Chapter 19 - Rosalia
Rosalia paced in the dim little room, palms scraped bloody from clawing against the wood, and tried not to give in to the hopelessness dragging at her chest. Her father’s scent lingered in the air, sharp with arrogance.
She could still hear his voice, smug and cruel, promising that now was the time to strike.
They’re going after Silvermist.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. Rick. Eva. The Iron Walkers. If she stayed here, caged and useless, they would walk blind into the slaughter.
She spun, scanning the small chamber. The bolt on the door was solid, the hinges reinforced. Two Green Mountain wolves had stationed themselves outside; she could hear their low voices, the scrape of boots. That way was death.
But she remembered another way.
This was not the first time John Heath had locked her away. As a girl, she had been shut in more rooms than she could count. Punishment for disobedience, for asking questions, for existing too loudly. And she had learned, back then, that windows offered more than light.
Rosalia crossed to the far wall. The window sat high, square and narrow, barred by curtains heavy with dust. She tugged them aside and unlatched the frame. The night air slapped her face, cold and wild.
Her heart stuttered. She could do this. She had done it before.
The memory of John’s punishment, of the beating she had received, haunted her. But she shoved it down. She had to be brave.
She stripped off her shoes and slung her coat across her shoulders. Then, with a last look at the closed door, she climbed onto the sill. The drop below yawned like a mouth, but the old drainpipe still clung to the wall, just as it had years ago when she was a girl sneaking to the stables.
She gripped the pipe and swung out into the night.
The metal bit into her palms. For a heartbeat, she thought it would give way, tear loose from the wall, send her crashing to the ground.
But it held. She climbed down hand over hand, toes searching for cracks in the mortar.
The pipe rattled beneath her, but she didn’t stop, didn’t breathe, until her feet hit earth.
Her wolf surged beneath her skin, restless, urgent. Run, it demanded.
Rosalia tore the coat from her shoulders and let the shift take her.
Pain and heat tore through her bones as her body bent, reshaped, fur bristling across her skin. Her vision sharpened; her hearing stretched wide. The night erupted into color and sound.
She landed on four paws and bolted.
The forest swallowed her whole.
Branches whipped at her flanks as she drove herself forward, muscles burning, lungs pulling air in great heaves.
The earth was a blur of pine and leaf-mold, the moon a pale coin above the canopy.
She followed the pull in her chest, the bond that tied her to the Iron Walkers, to Silvermist, to the fragile place she had begun to call home.
Every step carried her further from the poison of her father’s schemes. Every step closer to Rick.
She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Ignored the growing ache, the whipping branches. Hours passed. Still, she ran. She was flying. Free. Nothing stood in her way. The miles fell away behind her, melting away in a blur of wilderness. At some point, dawn broke. Still, she ran.
But she was not fast enough. She knew it even as she galloped across the territory line to the Iron Walkers.
The first scent hit her long before the town: blood. Sharp, hot, metallic.
Then the wind shifted, and she heard it…the howls. Dozens of them, too many to count. The forest rang with them: rage, pain, triumph. Wolves are locked in battle.
Her paws skidded as she broke from the tree line, and the valley spread below.
Silvermist burned.
Flames licked at the edge of the settlement, throwing orange light against the night. Wolves clashed in the streets, bodies colliding, fur and blood and teeth flashing in the firelight. The roar of combat drowned even the rush of the river.
Rosalia froze, horror rooting her to the earth. She was too late.
Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. She should have escaped sooner. She should have found a way to warn them. Now the Iron Walkers were bleeding and dying, and she…she had been locked in a room, wasting time on hope.
But despair was a luxury she could not afford.
Her wolf snapped at her, demanding she move, demanding she act. She tore herself from the ridge and hurtled down the slope.
The scent of Iron Walker blood cut her deepest. She knew them now. Dane’s steady musk, Nicolas’s sharp tang, the warm strength of others who had become family in the weeks since her wedding. Somewhere among the chaos, Rick’s scent burned brightest, thick with fury, threaded through with smoke.
And Eva…oh gods, where was Eva?
The thought almost broke her stride. She shoved it down and ran faster.
Closer now, she could make out the shapes: Green Mountain wolves flooding from the east, Black Claws pushing hard from the west. The Iron Walkers were caught in the middle, fighting tooth and claw to hold the line.
Rosalia launched herself over the last tangle of brush and into the fray.
A Green Mountain wolf lunged at her, jaws snapping. She met him head-on, her teeth finding his shoulder. Blood filled her mouth as she shook him off, then whirled to face the next.
Fight first, her wolf demanded. Find him after.
Her world narrowed to survival: the scrape of claws, the burn of muscle, the hot rush of blood against her tongue. Around her, Silvermist screamed.
