Sloane’s hand was still shaking.
She stood in the shadow of the corridor just outside the Great Hall, her fingers wrapped tightly around the cold iron hilt of her dagger. She pressed her back against the rough stone wall, her chest heaving as she tried to force her breathing into a steady rhythm.
He is a liar. He has to be.
But her wolf was pacing frantically, a chaotic, wild energy that refused to be quieted. The scent was still trapped in her nose—the rich, warm cedarwood, the dark honey, and the absolute, terrifying absence of any other female.
She had been so sure. For four years, she had nurtured her hatred like a precious flame, feeding it with the image of Adrian in his marriage bed, holding another female, laughing at the girl he had discarded. She had told herself that he was happy, that he was prosperous, that he had traded her soul for a life of luxury. It was the only thing that had kept her from breaking down during those long, brutal nights on the border.
But there was no scent of Cassia. None.
"Sloane."
She jumped slightly, her hand instantly tightening on her weapon. Jarek was standing at the end of the corridor, his pale gray eyes filled with concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked, stepping closer. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," Sloane snapped, her voice cutting through the quiet corridor. She let go of her dagger and straightened her tunic, her face resuming its cold, impassive mask. "Where is he?"
"He fainted right after you spoke," Jarek said, a faint note of disgust in his voice. "He's weak, Sloane. Like a newborn pup. We had to drag him out of the hall. The Alpha ordered him taken to the lower cells, just like you wanted."
"Good," Sloane said, her jaw tightening. "Did he wake up?"
"He's groaning a bit, but he's mostly out. Kael and Torin are putting him in the deep cell now." Jarek looked at her sideways, his brow furrowing. "Are we really going to send scouts to the Silverwood valley? It will take three days to get there and back in this weather."
"We are," Sloane said, her voice firm. "We don't sign treaties with desperate wolves until we know exactly what they are hiding. Adrian is a diplomat, Jarek. He was trained by his father to negotiate with his tongue. He could be trying to draw our warriors away from the stronghold, or he could be hiding a Goldcrest army in the southern hills. We verify everything."
"And if he's telling the truth?" Jarek asked. "If his pack is truly starving?"
Sloane felt a sudden, sharp pang in her chest, but she pushed it down. "If they are starving, they can wait three days. A few more days of hunger won't kill them if they've survived this long."
"Right," Jarek said, though he didn't look entirely convinced. He knew her past. He knew what Adrian had been to her. "Do you want me to keep a guard on him?"
"No," Sloane said, her eyes darkening. "I will handle the prisoner myself. No one goes down to those cells without my permission. Understood?"
"Understood, Enforcer." Jarek bowed his head and turned back toward the Great Hall, leaving her alone in the cold corridor.
Sloane took a deep, shuddering breath. She reached beneath her tunic and pulled out the silver locket. She pressed the cold metal against her lips, her eyes closing as the phantom bond pulsed again. It was weaker now, a low, throbbing ache that told her Adrian was unconscious, his mind unable to project his emotions.
But she knew he would wake up soon. And when he did, she would be waiting.
She walked down the long, spiral stone steps that led to the dungeons beneath the keep.
The temperature dropped rapidly as she descended, the warm, pine-scented air of the upper levels replaced by the damp, biting chill of the earth. The walls here were wet with condensation, the only light coming from occasional iron torches mounted to the stone. It was a place of isolation, built to break the spirit of even the strongest shifters.
At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor opened into a row of heavy iron-barred cells.
Sloane walked past the empty cells, her boots making no sound on the damp stone. She stopped in front of the deepest cell, the one furthest from the stairs, where the shadows were heaviest.
Inside, lying on a thin pile of moldy straw, was Adrian.
They had stripped his heavy wool coat, leaving him in only a thin, frayed linen tunic and his dark trousers. He was shivering violently, his wiry frame curled into a tight ball as he tried to preserve what little warmth his body had left. His skin was incredibly pale, almost translucent in the dim torchlight, his long black hair messy and damp.
