Chapter 11
Sable
Iwoke to the sound of breathing that wasn't mine.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The ceiling was wrong—too low, too plain, nothing like the vaulted stone of Harkan's quarters. The smell was different, too. Old wood and spilled ale instead of pine and rain and—
Harkan.
Memory crashed back in a wave. The shop. The vision. The explosion. Fire devouring everything I'd ever known, everything my mother had left me, everything…
My hand flew to my chest, and my fingers found leather.
The grimoire. Still there. Still pressed against me like I'd refused to let it go even in sleep.
I sat up slowly, my body aching in places I hadn't noticed before. The calm-water had worn off, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion that went deeper than muscle and bone. My head throbbed. My throat felt scraped raw.
And my eyes found Harkan.
He was slumped in the chair beside the bed, his head tilted at an angle that would leave his neck screaming when he woke.
His coat was draped over the arm of the chair, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his hands loose on the armrests.
In sleep, the hard lines of his face had softened. He looked younger. More vulnerable.
He stayed.
The thought slipped through before I could stop it. He'd promised he would, and he had. He'd sat in that uncomfortable chair all night, watching over me while I slept, and he hadn't left.
Don't, I warned myself. Don't start making him into something he's not.
But my eyes traced the scars on his wrists, anyway. The ones from the chains. The ones he'd shown me when I'd told him about Rafe, about my mother, about all the broken pieces of my past.
I know what it is to be owned, he'd said.
And then he'd saved my mother's grimoire. Her scrying mirror. Her perfume. Everything I had left of her, snatched from the flames because some instinct in him had decided my past was worth saving.
Stop it. Stop it right now.
I kissed him. Gods, I'd kissed him, and it hadn't been the kind of kiss you could blame on the bond or the magic or the circumstances. It had been gratitude and relief and something else, something that felt terrifyingly like the beginning of—
He made a sound.
Low. Pained. His brow furrowed, his hands tightening on the armrests, his whole body going rigid with some nightmare I couldn't see.
"No," he breathed, the word barely audible. "No, please—"
I should have woken him. Should have reached out and touched his shoulder and pulled him back from whatever darkness was drowning him.
Instead, I sat frozen, watching the agony play across his features.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry, I tried—" A shuddering breath, then a name, spoken like a prayer. Like a wound that had never healed.
"Helene."
The word hit me like a blade between the ribs.
Helene.
Not a casual name. Not a friend, not a packmate, not someone who meant nothing. The way he said it—the anguish, the grief, the raw devastation—that was the voice of a man who'd lost everything.
That was the voice of a man who'd loved someone. Deeply. Completely.
And you kissed him, whispered the vicious little voice in my head. You kissed a man who dreams of another woman. Who calls her name in his sleep. Who probably thinks of her every time he looks at you.
My chest went tight. Something cracked open behind my sternum, something I hadn't even realized I'd been protecting, and tears pricked hot behind my eyes before I could stop them.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
I was not going to cry over this bullshit. I was not going to feel heartbroken over a man I barely knew, a man who'd marked me against my will, a man who was clearly in love with someone else.
Helene.
Was she alive? Dead? Was I a replacement? A convenient distraction? Had the kiss meant anything to him at all, or had he just been... tolerating it?
I needed to move. Needed to do something with my hands before I did something stupid like wake him up and demand answers I wasn't sure I wanted.
The washbasin in the corner called to me like salvation.
I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could, setting the grimoire down on the mattress with careful reverence. My legs were unsteady, but they held. The floor was cold under my bare feet, grounding me in the present, pulling me back from the spiral threatening to drag me under.
The mirror above the basin revealed a stranger.
Ash still streaked my cheeks. My hair was a tangled disaster, the braid half-undone and singed at the ends. My eyes were red-rimmed, haunted, too vulnerable for comfort.
And there, still on my face, the tracks of dried tears from the night before.
Get it together, I told my reflection. You've survived worse than this. You've survived Rafe, and Varro, and thirteen years of slavery. You can survive a stupid kiss and a name you weren't supposed to hear.