And still, beneath it all, the bond pulled. Rick was here, somewhere in the carnage. She could feel him, sharp as a blade in her chest.
She had to reach him. She had to.
The first wolf crumpled beneath her jaws, but three more surged forward. Rosalia twisted, claws raking across a flank, and spun away before the next could snap her hind leg. The battle was chaos, fur and blood and fire, all scents tangled into one choking haze.
Iron Walkers held the line near the town square, their dark pelts standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Rosalia threw herself into their flank, pressing against an enforcer she didn’t know by name, but he gave her a quick nod before barreling at another Black Claw brute.
For one breath, she almost felt the rhythm of it, the push and pull of warriors who fought for more than survival, who fought for their home.
Then a new scent cut through her.
Her father.
Rosalia’s hackles rose before her head even turned.
She knew that musk as intimately as her own: smoke and venom, old leather and cruelty.
John Heath stood at the edge of the square, half-shifted, his human face distorted by the sneer she had grown up fearing.
His eyes swept the battlefield until they landed on her, and then his lip curled.
“Rosalia.” His voice was ragged with the growl of his wolf, but his words carried clear. “Traitorous little bitch.”
He lunged.
Rosalia braced, her wolf snarling, ready to meet him fang for fang. Every instinct screamed to run. He was alpha, heavy with power, his sheer size eclipsing her, but another instinct, sharper, screamed louder: never again. She would not cower. She would not let him steal the last of her life.
She lowered herself, muscles coiled.
But he was too fast. He hit her like a wall, teeth snapping for her throat. She rolled, twisted, caught his muzzle with a slash of her claws, but he was already bearing down again, his rage wild, his intent clear.
He meant to kill her.
Rosalia’s heart slammed against her ribs. The world tunneled, her father’s bulk above her, his teeth glinting with the inevitability of it. She snapped her jaws, catching flesh, but his weight crushed her down. Her breath came ragged.
This is it.
Then another shadow exploded into them.
Rick.
He came from nowhere, a thunderbolt in wolf’s skin, larger than life, larger than death. His snarl was pure fury, tearing the night apart. He hit John with all his weight, driving him off Rosalia and into the dirt.
The ground shuddered with the force.
Rosalia scrambled upright, chest heaving, blood smeared across her muzzle. Rick’s wolf loomed over John, massive, bristling, teeth sinking deep into the other male’s shoulder. John roared and twisted, but Rick was relentless, fury made flesh.
She had seen him fight before. She had seen him command. But this…this was different. This was personal. His wolf fought with all the fury of a father, a husband, a male who had been pushed too far.
John tried to throw him, but Rick bore down, pinning him. Their jaws clashed, a storm of blood and snapping teeth, and then Rick managed to pin him.
He looked up, eyes blazing.
The world stood still.
“Do it,” she whispered through the Iron Walker bond.
His jaws struck John’s throat.
The crack of it silenced everything.
Her father went still.
For one stunned heartbeat, Rosalia simply stared. Her father…her tormentor, her jailer, her shadow…lay limp beneath Rick’s jaws. Gone.
A weight she hadn’t realized she still carried collapsed inside her. Her legs trembled. She wanted to scream, to sob, to laugh, to run until her lungs burst. She had dreamed of this moment and feared it in equal measure, and now it was here, and she was free.
Rick lifted his head, muzzle dripping crimson, his amber eyes burning as they locked on hers. There was no hesitation in them, no regret. Only the raw, unflinching truth: he had chosen her.
But there was no time to breathe.
Because in that moment of victory, Rick had left his flank exposed.
Rosalia’s ears pricked at the snarl too late. A Black Claw wolf lunged from the side, massive, scarred, teeth bared for Rick’s unguarded throat.
Her howl tore from her chest, ragged with terror.
She launched herself forward, heart in her mouth, every instinct burning.
Time seemed to shatter into fragments. The world was blood and fire and the bond between them, straining, desperate.
As the wolf’s jaws closed around Rick’s throat, tearing through skin and muscles, Rosalia collided with him, knocking him off.
Rick fell, limp to the ground. The wolf sneered.
Raph. She knew it was Raph.
He paced in front of her, closing in.
“Well, well,” his voice came unbidden into her head, “if it isn’t John Heath’s little bi—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. Rosalia lunged forward, scraping her claws across his face, catching his eye.
Raph howled, reading back, blood pouring from the wound.
Rosalia snapped forward, catching his neck.
He fell to the ground, blood seeping from the gaping hole in his throat.
Rosalia spat out his rancid flesh, red dripping from her teeth.
No hesitation. Rick had taught her that.
As a Black Claw wolf barreled into her, it was his face she saw. His scent flows through her.
All around her, Silvermist burned.