Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
KIER
Lithia’s health deteriorates, and we’re forced to stay in the cabin far longer that I’d have liked.
The cuffs are impossible to remove, and despite searching the cabin high and low, I can’t find a goddamned tool to assist. Without the proper tools, the silver continues to burn against our skin, slowing our healing and weakening our wolves.
It’s a constant reminder of our captivity, even as we sit in this ramshackle cabin pretending to be free.
She runs a fever, stirring hot one minute and shaking with chills the next. It’s agony to watch how this fierce, proud wolf has been reduced to trembling weakness. The other half of my soul is withering away before my eyes, and I’m powerless to stop it.
Panic claws at my chest every time her breathing grows shallow, every time she cries out in her sleep.
The desperate need to protect her, to heal her, to somehow absorb her pain into myself, burns hotter than the silver around my wrists.
Three years of captivity taught me to endure my own suffering, but watching hers?
It’s breaking me in ways torture never could.
The poison from her infection has spread, leaving a toxic trail through her system that her weakened wolf struggles to purge. My wolf paces frantically beneath my skin, snarling his frustration at our helplessness.
Fix her. Protect her.
But I can’t. I can’t even tell her what she means to me—not when she doesn’t feel the bond the way I do.
Some hours I sit beside her bed, pressing cool cloths to her forehead, listening to her murmur broken phrases in her delirium.
Others, I hold her, covering her with my warmth, fighting to stop her shivering.
Each touch is both torture and necessity—my wolf demands contact with our mate, but every moment reminds me how fragile she is, how easily I could lose her before we’ve even had a chance to begin.
During her rare moments of lucidity, I coax her to drink broth I’ve managed to make from items left in the cabin and the few edible plants I can forage around the small hut. I’d hunt small game, but I don’t dare leave her side.
The rest of the time, I pace the confines of our shelter, checking and rechecking her temperature and our defenses, always alert for the sounds of change.
In the quiet hours between her fever spikes, I find myself studying her.
Everything about her is a fascinating contradiction—soft curves and hard edges, fierce strength and surprising vulnerability.
Three years of isolation has left me unprepared for the reality of her, for the way my wolf responds to her presence with a bone-deep certainty I can neither explain nor deny.
I shake my head, forcing my attention back to the task at hand. The cabin needs to be secured if we’re going to stay here while she recovers. I’ve already reinforced the door as best I could with the limited materials available, but the windows remain vulnerable.
Outside, the forest is quiet except for the occasional call of birds and the whisper of wind through pines. No sign of pursuit yet, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t coming. The storm bought us time, but these bastards don’t strike me as the type to give up easily.
I gather fallen branches and begin fashioning crude alarms to place around the perimeter—simple arrangements of sticks that will snap loudly if disturbed. It’s not sophisticated, but it might give us enough warning if someone approaches.
As I work, my mind drifts to Prudence and her daughter. To Adelaide. To the prisoners we left behind.
Guilt gnaws at me. I escaped, but they remain trapped.
We’ll return for them, my wolf assures me. But first, Lithia.
I nod. Yes.
The cabin comes into view as I complete my circuit of the perimeter. It’s not much—weathered logs and a sagging roof—but it’s shelter. Protection from the elements and prying eyes.
Inside, Lithia is sleeping, her breathing steadier than it was last night.
I check her wound carefully, lifting the makeshift bandage to examine the angry red gash. The edges are starting to knit together, a good sign. The bruising around it has spread but changed color—from the deep purple of fresh trauma to the yellowish-green of healing.
Her eyelids flutter, and she grimaces, shifting slightly on the narrow bed.
“How long was I out this time?” she asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Most of the day,” I reply, replacing the bandage. “How’s the pain?”
“Better.” She attempts to sit up, wincing with the effort. “Less like being stabbed, more like being run over.”
I can’t help but smile at her description. “Progress, then.”
“Of a sort.” She glances toward the boarded window. “Any sign of trouble?”
“None yet. I’ve set up some basic perimeter warnings, just in case.”
She nods, approving. “Smart.”
An awkward silence falls between us. In the prison, conversation had flowed easily—desperation and shared circumstances breaking down our barriers. But here, I’m aware of how little we know about each other.