Sloane stood outside the bars, her hands resting on the iron, her dark eyes tracking the slow, uneven rise and fall of his chest.
Even in this miserable state, he was beautiful. He had always had that sharp, elegant beauty of the old royal lines—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jaw that looked as though it had been carved from marble. But seeing him like this, shivering on the wet stone, made Sloane’s wolf whine with a sudden, violent urge to protect.
He rejected us, she reminded herself, her grip tightening on the iron bars until her knuckles turned white. He chose another. He broke the bond.
Adrian let out a soft, ragged groan.
His eyelids fluttered open. For a second, his amber eyes were dull and unfocused, staring blankly at the stone wall. But as his senses returned, his head turned slowly toward the bars.
He saw her.
The change in him was instantaneous. The dullness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, burning intensity that seemed to defy his physical weakness. He didn't scramble away. He didn't cower. Slowly, with an agonizing effort that made his muscles tremble, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, then onto his knees.
He crawled toward the bars, his boots dragging in the dirt, until he was sitting on the cold stone, only inches from where she stood.
"Sloane," he whispered, his voice incredibly hoarse, his breath rising in a faint, white cloud.
"You look pathetic, Silverwood," Sloane said, her voice cold and mocking, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "An Alpha of the great southern forest, crawling in the dirt like a rogue."
Adrian let out a dry, rattling laugh that turned into a quiet cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. "I have crawled through worse than this to get here. The cold is nothing."
"You say that now," Sloane said, leaning closer to the bars, her face illuminated by the flickering torchlight. "But the damp in these cells has broken stronger men than you. In twenty-four hours, your joints will freeze. In forty-eight, your wolf will begin to sleep to preserve your heart. And by the third day... you won't even have the strength to beg."
"I am not begging for myself," Adrian said, his amber eyes locking onto hers with a desperate, unyielding intensity. "I told you. If you want to keep me here, keep me. If you want to let the frost take me, let it. But send the grain to my pack. Please, Sloane. Don't make them pay for my mistakes."
Sloane let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Your mistakes? You call destroying my life a mistake? You call breaking a sacred, goddess-given bond a mistake? You are a politician, Adrian. You chose gold. You chose the Goldcrest alliance because you thought we were too weak to help you. And now, you want me to believe that your precious treaty-bride simply packed her bags and left?"
"She did," Adrian said, his voice cracking with emotion. "She was a monster, Sloane. She didn't care about the pack. She only cared about her father's wealth. When the blight hit... she realized there was nothing left to steal. She took her warriors and her provisions and left us to die. I tried to stop her, but my council... they were too afraid of her father to back me."
"And you let them rule you," Sloane sneered, her fingers curling around the iron bars. "You were the Alpha! You had the power to command them, to force them to stand. But you were too weak. You have always been weak."
"I was a fool," Adrian admitted, his head dropping slightly, his shoulders shaking with a sudden, silent sob. "I thought... I thought if I sacrificed my own happiness, the gods would reward my pack. I thought a leader had to be hollow. I thought love was a luxury I couldn't afford. I was twenty-four, Sloane. My father had just died in my arms, and my people were crying for food. I didn't know what else to do."
He looked up, his amber eyes swimming with tears that he refused to let fall.
"I have regretted that choice every single day for four years," Adrian whispered, his voice vibrating with a raw, agonizing truth that Sloane could feel through the bond. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face in the pavilion. Every time I touched the treaty, my hand burned. I have lived in a self-made hell, Sloane. I don't expect your forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But my people... they are innocent."
Sloane stared at him, her chest tight, her throat dry.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to rip the bars open and beat him until he took back his words. It was too easy. It was too simple. He was supposed to be a monster. He was supposed to be a cold, calculating politician who had never cared for her. If he was just a foolish, desperate boy who had made a terrible mistake... then her hatred was a lie. Her entire identity for the last four years was built on a foundation of sand.
"You're acting," Sloane said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts. "You're a diplomat, Adrian. You know exactly what to say to make me soft. You think if you cry and speak of your regret, I will open this door and run into your arms."
