The first night Riven slept in the Alpha’s Hall, he didn’t sleep at all.
He lay on his back on the pallet, staring at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling, listening.
To the creak of timber as the mountain cooled.
To the soft murmur of wolves in the rooms beyond — Lysa’s low voice through the wall, Corin’s sharper reply, a pup’s brief whimper and a soothing hush.
To the muted heartbeat of the pack.
And, threadlike and constant, to *her*.
Juno’s presence drifted at the edge of his awareness, fuzzy with sleep, warm.
He could tell when she rolled over by the way her wolf mumbled in their shared space.
He’d shut his eyes, determined not to intrude.
He’d promised.
But the bond didn’t have an off switch.
It was less like a door and more like a window: he could choose not to look, but he couldn’t make it disappear.
Every now and then, a stray thought bubbled up from her — images of trails, of maps, of her aunt’s stew, of Mira’s snoring.
Once, a flash of his scar.
He flinched.
*Stop looking,* he told himself.
*Stop broadcasting,* she muttered in her sleep, half-conscious. *Too loud.*
He huffed a quiet laugh.
Despite the rawness of his own mind, a strange…peace…slid under his skin.
He wasn’t alone.
Not in the pit. Not in some nameless cave. Not even in his own head.
He had a roof.
He had a door.
He had a wolf down the hall whose heartbeat his bones could find in the dark.
It was terrifying.
And…good.
He closed his eyes.
Just for a moment, he told himself.
When he opened them again, sunlight streamed through the small window, painting a rectangle on the wall.
Voices filtered up from the courtyard.
Wolves laughing.
Someone shouting about breakfast.
His body hurt in new places, but the deep, bone-weary ache had eased.
He inhaled.
He smelled bread. Meat. Coffee.
And *no* trace of rot.
The absence made him almost…giddy.
He sat up slowly, stretching carefully.
The scar on his neck twinged, a dull throb.
He touched it lightly.
Heat radiated under his fingertips.
But no slickness.
No pulsing wrongness.
Just…healing flesh.
*You alive?* Juno’s voice brushed his mind, sleepy but sharper now.
*Apparently,* he thought back. *I think your healer snuck something into my tea.*
*She gets offended if you don’t sleep when she tells you to,* Juno said. *Best not to cross her.*
He swung his legs over the side of the pallet and stood.
The floor was cold under his bare feet.
His clothes from the Gathering hung neatly folded on a crate — someone’s work.
He pulled on pants and a shirt, wincing as the fabric brushed his neck.
A knock sounded at the door.
He stiffened.
“Yeah?” he called.
The door creaked open.
Mira stuck her head in, eyes bright, braids askew.
“Roomwarming time,” she announced. “I brought muffins.”
Riven blinked.
She should not have had that much energy this early.
She bustled in, a basket over one arm, the smell of fresh-baked sweetness preceding her.
Behind her, Juno appeared, hair still damp from a wash, wearing a simple gray tunic and worn trousers.
She yawned, covering it with the back of her hand.
He watched her throat move.
His fingers twitched.
Kellan followed, balancing a tray with a pot of something steaming and three dented mugs.
“I was forced,” he grumbled. “Under duress. Mira threatened my life.”
“You need coffee as much as anyone,” Mira said. “Stop whining.”
Riven’s small den filled rapidly.
He backed up until his calves hit the pallet, then sat.
Mira plopped onto the crate, untying the basket.
The smell made Riven’s stomach flip.
“Are those…blueberries?” he asked, incredulous.
Mira’s eyes widened. “You can smell that?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Wolves,” he said. “We sniff.”
“Oh, you and I are going to be friends,” she said. “Eat.”
She thrust a muffin into his hand.
It was warm.
He stared at it for a second.
Food, made and brought to him, not thrown or tossed, not laced with spells.
“Is this…safe?” he asked, half-joking, half-serious.
Mira swatted his arm. “Rude,” she said. “My baking is a gift.”
“Just eat it,” Juno said, taking one for herself and biting in.
Crumbs clung to the corner of her mouth.
He wanted to lick them off.
He almost choked on his own saliva.
He took a bite of his muffin to distract himself.
Sweetness exploded on his tongue. Blueberries, sugar, a hint of lemon, the comforting weight of flour and butter.
He made a noise.
He wasn’t sure what kind.
Mira beamed. “See?” she said. “Gift.”
Kellan poured coffee into the cups and handed them around.
Juno accepted hers with a grateful noise.
Riven wrapped his hands around his, savoring the heat.