I cupped water in my hands and splashed it on my face. Once. Twice. Three times, until the ash was gone and the tear-tracks with it. I scrubbed at my skin like I could scrub away the memory of his mouth on mine, the way he'd gone so still, the way he hadn't pulled back.
He didn't kiss you back, the voice whispered. He just didn't stop you. There's a difference.
Was there? Of course there was.
More tears threatened. I blinked them back, gripping the edge of the basin until my knuckles went white.
It was gratitude, I told myself firmly. That's all it was. He saved your mother's things, and you were overwhelmed and you made a mistake. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything.
The lie tasted like copper on my tongue.
I took a breath. Then another. Forced my shoulders down, my jaw to unclench, my expression into something that looked almost normal. By the time I turned away from the mirror, I was steady.
Or at least I looked it. My brain was a snarl of snakes, their venom spreading through my body with every strike.
Harkan was still asleep when I returned to the bed, but the nightmare seemed to have passed. His face was slack again, his breathing even, no more names escaping his lips.
Helene.
I pushed the name away and focused on what I could control.
The bag sat on the bed beside my pillow, its contents precious beyond measure.
I ran my fingers over the leather, over the scorch marks that told the story of how close I'd come to losing everything.
Inside, the weight of my mother's legacy pressed against my palm—the grimoire, the mirror, the perfume, the sage, the wooden figure, the box I still couldn't bring myself to open.
He'd saved all of it. Without thinking. Without being asked. He'd just... done it.
And now I owe him.
The thought settled into my bones like ice.
I hated owing people. Debts were chains, just as surely as Varro's mark had been. Debts meant leverage. Meant someone had power over you, could call in what you owed at the worst possible moment, could…
Stop.
Harkan wasn't Varro. He wasn't Rafe. He'd had every opportunity to use me, to exploit the bond, to take advantage of my vulnerability, and instead he'd saved my mother's grimoire. Held me while I cried. Called me “little witch” like it was something precious instead of something small.
But he'd also said another woman's name in his sleep.
And until I knew who Helene was—until I knew what I was dealing with—I couldn't afford to let myself feel anything more.
Even it out, I decided. Find a way to repay the debt. Then you won't owe him anything, and you can think clearly.
The Mating Moon was in four days.
I'd been so focused on my own disaster that I'd almost forgotten, but now the details started flooding back. A gathering. A ceremony. Every pack in the territory convening for some ancient ritual that meant something to wolves and absolutely nothing to me.
Except...
Harkan had enemies. His father. The Devourer. Varro. Unknown threats lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
And the Mating Moon was exactly that kind of moment. A public gathering. Important rituals. Every Alpha's attention focused on tradition instead of defense.
If I were going to attack, I thought slowly, that's when I'd do it.
The ceremony space would need warding. Real warding, not whatever basic protections the wolves usually used. Something that could detect lies, sense ill intent, maybe even block certain kinds of magic entirely.
Something only a truth-taster could provide.
There it is, I thought. A way to make us even.
It wasn't much. Wasn't nearly enough to balance saving my mother's entire legacy from a burning building. But it was something. A start. A way to prove I wasn't just dead weight—that I could contribute, could protect, could be valuable in my own right.
And maybe, if I was busy enough, I wouldn't have time to think about the name he'd whispered in his sleep.
Movement from the chair pulled me from my thoughts. I looked up to find Harkan stirring, his eyes flickering open, confusion passing over his features before memory caught up.
"Sable." He sat up too fast, winced, pressed a hand to his neck. "You're awake. How do you feel?"
Like I made a terrible mistake. Like I don't know who Helene is and it's going to drive me insane. Like I want to kiss you so much it hurts and also never see your face again as long as I live.
"Fine," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Better. Whatever Rhett gave me helped."
He studied me, those amber eyes too perceptive. "You sure? You look..."
"Like I slept in my clothes after watching my livelihood burn to the ground?" I arched a brow. "Can't imagine why."
The deflection worked. He relaxed slightly, though something in his expression said he wasn't entirely convinced.
"We should get back to the stronghold," he said. "The pack will want to know you're safe. And Trouble—"
"Is probably having a stroke while driving Elodie batshit with worry." The thought of my familiar, of the little girl who'd made him promise to play with her, softened something in my chest. "Yes. We should go."