ivy stepped closer. Her hand rested gently on his shoulder.

"Drink your tea," she urged softly. "You need your strength for the council meeting tomorrow."

Declan closed his eyes. He waited for the rush of warmth. He waited for the wolf inside him to howl, to claim the woman touching his skin.

Nothing happened.

Her perfume smelled like vanilla and crushed roses. It was sweet. It was entirely hollow.

A sudden phantom scent burned the back of his throat. Cedar. Rain-soaked earth. Fresh blood.

He flinched, pulling away from Ivy's touch. Tea sloshed over the rim of the cup, scalding his thumb.

"Did I hurt you?" Ivy gasped, snatching a napkin.

"I am fine." Declan wiped his hand, creating distance between them.

He turned his back to her, staring out the window into the dark woods. His chest tightened.

Why did Elara's scent haunt him? He had felt the pull for years. A magnetic, terrifying drag toward his First Warrior. But acknowledging it meant admitting she was his equal. It meant surrendering control to a woman who refused to be his mate.

He gripped the window frame.

"It doesn't mean anything," he whispered to the glass.

"What doesn't?" Ivy asked from behind him.

"Nothing."

Silence stretched across the room. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner.

"The elders are asking," Ivy spoke up, her voice trembling slightly.

Declan didn't turn around. "Asking what?"

"About the Luna ceremony. Elder Thorne thinks next full moon would be ideal."

A muscle feathered in Declan's jaw. He stared at the jagged tree line.

"The pack is still recovering from the rogue attacks."

"A celebration would lift their spirits," Ivy pressed, taking a tentative step forward. "We could show them unity. Show them we are moving on."

"No."

The single word dropped like a stone.

Ivy froze. "Declan?"

"The timing is wrong." He turned to face her. His golden eyes were hard, entirely devoid of warmth. "Tell Thorne to drop the subject."

Ivy's smile faltered. She quickly lowered her gaze. "Of course. If that is what you want."

She backed away, leaving the tray on the desk, and quietly shut the door behind her.

Declan immediately crossed the room and yanked the door open again.

"Garrett!" he barked down the corridor.

The Beta appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later.

"Alpha?"

"Double the scout patrols on the northern ridge."

Garrett frowned. "That is neutral territory. We have no jurisdiction there."

"I do not care about jurisdiction." Declan stepped into the hallway. "Track the blood trail from the pack hall."

"She tossed her insignia at your feet, Declan. She walked away."

"She is injured." Declan grabbed the wooden banister, his claws digging into the polished oak. "Find her."

Garrett nodded slowly. "Understood."

Before the Beta could turn, a young tracker sprinted up the staircase, his chest heaving.

"Alpha," the tracker panted, holding up a torn, blood-stained piece of fabric. "We found this near the frozen waterfall."

Declan recognized the rough linen instantly. It was the bandage he had wrapped around Elara's ribs three years ago.

"Where?" Declan demanded.

"Three miles north," the tracker swallowed hard. "But she isn't alone."

Declan released the banister. "Explain."

"We found a second set of footprints." The tracker looked down at his boots. "Large. Heavy. A male."