Chapter 2 - Patrick
I came to Grayhide territory to forget.
The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I expected—a man who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
Dark circles sit heavily under my eyes, there’s a fresh cut above my eyebrow from a training session gone wrong, and my stare has gone hollow from watching too many people die for nothing.
I splash cold water on my face and hold on to the edges of the sink until my knuckles turn white.
When the allied packs captured Mordaunt years ago, I thought things might finally change.
I thought maybe Thornridge would have to retreat, regroup, and become something different without his obsession driving us forward.
But Bastian got him out a few months ago, and everything went right back to the way it was.
Worse, even, because now Mordaunt has something to prove.
Just weeks ago, I watched Thornridge wolves—my packmates, my brothers—get slaughtered in another one of Thane Mordaunt’s brilliant plans to seize the Amanzite reserves in Badlands.
Wolves I’ve trained with for years. Wolves, I’ve shared countless meals with around campfires in hostile territory.
Wolves who trusted our alpha to lead them somewhere other than an early grave.
They trusted wrong.
I trusted wrong.
The doubt started creeping in months ago, back when Bastian Corvelli laughed while describing how he’d manipulated that Llewelyn woman into nearly marrying him.
I remember the look on his face as he recounted every detail of his deception—the pride in his voice, the gleam in his eyes.
He enjoyed it. Not just the victory, but the suffering he caused.
The hearts he broke. The lives he ruined.
That’s when I started paying closer attention to the wolves around me.
I started noticing which ones followed orders because they believed in the cause and which ones followed because they were afraid of what would happen if they didn’t.
The second group was larger than I’d ever realized. Much larger.
I’m not supposed to be here. Thornridge wolves don’t just wander into enemy territory for a drink. If Mordaunt found out, he’d have me skinned alive as an example to the others. Desertion isn’t tolerated. Questions aren’t tolerated. Anything less than absolute loyalty is grounds for execution.
But I needed distance. I needed to think without Mordaunt’s propaganda ringing in my ears or Bastian’s smug face reminding me of everything wrong with the pack I’ve called home for sixteen years.
I needed silence, I needed whiskey, and I needed to figure out if there’s any part of my life worth salvaging.
So I crossed the border, kept my head down, and found this bar at the edge of Grayhide territory.
From what I gather, the Rusty Fang doesn’t ask questions.
The bartender doesn’t care where I come from as long as my money is good, and the whiskey is strong enough to quiet the voice in my head that keeps asking what the point of any of it is.
At least, it was quiet until about an hour ago.
Until she walked in.
I dry my face with a rough paper towel and take a steadying breath before I look at my reflection again. My wolf is restless beneath my skin, pacing back and forth with an agitation I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever. He wants to get back out there. Back to her.
Caelan. The woman with silver-blonde hair who appeared at my side like something out of a fever dream. I should have sent her away before she could sink her hooks into me. Instead, I looked into those pale blue eyes and forgot every reason I had for wanting to be alone.
She’s Llewelyn. I figured that out within the first five seconds of our conversation, and I should have walked away the moment I did.
The matriarchal pack has been on Thornridge’s radar for months now, ever since our leadership decided they’d make easy targets.
Women running things, women making decisions—Mordaunt thinks that makes them weak.
Ripe for conquest. He’s been talking about moving against them once we secure the Amanzite reserves, using them as a staging ground for further expansion.
I think Mordaunt is a fool who underestimates everyone who isn’t himself, but that’s not a thought I can voice out loud. Not if I want to keep breathing.
I push away from the sink and head back toward the bar.
The crowd has thinned out since I excused myself, with some of the earlier drinkers having stumbled home or passed out in corners.
The music is still pounding from the speakers in the back, and the dance floor still holds a few lost-in-love couples, but the frantic energy of peak hours has mellowed out.
I look around the room until I find her, and something behind my sternum skips when I spot that silver-blonde hair catching the neon lights. She’s still here. Part of me expected her to disappear while I was gone, to vanish like a mirage and leave me wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing.
