Chapter Four
Willow
Willow didn’t trust easily. Caution had been beaten into her bones long ago, into every breath she took, every glance she cast, every word she chose not to speak.
But as she stood there in the clearing with Logan, surrounded by the quiet hush of the woods and the soft rustle of the wind, something inside her began to thaw.
She couldn’t deny it. She was beginning to warm to him. And that was dangerous.
Mate would never harm us, her wolf whimpered inside her mind. But her wolf had been wrong before. She watched him carefully, assessing.
Logan was a large man, tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of wolf who could command attention without speaking.
Yet he hadn’t tried to dominate her, hadn’t pressed his advantage when he saw how nervous she was.
He’d been quiet, and still. He’d given her space.
He hadn’t tried to force her to move or to speak.
He’d been considerate and that meant a lot.
His presence didn’t make her feel safe exactly—she wasn’t sure she even remembered what safety felt like—but it made her feel… somehow less alone. Seen. As if maybe, just maybe, the universe hadn’t completely forgotten her.
But it was more than just the way he made her feel. When she looked at him, she recognized something. A kinship. There was a haunted quality about him that was familiar. Of course it was. She saw it every time she looked in a mirror.
She didn’t know what he’d lived through, but she could sense that it had carved itself into him, much like her own scars and experiences had shaped her. And that scared her.
Not because he’d done anything wrong, but because it made her feel things she didn’t know how to handle. Things she’d buried for so long they barely had names anymore. Had this man felt pain like she had? Worse, maybe? Could he understand her?
Her fingers twitched at her side—drawn toward him like magnets to metal, an invisible pull she didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.
Every instinct told her to stay back, to be careful, but her body had already begun to lean toward him, inch by inch, like it had been waiting its whole life to close the distance.
She wanted to ask him something. Anything. A question that might open a door between them, even if only a crack. She needed to understand him. Needed to know if this strange, soul-deep connection was more than just instinct, if they shared things that she suspected they might.
She opened her mouth, breath catching when a voice rang out through the woods, sharp and sudden.
“Logan, you out here?”
The voice shattered everything.
The moment, the quiet, the tentative connection, all gone in an instant, like a twig snapping underfoot.
Willow froze where she stood, her entire body going rigid.
Her heartbeat, which had just begun to settle from its usual guarded rhythm, spiked sharply, echoing in her ears like a drum. Her breath caught in her throat.
Someone was coming. Another male.
The voice was light, almost cheerful, far too casual to belong to anyone from Derek’s pack. But that meant nothing. She didn’t know who he was, didn’t recognize the tone or the scent.
“Logan, you out here?” it called again, closer now. “I can smell your scent. Toby and I thought we’d join you on your run!”
Join him?
Her stomach twisted hard.
Toby.
She didn’t know the name, but names didn’t matter here. Any stranger could be dangerous. Even friendly voices carried teeth behind them. And if these men weren’t part of the pack, if they weren’t wolves under Derek’s rule, then being seen with them would be its own kind of death sentence.
She stepped backward instinctively, her boots whispering against the underbrush. Her fingers clenched at her sides, the basket she carried digging into her palm. All she could think was, I can’t be seen. I can’t be caught.
She glanced at Logan. His expression had tightened, brow furrowing as he took in her sudden panic. He didn’t move at first, but she saw the decision flicker behind his eyes, quiet and deliberate. He reached toward her. Slowly. Carefully. Palm out. No sudden movements.
It was meant to reassure her. She could see that. But the second his hand shifted an inch too close, her body betrayed her.
She flinched. Again. A sharp jerk backward, small but undeniable. Damn it. She didn’t want him to see how damaged she was.
He stopped instantly, his hand freezing midair. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, voice barely above the wind. “I promise. I would never hurt you.”
She nodded, her breath coming too fast to steady. The words tangled in her throat, caught between instinct and longing.
“I have to go,” she whispered, but even to her own ears it sounded like a plea. Not to him. To fate. To the cruel twist that had allowed her a glimpse of something warm, something that gave her hope.
Her voice cracked under the urgency she couldn’t hide. Logan took a small step back, visibly restraining himself from doing or saying more. His hands lifted in surrender, palms open, offering her space instead of pressure, even though she could see the protest building behind his eyes.
He wanted her to stay. She could feel it in him.
But he didn’t stop her.
“Will you meet me?” he asked quietly. “Tomorrow? Same place?”
The question should have scared her. Should have made her run faster, not pause. But she did pause.
Willow stood frozen for a breath longer, blinking up at him as the weight of that simple request settled into her bones.
Her heart screamed yes. Her body ached with it.
Her wolf howled it. But her mind—her well-trained, survival-hardened mind—shouted no.
No ties. No risks. No connections. That was how she stayed alive in Bitterroot.
Meet Mate! Ours! Claim! her wolf urged.
Something deep inside her stirred.
The part that had made her shield the omega cub last winter. The part that made her keep hoping, no matter how much Derek tried to crush the hope out of her.
Logan meant something. He was her mate. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him slip away.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Okay.”
She grabbed her basket and the flowers she’d dropped, then she turned and bolted.
The sounds of the forest blurred as she ran, keeping low, fast, and quiet. She knew how to disappear, she’d long since perfected the art. Her feet before her thoughts could catch up. Every twig avoided, every shadow used.
Behind her, a moment later, she heard another voice call Logan’s name.
She didn’t look back, but her encounter with Logan lingered like smoke in her lungs, impossible to exhale. Her mate. She could hardly believe it. Logan was everything she could have hoped for and more.
She could still see him when she closed her eyes, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that curled slightly where it touched his collar.
