Chapter 18 Silas
SILAS
The fire hasn’t burned down yet, though it’s quieter now, the flames lower, the heat softer, shadows stretched long across the beams above.
The storm outside has dulled to a steady hush, snow sliding against the shutters, a rhythm almost gentle compared to the night we fled through.
The air in the safehouse still carries her: her scent woven through the blankets, through my skin, through the wolf pacing restless in my chest.
I sit on the bed, my shirt half-buttoned, my hair damp with sweat and melted frost. My body should feel lighter, steadier, after what we just did. Instead it feels heavier, coiled tight with something I can’t shake.
Because to me, it meant more.
I glance at her. Mary stands by the window, the firelight painting her back in gold and shadow, her bare shoulders tense as if she’s bracing against some storm only she can feel.
She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Her wolf is close, I can feel it, but she holds herself so tight she may as well be carved from stone.
I clear my throat, the words rough, low. “Mary—”
She cuts me off without turning. “Don’t.”
The word lands sharp. My jaw tightens.
“Don’t what?” I ask, voice steady but darker than I mean it.
“Don’t start thinking this changes anything,” she says, her tone calm, controlled, each word chosen like a blade meant to cut clean. “We survived together. That’s all it is.”
I stare at her, my hands curling into fists on my knees. My wolf growls low, restless, furious, but I keep him down. “That’s not all it was.”
She finally turns then, her eyes hard, her wolf bristling in her gaze. “It has to be. You want me to pretend I don’t remember what you’ve done? That I don’t remember the chains, the cold, the nights you kept me locked away? One night doesn’t erase that.”
Her words slam into me harder than Darius’s fists. I bite down against the heat rising in my chest, against the urge to lash back. Instead I stand, slow, deliberate, crossing the room until the space between us narrows to just the length of her breath.
“I don’t want you to forget,” I say quietly, my voice low, heavy with the weight of everything I can’t name. “I want you to know I’m not that man anymore.”
Her lips press tight. Her eyes soften for just a heartbeat—then she shutters it, stone again. She shakes her head, pulls her shirt back over her shoulders, and walks past me without another word.
The wolf in me howls, furious at the distance, but I hold still. If I move, if I press, I’ll only prove her right.
The knock comes not long after, sharp against the wood.
The Brotherhood doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping in.
Rafe leads, his presence all jagged edges, his voice carrying the clipped tone of a man already tired of the night.
Behind him trails two others—old fighters, their faces lined with scars, their eyes hard. Darius isn’t here. Neither is Tessa.
“Council’s calling,” Rafe says flatly, his eyes flicking to me with disdain sharp enough to cut. “Get up. Both of you.”
Mary nods, brushing past him, her shoulders square. I follow without a word, my jaw still sore, my lip still split, the taste of blood faint on my tongue. Rafe notices, I can tell by the curl of his mouth. He doesn’t ask how I got it. He doesn’t need to.
We step into the larger cabin at the ridge’s center, a room lit by lanterns and fire, a map stretched across a long table.
The Brotherhood stands clustered around it—Darius at the head, his presence filling the room even in silence, Tessa at his side, her pale hands pressed flat against the wood.
The others fill in around, wolves with eyes sharp and distrust thick in their scent. When I walk in, every head turns.
The air thickens.
Darius doesn’t speak to me. He speaks to Mary. “Sit.”
She moves to his side, her presence calm, steady. I remain standing, my shoulders back, my wolf pressed tight against my ribs.
Tessa gestures to the map, her voice even. “Roman’s planning something. The patterns are too deliberate. Supply lines, troop movements, signals in the air. He’s building to a strike.”
The Brotherhood murmurs low, restless.
Rafe snorts. “We’ve known that fox’s war is coming for years. What’s new?”
Tessa’s eyes flick to me then, sharp and knowing. “Silas knows. He’s seen it.”
The room shifts. All eyes cut to me.
I step forward slow, each movement deliberate, until I stand across from the table, the map stretched beneath my hands.
“Roman doesn’t waste soldiers,” I say, voice low but carrying.
“If he’s moving now, it means he has leverage.
He’s going to hit the Brotherhood where it hurts most. Not your walls, not your land—your people. ”
Darius narrows his eyes. “Be clear.”
“He’ll come for the villages first,” I continue. “The outliers. The wolves who don’t live under your roof but still call you pack. He’ll burn them down to starve you of support, to break your morale, to force you into the open.”
The room goes still. The fire pops. Wolves exchange sharp glances, their unease spreading like smoke.
“And you know this how?” Rafe asks, his voice sharp with distrust.
“Because I’ve planned it,” I say. My gaze meets his, steady. “I’ve stood at Roman’s side for decades. I know how he thinks. He doesn’t care about territory. He cares about loyalty. He’ll rip it out of you piece by piece until you kneel.”
Silence stretches.
Then Rafe does something I don’t expect. He leans forward, his jaw tight, but his eyes weighing me differently. “If you’re right, then we need to move before he does.”
The shift is small, but it’s there. A sliver of respect. From Rafe, of all people.
Darius notices. His jaw clenches, his fists curl, but he says nothing.
Mary’s eyes flick to me. For the first time since the fire, since the bed, since the silence she left me in, she doesn’t look away.
And in that moment, I know I’ve earned something. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the smallest piece of ground to stand on.