For a few minutes, they just…ate.
Talked.
Not about gods or pits or plans.
Mira told a story about a pup who’d tried to shift after smelling bacon for the first time and got stuck with one paw halfway furred.
Kellan recounted a patrol where he’d been chased by an angry moose.
Juno rolled her eyes and corrected his exaggerations.
Riven listened.
Occasionally, they asked him something.
Sometimes he answered.
Sometimes he deflected with a joke.
They didn’t push.
It was…nice.
He realized, belatedly, that his shoulders had relaxed.
His wolf had stopped pacing.
He sipped his coffee.
Juno’s foot bumped his ankle under the small table they’d dragged in.
She didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
Eventually, the basket emptied, the pot drained.
Mira stretched, arms over her head, shirt riding up to expose a strip of warm brown skin.
“I have to go help the healer,” she said with a sigh. “Apparently, there are still idiots trying to spar like we didn’t just rip a demon a new one.”
Kellan grimaced. “That was one time,” he muttered.
She smirked. “It was three,” she said. “Slow learner.”
She bounced to her feet, grabbed the basket, and waltzed out.
Kellan lingered.
He looked at Juno.
At Riven.
At their not-fully-accidental foot contact.
He exhaled.
“You two…” he started, then shook his head. “Never mind. I’m going to go let Lysa yell at me about the mountain post.”
He paused at the door.
“Don’t break anything,” he said.
“Same to you,” Juno replied.
He smiled, brief and real, then slipped out.
Silence settled.
Not quite the same as the night before.
Juno leaned back against the wall, mug cradled in both hands.
“Well,” she said. “That went better than expected.”
He nodded. “Your pack hasn’t tried to set me on fire yet,” he said. “High bar.”
She snorted.
Her gaze flicked to his neck.
He saw it.
Saw the way her throat worked as she swallowed.
His pulse kicked.
“What?” he asked, more harshly than he meant.
She flushed. “Nothing,” she said.
“Liar,” he said.
She glared. “I was just…wondering…” She trailed off.
He waited.
She huffed. “If…we’d…marked…each other…before we ripped the root,” she blurted. “Would it have…changed anything.”
Heat surged under his skin.
He went very still.
Images slammed into his head unbidden — his mouth at her throat, her teeth in his shoulder, the white-hot flare of a mark searing into being where the Maw’s brand had once burned.
He had to close his eyes for a second.
*Breathe,* he told himself.
When he opened them, she was watching him, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Forget I said anything. That was a stupid hypothetical.”
He swallowed.
“No, it’s…valid,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “We…twisted…the bond…without…that.” He gestured to his neck. “It might have made the net…stronger. Or…given her more to chew on.”
She winced. “You’re probably right,” she said. “I just…keep thinking…if the mark had been…ours…not hers…”
Her voice trailed off.
He understood.
On a visceral level.
A brand of *belonging* instead of *possession*.
He wanted that.
Badly.
Too badly.
“Rule three,” he reminded both of them gently. “No…what-ifs…when we’re still…raw.”
She huffed a laugh. “Right,” she said. “Rules.”
She took a sip of her coffee, then made a face. “Cold,” she muttered.
He watched her throat move again.
Her pulse fluttered there, fast.
He set his own mug down on the crate, suddenly needing his hands free.
“Juno,” he said.
She looked at him.
Really looked.
The air between them thickened.
The bond hummed.
“You keep…doing that,” he said quietly. “Asking questions I can’t answer without…thinking about you…like that.”
Her brow furrowed. “Like what?” she asked, genuinely confused.
He huffed a laugh. “Like a man who hasn’t had…anyone…touch him gently in three years,” he said. “And suddenly has a mate sitting in his den asking what it would have been like if he’d put his teeth in her neck before biting a god.”
Her breath hitched.
Color flooded her cheeks.
“Oh,” she said faintly.
“Yeah,” he said.
Silence stretched.
Her hand tightened on her mug.
“Do you…” she started. “Do you *want* that? Marking. Ever. Really. Or is it just…something the bond’s screaming.”
He swallowed.
Honesty.
Always.
“Yes,” he said. “I want it. I wanted it even…before. When I watched circles from the trees. I wanted that…anchor. That…choice. Now…?”
He met her eyes.
The words came out raw.
“I want it with *you*,” he said. “Eventually. If…we live. If we don’t…hurt each other more than we help. If…you…want it.”
Her pupils blew wide.
His heart thudded.