His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his mouth too serious until he smiled, and then it was like sunlight breaking through mist. But it was his eyes that haunted her most. Gray, sharp, searching.
They didn’t just look at her. They saw her.
And somehow, that made her feel both exposed and safe all at once.
The gentleness in him, the softness in his voice, the way he held back even though she could feel how much he wanted to come closer. It stirred something in her she didn’t have words for, something that both frightened and intrigued her.
Want.
She didn’t let herself want things. Not here. Not in Derek’s pack. Not when longing led to punishment.
Curiosity. That was dangerous, too.
But the worst of it, the one thing she couldn’t suppress no matter how she tried, was hope.
She hadn’t felt that in so long, it was foreign. Hope that maybe this bond between them could mean more than fate’s cruel joke. Hope that maybe she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life flinching at every footstep.
She shook her head and forced herself to focus. There wasn’t time for feelings. There was still work to do. Still eyes watching. Still questions waiting for answers she couldn’t give.
She straightened her shoulders and adjusted the basket on her hip, walking the narrow trail that led back to the healer’s den. As she went, she began rehearsing the story she would tell.
I couldn’t find what I needed. I had to go farther. The patch was picked clean.
It wasn’t the best lie, but it was grounded enough in truth to hold up. Maybe. Hopefully.
She let the words repeat in her mind, a chant against panic.
I couldn’t find what I needed. I had to go farther.
She needed it to be enough. Because if it wasn’t, the cost would come in bruises.
Willow suspected something was wrong the moment she stepped through the doorway.
The healer’s den was too quiet. The low fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting soft shadows along the walls, and the air smelled of dried sage and poultices, but the tension was immediate. Heavy. The kind that wrapped around her chest like a fist.
Brant was waiting.
He stood near the far table, arms crossed over his chest, legs braced wide like he was guarding something.
But there was nothing in here to guard, only jars, bandages, dried herbs, and the trembling presence of the healer, who sat hunched over a mortar, grinding roots that probably didn’t need grinding.
Brant didn’t look at the healer.
His sharp gaze was trained solely on Willow.
She kept her expression neutral and her steps measured as she walked in. She didn’t let her shoulders curl or her hands fidget. She moved like she belonged there, like this was just another errand. Just another day.
But inside, her stomach twisted hard. She crossed the room and placed the herb basket gently on the table, fingers brushing the lip of the worn wood. The healer didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t even glance up. That was her answer. No help would come from that corner. It was what she expected.
Brant shifted.
“Took you long enough,” he said flatly.
His voice was as cold as the wind off the cliffs, void of curiosity, devoid of warmth. Just that blunt, accusatory tone that always meant something worse was coming.
Willow dropped her gaze.
“The usual patch was picked clean,” she said quietly. “I had to go farther.”
It was true, technically. She had wandered deeper into the forest than normal.
But truth didn’t matter here. Brant’s hand moved too fast to track.
A sharp crack echoed through the small space as his fist connected with her face.
Her head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed across her cheekbone, hot and instant.
“Be faster next time,” he snarled.
She nodded quickly in agreement, her eyes cast downward. She didn’t cry. She never did. Her cheek throbbed. But she didn’t lift a hand to touch the damage. That would only make it worse. Behind her, the healer kept her head down, as though nothing had happened.
No one spoke. Not the healer, who kept grinding the same herb with mechanical precision, her gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the wall.
Not Brant, who gave Willow one last dismissive glance before turning and stalking out of the den, his boots thudding heavily against the stone.
The door creaked on its hinges as it shut behind him, and then even that sound faded, swallowed by the silence.
Willow stayed rooted to the spot for a moment longer, her cheek throbbing in slow, heavy pulses. The left side of her face felt like it was swelling already, tight and hot, with the deep, familiar ache of bruised bone beneath the skin. She drew in a breath through her nose, careful not to wince.
Then, slowly, she pushed her shoulders back. She still didn’t let any tears fall. She wouldn’t waste them on this. Her hands moved on instinct, straightening the collar of her worn shirt, then pulling out the herbs and flowers. But her thoughts… her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
Logan.
His scent, his appearance, his manner. She let herself focus on the memory of him rather than the misery of her present.
His scent still lingered faintly in her senses, earthy, male, warm in a way nothing in this place ever was.
It curled in her chest like the echo of something she hadn’t meant to remember.
Mate, her wolf said. Mate will protect us. Mate is strong.
Willow winced. She had always braced for pain. Expected it. But after that moment in the clearing, after the way Logan had looked at her like she was something precious, this slap stung in a way it never had before. Not just from impact, but from shame.
What would he think if he saw her like this?
Her fingers hovered near her face but didn’t touch it. She didn’t need to feel the damage to know it would show. The bruise would deepen overnight. Her skin always bruised dark, and she had no make up thick enough to hide it entirely.
She hoped it would fade before tomorrow night.
She hoped he wouldn’t notice.
But more than anything, she hoped he wouldn’t look at her the way others did. Not with disgust. But with pity.
Pity would destroy her.
She could stand being invisible. She could endure being used, overlooked, ordered around like a ghost in someone else’s life. But she couldn’t survive being seen, truly seen, and pitied for what she’d become.
She drew in another breath and turned toward the door.
Her steps were steady now. Her spine straight.
Her face blank. She would go home to her small apartment on the edge of town, lay down and pray for sleep to claim her so that she might dream of Logan, of her mate, then tomorrow night, she would meet see him again.
And somehow, she would make sure he didn’t see her as broken.
“I’m going home, now,” she said as she opened the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Willow,” Mara said quietly before Willow was fully out the door. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she answered honestly.
But she would be.