But no. She’s exactly where I left her, perched on her barstool with a fresh drink in her hand and a smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her dress complements every curve of her body, and I let myself outright gawk as I make my way back across the room.
She’s got soft hips that flare out from a nipped waist, full breasts that strain against the neckline of her dress, and thighs I can imagine wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer.
She’s built like someone meant to be touched and held and savored, and my hands ache with the need to do exactly that.
My wolf rumbles his approval, loud enough that I can feel the vibration in my chest. I tell him to settle down, but he’s not listening. He hasn’t listened since the moment her scent hit us from across the bar.
This isn’t going anywhere, I remind myself. It can’t go anywhere. I’m Thornridge, she’s Llewelyn, and whatever this thing is between us is, it needs to die before it gets us both killed.
But then she turns and sees me approaching, and her entire face transforms with a smile so genuine it almost hurts to look at. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. A dimple appears in her left cheek. She looks at me like I’m exactly who she was hoping to see.
“I was starting to think you’d climbed out the bathroom window,” she teases as I reclaim my stool beside her.
“Thought about it.” I signal the bartender for another whiskey. “You’re a lot to handle.”
Caelan laughs, and the sound does something strange to my insides.
It’s bright and unguarded, nothing like the subdued responses I’m used to from the women in my pack.
Thornridge females learn early to keep their emotions hidden, to never show weakness or joy or anything that could be used against them.
But this woman laughs like she doesn’t care who hears her, like happiness is something to be shared rather than hoarded.
“You have no idea,” she replies as she leans closer until her shoulder presses against mine. The contact sends warmth spreading through my arm, and I have to resist the urge to lean into it. “I’m just getting started.”
The bartender sets my drink down, and I take a long swallow to buy myself time.
The whiskey burns a familiar path down my throat and settles in my stomach like liquid fire.
I need to think. I need to remember why this is a bad idea.
But her scent keeps filling my nose with every breath, and her body heat keeps bleeding into my side where our bodies touch.
My wolf keeps pushing me to get closer, touch more, and take what’s ours.
What’s ours. As if I have any right to claim anything about this woman. As if wanting something has ever been enough to make it mine.
“So,” Caelan begins, swirling the amber liquid in her glass and watching the way it catches the low lights, “you never did answer my question. What are you running from?”
I consider lying. It would be the smart thing to do.
I could give her some bullshit story about a bad breakup or a demanding job and keep the truth buried where it belongs.
I’ve been lying to people my whole life.
Lying about who I am, what I think, and how I feel about the orders I’m given. One more lie shouldn’t matter.
But something about the way she’s looking at me makes the lie stick in my throat. Her pale blue eyes are steady on mine, curious but not demanding. Patient, like she’ll wait as long as it takes for an honest answer.
“You really want to know?”
She nods without breaking eye contact. “I really want to know.”
I take another drink and let the burn settle in my chest before I answer. The words feel dangerous even as I form them, like I’m handing her a weapon she could use to destroy me. But I say them anyway.
“I’m running from the feeling that everything I’ve believed in is a lie. That the people I trusted have been using me this whole time. That I’ve wasted years of my life fighting for something that doesn’t deserve my loyalty.”
The confession scrapes against my throat like broken glass. I wait for her to recoil, to make some excuse about needing to use the restroom, and then disappear into the night. That’s what most people would do when confronted with this much honesty from a stranger.
Instead, she reaches over and places her hand on my forearm. “That sounds lonely.”
I suck in a breath before I respond, “It is.”
We sit in silence for a moment, but it doesn’t feel awkward or forced.
She doesn’t try to fix what I’ve told her or offer empty reassurances that everything will work out fine.
She just stays there, with her hand on my arm and her presence a steady anchor while my thoughts churn beneath the surface.
“I know something about feeling like your whole life was a lie,” she tells me. Her thumb glides over my skin, and I’m not sure she’s even aware she’s doing it. “About waking up one day and realizing that everything you thought you knew about yourself was wrong.”