“And you?” he asked. “Do *you* want it? Or am I just…a…story to tell later. ‘That one time I almost marked a man in a cage’.”
She set her mug down with care.
Her hands shook.
She took a breath.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I want it. Not…today. Not…tomorrow. But…yes. With you.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Heat roared through his veins.
His wolf howled in triumph inside his chest.
He gripped the edge of the pallet hard enough that his knuckles whitened.
“Okay,” he said, voice rough. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she echoed.
The tension coiled tighter.
He could taste her.
The faint salt of her skin. The coffee on her breath. The underlying wildness of her wolf.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
She licked her lower lip.
His fingers twitched.
Her hand lifted, halfway to him, then stopped.
“Rules,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes for a second.
“Rules,” he agreed.
He opened them again.
“I’m going to the training ring,” he said abruptly. “Before I do something stupid and Lysa has to add ‘mated too fast’ to her list of complaints.”
Her laugh came out half-strangled. “I should…go…run the ridge,” she said. “Before I start…sniffing you in your sleep.”
His cock twitched.
He forced his mind *away* from that image.
“Later,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll…talk more. Or…not talk. But…be in the same space without…this…much…buzzing.”
Her mouth curved, shaky. “Good luck with that,” she said.
He huffed a breath.
They both stood, a little too quickly.
Her shoulders brushed his as she moved past him to the door.
The contact sent sparks down his arm.
She froze for a heartbeat.
Then moved on.
He watched her go, jaw clenched.
When the door shut behind her, he sagged back onto the pallet.
His heart pounded.
His wolf panted.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
The slow burn was getting hotter.
He just had to pray it wouldn’t set the whole mountain on fire before they were ready.
***
Juno didn’t make it to the ridge.
She made it as far as the training ring before Lysa intercepted her.
“Good,” the alpha said briskly. “I need you.”
Juno bit back a groan. “For… what?” she asked.
“Interviews,” Lysa said. “You and Riven. Together. With Irena. And a few witches Soren convinced to join us via messenger ravens.”
Juno blinked. “Witches?”
“Yes,” Lysa said. “Actual ones. Not old wolves muttering over bones. People who’ve been studying deep magic and its…misbehavior. We need their brains. And they need yours. And his.”
Juno sighed. “No rest for the reckless,” she muttered.
Lysa’s lips twitched. “You can nap in between questions,” she said. “Come on.”
They spent the rest of the day in the Hall’s map room.
Riven on one side of the table, Juno on the other.
Irena and two strangers — a lean, hawk-nosed woman with ink-stained fingers from the valley, and a tall, dark-skinned man with a Silver Peak sigil tattooed on his forearm — peppered them with questions.
“When she first spoke to you, what *exactly* did she say?”
“Describe the cave. Every detail.”
“How many times did you hear…voices…when you weren’t in the pit?”
“Did the root feel…wet…when it came out, or…dry?”
Juno lost track of time.
Her throat went hoarse.
Riven’s answers came slower as the hours dragged, as dredging up memory after memory took its toll.
Several times, Juno had to clamp her jaw and bite her tongue to keep from reaching across the table for his hand.
A few times, she didn’t stop herself in time.
Once, when his voice trailed off mid-sentence, eyes unfocused, she touched his wrist lightly under the table.
The bond thrummed.
He blinked, refocused.
The witches noticed.
One arched an eyebrow. “Useful,” she murmured, more to herself than to them.
By dusk, Juno’s head throbbed.
Riven was pale, sweat beading at his temples.
Irena finally waved a hand. “Enough,” she declared. “You squeeze a sponge too hard, it crumbles. Let them be.”
The valley witch nodded, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “We have enough to chew on for tonight,” she said. “We’ll…compare notes.”
The Silver Peak witch smiled at Juno. “You have a good…map-mind,” he said. “You see…shapes. Connections. That’s…rare.”
Juno blinked. “Thanks,” she said, caught off guard.
Riven snorted. “She never shuts it off,” he muttered.
She elbowed him weakly under the table.
Lysa appeared in the doorway, face tight with her own exhaustion.
“Done?” she asked.
“For now,” Irena said. “Unless you want them drooling on your floor.”
Lysa’s gaze flicked over them, assessing.
“Go eat,” she told Juno and Riven. “Sleep. No more digging tonight. If anyone tries, bite them.”
“If they’re witches?” Juno asked.
“Especially if they’re witches,” Lysa said.
Juno managed a tired laugh.
She and Riven staggered out into the twilight.
