Chapter Four
Wren
The pack’s central hall is a cavern of shadows, every beam and floorboard heavy with wood smoke, wet earth, and something older, like ghosts of ancient arguments, alliances, and pack law.
I walk in with panic curdling at the back of my throat, every heartbeat a sick, stumbling thud that has nothing to do with running and everything to do with how badly this could go sideways.
My palms sweat and my wolf paces, restless and wild, pressing at the edge of my skin as if she could escape if I let her.
Caine shuts the door behind me, and the forest’s wild noise dies, replaced by a hush so deep I hear the blood rushing in my ears.
Boone stands near the hearth, arms folded, jaw tight, his wolf coiled beneath his skin, bristling but barely leashed.
Peyton sits in a worn chair, legs crossed, watching me with the steady patience of someone who has witnessed too much and survived it all.
She gestures for me to join her, gentle but unmistakably in charge. I try to keep my shoulders back, chin high, to look like someone who hasn’t just blown up her entire life for a sliver of hope.
I sink into the seat, legs trembling, hands slick and useless with sweat. I clamp them together in my lap, desperate to keep them from shaking.
Boone and Caine stay standing, silent and immovable, shadows carved from stone. It isn’t dominance, not exactly, but the message is carved into my bones—I am outnumbered, outmatched, and drowning in waters way too deep.
“I know that looked bad,” I manage, my voice wobbling over the silence.
It’s so quiet my skin crawls, as if the whole room is waiting for me to break. “Fine. It looked fucking terrible.” The curse slips out, sharp and honest, there’s no point pretending.
No one corrects me. I force myself to keep going, because stopping now means I’ll never start again. “In my defense, I panicked.”
Boone’s voice is flat as a cutting board. “That’s not a defense.”
I point at him. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Clearly.” I roll my eyes.
Peyton gestures again, patient as a saint. “Wren, sit.”
I nod, swallowing hard, spine locked straight even as my body wants to curl in on itself, small and cornered. My hands tremble, nerves stretched so tight I swear I can hear them buzzing, electric and raw, just beneath my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say, quieter now. Real. Not performed. Not sharpened into humor for Dax’s benefit. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”
Boone doesn’t let me off the hook. “No, you shouldn’t have.”
I nod. “I know.”
Peyton’s gaze flicks to Boone, warning him off, and he exhales through his nose like he’s about to argue.
Caine leans against the wall, all Alpha stillness and waiting. “Start from the beginning.”
So I do. I talk, and at first, my voice shakes, but then the words spill out, jagged and raw.
Ashstone Pack.
Alpha Mercer.
Dax, the Alpha’s son, always watching me like prey.
The fucking contract my father signed behind my back.
No ceremony. No bite. No mate bond. No consent, not ever.
I ran before dawn, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the bus ticket, duffel bag thumping against my hip, praying with every step that the world was wide enough to let me fucking vanish.
My father folded beneath the weight of Ashstone’s threats. My mother packed my bag with trembling hands, slipping protein bars into the lining, her eyes red but her jaw set. My brother ... his apprenticeship has been secured, a trade for my future.
I came here because Katu’s reputation has me clinging to hope like a damn life raft. Sanctuary. That one word hangs in the air between us, heavy as a prayer, and I am desperate enough to believe in it.
“How old are you?” Caine asks.
“Twenty-two.”
“Any prior bond to Dax?”
“Nothing. No bite. No chosen bond. No ceremony.” I keep repeating the same thing over and over, hoping someone will believe me. “Just a contract I never signed. My father did. Under threat? Maybe. Probably. Ashstone doesn’t need to make threats when everyone knows what it means to refuse.”
Caine nods. “Then the contract is weak.”
I let out a shaky breath, but he isn’t done. “But not harmless.” My relief sours.
“They accepted benefits ... debt cleared, my brother’s apprenticeship....” My voice fades.
Boone’s jaw tightens with anger, Peyton’s eyes soften with something like compassion. I don’t know how to hold either feeling, don’t know how to let them in without breaking.
Peyton reaches for my hand, but pauses, waiting for permission.
It’s the smallest grace, and it undoes me.
I force myself to meet her halfway, slipping my hand into hers.
I flinch, shame and gratitude tangling in my chest, but I don’t let go.
Her palm is warm, grounding, and the first kindness I’ve let myself accept in ages.
Caine turns to Boone, but Boone cuts him off. “No.”
Caine raises a brow. “I haven’t asked anything.”
“You’re about to.”
I glance between them. “What’s happening?”
Boone mutters, “The Alpha is about to make my day worse.”
Caine ignores both of us. “Dax will return with officials, possibly his Alpha, possibly documentation. Until we dismantle the contract, Ashstone will claim you’re avoiding a valid arrangement.”
Boone snaps, “She is. Because arranged matings are garbage.”
I surprise myself by laughing, weak but real. “That was helpful.”
Caine continues. “If Ashstone believes you have a mate claim under Katu protection, it buys us time. A believable courtship. A public statement that Boone intends to pursue a mate bond.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve caused enough trouble.”
“Yes, you have,” Boone agrees.
“I said I’m sorry.” I hate that he has been dragged into this mess, I just didn’t know what else to do.
“I heard you.”
“Do you want me to grovel?”
He shrugs. “No.”
“Good. Because I’m bad at it.”
Peyton stands, asking Boone for a word. I watch them move to the corner, and Caine keeps his eyes on me. “Ashstone will expect a formal response in forty-eight hours.”
I close my eyes, exhausted. “What does playing along involve?”
“Rules,” Boone says when he returns. “No more improvising mate claims in public. You don’t go anywhere alone. No touching unless necessary. No kissing.”
I arch a brow. “Ever?”
He looks pained. “Ever.”
“Even if required?”
He grits his teeth. “It won’t be required.”
I deadpan, “Are you an expert in fake mate etiquette?”
Peyton laughs, Caine mutters, and Boone looks like he wishes he could be anywhere else.
He ignores my previous comment. “These are the rules, or you can find yourself another fake mate. No more improvising mate claims.” He holds up one finger.
He almost smiles, almost. Peyton’s mouth twitches, and the air fizzes, every comeback a shield, every joke a dare not to break.
But underneath, fear gnaws, cold, feral, and alive under my ribs. Every time Boone’s gaze lingers, heat skitters up my spine, my wolf pacing, hope sparking where it shouldn’t. I try to crush it, but it keeps pulsing, wild and hungry.
Peyton’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Wren, you’ll be staying with Boone.”
We both freeze. “Absolutely not,” we say, in perfect, horrified harmony.
Caine grins, all teeth and trouble. Peyton just shrugs, serene and unstoppable. “Convincing, remember?”
My heart is a fist in my chest. Boone’s jaw works, but he doesn’t argue.
I risk a glance at him, storm-grey eyes, unreadable. The air crackles. For a breath, nothing exists but the spark and the risk between us. Will I survive this, or just burn alive?
I swallow and try for bravado. “So ... about that no kissing rule?”
Boone groans, rubbing his temples. “Don’t start.”
Heat prickles my skin—fear, defiance, and something wilder still. The room feels too small for all of it. But for the first time in forever, I’m not bolting. This is my disaster. My fight. And I’m staying, come hell or high water.