I clear my throat. “Are you hungry? I found some canned goods in a storage cabinet. Ancient, but edible.”
“Starving,” she admits. “Prison gruel doesn’t exactly stick to the ribs.”
I move to the small shelf where I’ve arranged our meager supplies. Two cans of beans, one of corn, some jerky that’s questionably old but still sealed in its package. A feast compared to what we’ve been eating.
As I prepare a simple meal using the cabin’s small woodstove, I feel Lithia’s eyes on me.
“Should you be using that?” she asks. “I’d think the smoke will give us away.”
“If they’re close enough to smell the smoke, they’ve already found our scents.”
She nods, adjusting her position on the bed.
I stir the pot, tossing in some herbs.
“You seem at home here,” she comments. “Doing the survival thing.”
I shrug. “I’m a lone wolf. It comes with the territory.”
“How long have you been a nomad?”
The question touches on a topic I rarely discuss, but after what we’ve been through together, I owe her at least some truth.
“Since I was seventeen,” I say, stirring the warming beans. “About twenty years now.”
“Your pack?”
“Dead.” The word comes out harsher than I intended. I soften my tone. “During the Blood Wars. The usual tragic werewolf origin story.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Some wounds never fully heal,” she says softly, and I know she’s not just talking about physical injuries.
I bring her a plate—beans and corn mixed together, with a small portion of jerky on the side. Not appetizing to look at, but nourishing.
“What about you?” I ask, settling on the floor beside her bed with my own plate. “You mentioned your pack, but not how you became Beta.”
She picks at her food, considering her answer. “I was born into Shadowmist. My parents were pack members—not high-ranking, just… pack. They were killed when I was nine protecting me and my brother from fae hunters. Much like yours.”
The parallel surprises me. “Were you there?”
“Yeah. My brother Dane, he’s…” She hesitates, pain flashing across her features. “He’s my twin. We hid while our parents were killed. The Beta took us in. We spent most of the war learning how to fight from her.”
“And you rose through the ranks.”
She nods. “I had something to prove. A debt to repay. And a need to make sure no one I cared about would ever be unprotected again.”
The fierceness in her voice stirs something in me. Admiration, certainly. But also recognition—I see in her the same driving purpose that has kept me moving all these years, even if our paths have been different.
“And now you’re the Beta,” I say. “Second-in-command to the most powerful pack in the region.”
“And captured by the first traitor I should have seen coming.” Bitterness laces her words. “Some protector I turned out to be.”
“You survived,” I point out. “You escaped. And now you’ll warn your pack about what’s coming. I’d call that a win.”
She meets my gaze, searching for sincerity or mockery. Finding the former, she relaxes slightly. “Maybe. If we make it back in time.”
“We will.” I sound more confident than I feel, but she needs that right now. Certainty. Purpose.
We eat in silence for a while, the simple food tasting like a feast after days of near-starvation. When she’s finished, I take her plate, pleased to see she’s eaten everything.
“Thank you,” she says suddenly.
“For the five-star dining experience?” I gesture at the empty plates. “Thank the owner for never tossing anything out.”
“For staying.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “You could have escaped without me. I’m grateful you didn’t.”
Her raw honesty catches me off guard. I look away, uncomfortable with gratitude I don’t feel I’ve earned.
“I told you,” I say gruffly. “It was the logical choice. Better odds together than alone.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Logic had nothing to do with it.
The truth—that she’s my mate, that leaving her would have been like tearing out my own heart, that I’d rather die in that cell than live free without her—is too much.
Too soon. She doesn’t know what she is to me, doesn’t feel the bond that’s been driving me since the moment I recognized her.
How do I explain that abandoning her was never even a possibility?
That every instinct I have screams to protect her, to stay close, to never let her out of my sight again?
I can’t.
There’s a small smile tugging at her lips. “Still. Thank you.”
I nod. “Get some rest. Your body needs sleep to heal.”
“And you?” she challenges. “When was the last time you slept more than an hour at a time?”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” She shifts on the bed, making room. “There’s space for two, and we both need rest. I promise not to ravish you in your weakened state.”
The unexpected teasing startles a laugh from me. “Very generous of you.”
She pats the space beside her. “Seriously, Kier. Sleep. We can take watches, but you’re no good to either of us if you collapse from exhaustion.”