Chapter 11 #3
“I find stuff that’s been lost. Items, information, people. Sometimes those things go missing by choice, sometimes not.”
“Like Adelaide.”
The girl’s name sends a pang through my chest. “Like Adelaide.”
She changes the subject, asking about my tracking methods, my life as a nomad, how I find clients.
I answer, grateful for the shift to less painful territory. As we talk, I find myself revealing more than I usually would—small details about my travels, the places I’ve seen, the strange jobs I’ve taken on over the years.
In return, she tells me about Shadowmist. About Ryker and his mate, Kitara. About her brother Dane and her friendship group. About the structure and strength of the pack, their territory, their allies.
There’s something in her voice when she talks about Ryker and Kitara—a softness, but also a deep sadness that makes my chest ache.
“They sound like they had something special,” I say carefully, noting her use of past tense.
“They did.” Her voice catches slightly, and when she speaks again, there’s a wistfulness mixed with grief that she probably doesn’t realize she’s revealing.
“True mates. Their bond made them stronger, not weaker. When one hurt, the other felt it. When one fought, the other stood beside them. They were… complete together. Our pack could feel it.”
The longing she’s trying to hide bleeds through her careful words, mixed with the pain of loss. She wants what they had—that bone-deep connection, that certainty. But she also believes it’s gone forever, destroyed by whatever happened to Kitara.
She wants it. She’s just afraid to reach for it and convinced she’s already lost her chance to see it again.
“That kind of bond…” I say quietly, “it must be devastating when it’s broken.”
Her jaw tightens, and I see her fighting back emotion. “Ryker will never be the same. When your true mate dies…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs heavy between us.
That’s why she’s so afraid, I realize. She knows what losing love can do.
“And you?” I ask eventually, the words scraping my throat raw. “No mate? No partner waiting for you to return?”
Say no.
My wolf paces beneath my skin, ears flattened, ready to tear apart anyone who might have a claim on her. The thought of another man touching her, holding her, makes my vision edge with red. I grip my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms as I wait for her answer.
A shadow crosses her face. “No. I mean… there was someone who I thought might but…” She shakes her head. “No, it’s better to not do that.”
Someone.
The knowledge there was once another hits like a physical blow. My chest tightens, jealousy flooding my system with toxic heat.
What wolf thought they could touch her when she’s mine?
“Do what?” I ask instead of reaching over to claim her with a bite.
“Form attachments.” She looks away. “They’re a liability in my position.”
The pain in her voice cuts through my selfish jealousy like a blade. Someone hurt her. Made her believe that caring meant weakness, that love was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
The protective instinct that roars to life surprises me with its intensity.
I want to find whoever did this to her and rip their throat out.
But more than that—and this terrifies me—I want to prove her wrong.
I want to show her that the right person wouldn’t be a liability.
That the right person would make her stronger, not weaker.
Me.
As I watch her, I can see the walls going up behind her eyes, the careful distance she maintains. Pushing now for her to tell me more would only drive her further away.
“Fair enough,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. It’s not fair at all. It’s a fucking tragedy that someone as fierce and loyal as her thinks she has to be alone.
But what can you offer her? my rational mind demands. A nomad with no pack, no home, no future? You’re exactly the kind of liability she’s trying to avoid.
“Being a nomad doesn’t exactly lend itself to long-term commitment either.” I reach forward to stir the fire.
“It’s simpler that way, isn’t it? Fewer complications.”
“Fewer people to lose,” I agree quietly.
Our eyes meet in silent understanding. We’ve both lost too much, seen too many we care about taken by violence or circumstance.
But I also know those words are the biggest lie I’ve ever told. Because looking at her now, even damaged and guarded and convinced that caring is dangerous, I know I’d rather risk losing her than never have her at all. I’d rather have one day of her choosing me than a lifetime of wondering what if.
You’re fucked, I realize. Completely and utterly fucked.
“I’m worried about them,” she admits. “I should be there.”
“Your pack is strong. They’ve survived this long without you. A few more days won’t make the difference.”
“You don’t know Zella,” she says darkly.
“Then tell me,” I encourage. “The more I know, the better I can help when we reach Shadowmist.”
She looks surprised. “You’re coming with me? To my pack?”
The question catches me off guard. “Of course. You think I’d get you this far and then just wave goodbye?”
“Most would,” she says. “Especially a nomad with no pack allegiance.”
“I’m not most people.” I meet her gaze steadily. “And whether you want to admit it or not, you’re still recovering. You’ll need backup until you reach your territory.”
She studies me for a long moment, as if seeing me for the first time. “Why are you doing this, Kier? Really? You’ve already gone above and beyond what anyone would expect.”
I’m not ready to give her the honest truth, so I deflect. “You promised me a date.”
She laughs, then winces, pressing a hand to her injured side. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. The sound of her laughter feels like a victory.
She rubs her side gently. “You sure you want a date? I’m difficult and stubborn and terrible at expressing gratitude,” she teases.
“Apparently those are qualities I find appealing.”
She snorts, slapping my arm. “Stop making me laugh.”
Outside, the wind picks up, branches scratching against the cabin walls. The temperature is dropping—I can feel the chill seeping through the old logs despite the fire.
“You should get back in bed,” I tell her. “It’s going to be a cold night.”
She doesn’t argue, which tells me how much she’s still hurting despite her improvements. As she settles back onto the mattress, she asks, “Will you stay this time? Or are you going to keep the noble vigil all night?”
“I’ll stay,” I say simply, joining her on the narrow bed. This time, I allow our shoulders to touch. The contact is innocent, practical—shared warmth on a cold night—but it feels significant nonetheless.
“Kier?” she says after a moment, her voice soft in the darkness.
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad it was you. In the cell next to mine.”
“Yeah, me too.”