Chapter 13 Mary
MARY
The fire burns low, a fragile thing fighting to survive against drafts that creep through cracks in the stone above us.
The storm outside hasn’t let up. Snow lashes the trees, a constant hiss and roar, and every gust pushes powder into the hollow so fine it looks like smoke.
The smell of pine and wet earth hangs heavy, mixing with the sharper copper tang of blood that I can’t scrub out of the air.
Silas lies slumped against the wall, his coat pulled half off his shoulders, his shirt torn open where I pressed cloth against the wound.
At first, I think the sweat shining on his skin is just from the heat of the fire.
But the longer I watch, the more I see the fever creeping in—the flush across his cheeks, the shallow drag of his breath, the twitch of his jaw each time the pain spikes.
My wolf stirs uneasily, ears pricked, tail lashing, restless with the wrongness of it.
I lean forward, press the back of my hand against his forehead. Too hot. My jaw clenches. He’s burning from the inside out.
“You stubborn fox,” I murmur.
His head shifts faintly, lips parting, but his eyes don’t open. He doesn’t wake. His breath rattles once, then steadies again, shallow and uneven.
I sit back hard, the cold stone biting my spine, my mind moving fast. I’ve seen fever take wolves down before. Seen strong men lose themselves in a night if the wound festers deep. And the Syndicate’s bullets aren’t clean. They carry more filth in them than lead should.
I drag the scavenged pack into my lap. It’s mostly useless junk—rations packed too tight to chew, a half-empty clip, a broken comm—but at the very bottom, wrapped in oilcloth, I find what I’m praying for.
Dried roots, blackened and sharp-smelling, bitter enough to sting my nose even through the wrapping.
Soldiers carry them because they’ve been told it’s medicine. But I know better.
I roll them between my fingers, remembering my mother’s voice as clear as if she’s crouched beside me again: This one draws heat from the blood, this one pulls poison from the wound.
Too much will kill a man, too little will do nothing.
Trust the wolf inside you, Mary, she knows better than your eyes.
My throat tightens, but I nod anyway, even though there’s no one to see.
My wolf presses forward, watching, steadying.
I crush the roots with a flat stone until they crumble into dust, bitter smoke rising when I breathe too close.
I mix them with melted snow in a dented tin, hold it above the fire until steam curls upward.
The smell turns sharper, harsher, earthy and wild. Perfect.
I slide closer to him, tilting the tin. “Don’t fight me on this,” I say low, slipping a hand under his jaw to steady him. His skin is burning, damp with sweat. “You can bleed out all you like when I’m not the one keeping you alive, but until then—you drink.”
He groans, head shifting weakly, but when I press the tin to his lips he swallows. He coughs once, chokes, then swallows again. His hand lifts, catching my wrist, hot and trembling, but there’s no strength behind it. I hold steady until the tin is empty, then lower him back against the stone.
His hand doesn’t let go. It lingers at my wrist, hot and heavy, his grip unsteady but stubborn. His eyes crack open, amber dulled to a fever’s haze.
“You should sleep,” I tell him.
His lips twitch in something that’s almost a smile. “You always sound like you’re giving orders.”
“Somebody has to,” I answer, pulling the cloth tighter against his wound.
His eyes close again, his breathing slow, and I think that’s the end of it. But then he whispers, voice raw, the words dragging slow from his chest:
“Not mine… not yet.”
The words hit like claws. My wolf surges, snarling low in my throat before I can stop her. A growl hums through my chest, soft but certain. She heard. She agreed.
I jerk back, his hand slipping from my wrist. My breath fogs in the cold, my heart hammering too fast, too loud. The wolf paces, restless, insistent, ears pricked and tail high. But I force her down, shove the sound back, lock my face still.
He’s feverish. He’s delirious. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
I tell myself that, again and again, even as I tuck the blanket tighter around him, even as I feed the fire another stick, even as I sit back against the wall and watch the sweat bead and roll down his temple.
But my wolf doesn’t believe me.
She growls again, softer this time, a sound of recognition rather than warning, and I can’t pretend I don’t understand her.
Hours crawl past. The storm rages, branches cracking against the stone above, snow seeping in through cracks until it dusts the floor white.
My eyes sting from staying open, but I don’t let them close.
I can’t. Silas tosses and mutters in his fever, words spilling low and broken, too quiet to always catch.
Sometimes it’s my name. Sometimes it’s curses, sharp and guttural.
Once, it’s “brother,” spit like a wound that never healed.
I sit close, hand against his chest when his breath hitches, pressing gently until he steadies. Every time my skin touches his, my wolf presses forward, ears pricked, watching him with interest that makes my jaw tight.
“You’d drive anyone mad,” I whisper once, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Even half-dead, you manage to get under my skin.”
His lips part, breath catching. “Mary…”
The way he says my name—it’s not sharp, not mocking. It’s soft, reverent. My chest tightens, my wolf pushing forward with a rumble of approval.
“Sleep,” I whisper, my voice breaking softer than I mean it to. “Just sleep. You can fight me in the morning.”
His body eases under my hand, his breath settling into something steadier, though the fever still burns. I sit there, my palm pressed lightly against him, until my arm aches, until the fire burns low again.
By the time dawn seeps gray through the cracks, I haven’t slept. My body aches from stillness, my mind from the weight of choices that wait for us beyond the hollow. The storm has eased, snow falling soft now, the air clearer, sharper.
Silas stirs, eyes blinking open, heavy but clearer. He looks at me, confusion first, then something steadier, almost soft.
“You stayed,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
“I didn’t have much choice,” I say, though the truth is I never thought of leaving.
He smiles faintly, tired but real. “You kept me alive.”
I nod once, forcing my voice steady. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The wolf inside me paces slow, quiet now, satisfied for the moment.
And I wonder if maybe she sees further than I do.