The courtyard was lit by lanterns and the last sliver of sun.
Wolves sat around the central fire, bowls in hands, talking quietly.
The smell of stew and fresh bread made Juno’s stomach flip pleasantly.
Mira waved them over, two bowls already in front of empty spaces.
Kellan sat beside her, hair damp from a wash, eyes half-lidded.
They squeezed in.
Conversation flowed around them.
No one asked for details.
Not tonight.
Someone told a joke about Soren falling into his own reflection in an icy pond once.
Laughter rippled.
Juno spooned stew into her mouth, barely tasting the spices.
Her body hummed with tiredness and something sharper.
Riven sat close enough that his thigh brushed hers when he shifted.
Each contact was a tiny spark.
She set her jaw, focusing on her bowl.
The night deepened.
One by one, wolves drifted off to bed.
Eventually, only the die-hard gossipers and the patrol-waiters remained.
Mira yawned so hard her jaw cracked.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced. “If I don’t, I’m going to start listing everyone who moaned during the ritual. It was very distracting.”
Juno choked. “Mira,” she hissed.
Mira grinned unrepentantly. “Night,” she sing-songed, and flitted away.
Kellan lingered a little longer.
He watched Juno and Riven over the rim of his mug.
“You two,” he said finally, “are going to drive us all insane.”
“Us?” Juno asked.
“Me,” he corrected. “Mira. Lysa. Ivo. The entire pack.”
Riven smirked. “We’ll…try to keep it…interesting,” he said.
Kellan snorted. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said.
He stood, stretching.
“First patrol shift tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be up at the mountain post before you’re done drooling on your pillows. Try not to start any apocalypses while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Juno said.
He rolled his eyes, then, on impulse, leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
It was quick.
Warm.
Familial.
Her throat tightened.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
He left before she could answer.
That left her and Riven by the fire.
The embers glowed.
The night air nipped at exposed skin.
She shivered.
He noticed.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
He hesitated.
Then, very carefully, he shifted a fraction closer, not quite touching.
The heat radiating off his side chased away some of the chill.
She glanced at him in profile.
The firelight played along his jaw, casting his cheekbones in sharp relief.
The scar at his neck was a dark line.
He must have felt her stare.
He turned his head.
Their eyes met.
The bond vibrated.
Without meaning to, she leaned a fraction toward him.
He did the same.
Their shoulders brushed.
The contact was light.
Searing.
Her breath hitched.
He exhaled slowly, as if fighting something.
“Juno,” he said softly.
She swallowed.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
He lifted a hand.
Slowly.
Giving her time to pull back.
He brushed a stray curl away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
His fingers ghosted over the shell of it, feather-light.
Her entire body turned into a live wire.
His pupils blew wide.
“Goodnight,” he whispered.
It wasn’t a kiss.
But it felt like the moment right before one.
Full of held breath.
Of choice.
Of *not yet* and *someday* tangled together.
She forced herself to smile. “Goodnight,” she replied, voice unsteady.
They stood.
Walked together to the Hall.
Paused at the hallway where their paths diverged — hers to the shared bunk, his to his strange new den.
They looked at each other one more time.
“Rules,” she said, because if she didn’t, she’d do something reckless.
“Rules,” he echoed.
She stepped away.
Each step felt like wading through mud.
At her door, she glanced back.
He was still there, leaning against the wall, watching her.
His eyes were dark.
Bright.
Her heart thudded.
She slipped into her room before she could sprint back and close the distance.
Mira mumbled something incoherent from her bed.
Juno collapsed onto hers, face first.
She lay there, heart pounding, skin tingling, brain buzzing, for what felt like hours.
Sleep eventually dragged her under.
Her dreams were…less sharp.
No pits.
No gods.
Just hands brushing hair from faces.
Teeth hovering above skin.
Heat.
Restraint.
When she woke before dawn, breath shallow, thigh muscles tight, she whispered into the dim:
“Fuck.”
Riven, half-awake across the hall, whispered the same word at the same time.
The bond hummed.
The slow burn crackled.
Outside, the mountain waited.
So did the next fight.
And somewhere under the roots of the world, the Maw nursed her wounds and planned.
Juno rolled onto her back, staring at the faint light seeping through the cracks in the shutters.
“Okay,” she told the ceiling, the mountain, herself. “Okay.”
One day at a time.
One rule at a time.
One spark at a time.
And maybe, just maybe, one day — when the world wasn’t on fire — teeth on skin.
But not yet.
Not tonight.
Not while the mountain still shook.