"No," Adrian said, his hand rising to touch the cold iron of the bars, his fingers resting just below hers. "I do not expect you to run into my arms. I know I broke you, Sloane. I know I turned you into the Scarred Beast. And I hate myself for it. But I also know the girl I loved is still in there. The girl who used to carry injured pups back to the nursery. The girl who couldn't bear to see anyone suffer."
"She is dead!" Sloane snarled, her dominant aura flaring with a sudden, violent intensity that made the torches flicker in the corridor. The pressure in the small space was suffocating, a heavy, crushing weight that made Adrian gasp. "I killed her myself! I took her heart and I froze it, and I rebuilt myself from the pieces. Do not speak of her. She does not exist."
Adrian did not flinch under her aura. He took a slow, painful breath, his amber eyes holding hers with a quiet, stubborn strength.
"She is not dead," Adrian said softly. "If she were dead, you wouldn't be standing here. You would have signed the treaty, taken my lands, and let me freeze. But you are here. Because you still feel it. You still feel the bond, Sloane."
"The bond is a phantom!" Sloane spat, her teeth lengthening, her fangs scraping against her lip. "It is a dead nerve! It means nothing!"
"Then touch me," Adrian challenged her, his voice dropping to a low, seductive whisper that made Sloane's blood run hot. He pressed his palm flat against the iron bars, his eyes locking onto hers. "Touch my hand, Sloane. If the bond is truly dead... you won't feel a thing. Prove to me that you are as cold as you claim."
Sloane stared at his hand.
His fingers were red, his skin chapped and dirty from his journey. But the shape of his hand was so familiar—the long, elegant fingers that had once traced the line of her jaw, the broad palm that had once held hers during their private vows.
The physical attraction, the raw, primal pull of the fated-mate bond, was a living thing in the small space between them. It was a thick, heavy tension that made her skin tingle, her breasts swelling against her leather tunic, her core aching with a sudden, liquid heat. Her wolf was screaming at her to touch him, to feel the spark, to claim her mate.
Slowly, as if moving through water, Sloane raised her hand.
Her fingers hovered an inch from his. She could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, a magnetic pull that made her hand tremble. She wanted to touch him. She wanted it more than she had wanted anything in four years.
But then, the memory of the pavilion flashed in her mind.
She saw the crowd of Silverwood elders, their faces filled with pity. She heard the cold, formal words of his rejection. She felt the sudden, agonizing snap of the bond as he turned his back on her, leaving her to stand alone in her white dress, disgraced and ruined.
The memory was a bucket of ice water.
Sloane pulled her hand back, her fist clenching until her nails bit into her palm. She took a step back from the bars, her face hardening once more to a mask of absolute stone.
"I don't need to prove anything to you, Silverwood," she said, her voice flat and dead. "You are a prisoner of the Obsidian Pack. You will stay in this cell until our scouts return. If they find that you have lied to us... I will personally execute you for treason against our territory."
Adrian looked at her, his hand dropping slowly from the bars. The disappointment in his eyes was a physical blow, but he did not argue. He simply nodded, his body starting to shiver violently once more as the draft from the corridor washed over him.
"And what if they find I am telling the truth?" Adrian asked, his voice barely a whisper. "What then, Sloane?"
Sloane turned her back on him, walking toward the stairs with a hurried, tense stride.
"Then we will sign your treaty," Sloane said, her voice echoing off the damp stone walls. "We will take your lands, your mines, and your pass. We will feed your people. But you... you will remain here. You will stay in this cell, Adrian. You will watch your pack belong to another, while you rot in the dark."
She didn't wait for his reply.
She marched up the stone steps, her heart roaring in her ears, her chest burning with the agonizing, beautiful, terrible heat of the bond. She did not look back. She did not let herself see him curl back into the straw, his body shaking, his amber eyes watching her disappear into the light.
But as she reached the top of the stairs, her hand drifted to her collar.
She pulled out the silver locket and held it tightly in her fist, the sharp edges of the metal cutting into her skin.
He never touched her, her wolf whispered, a soft, hopeful sound in the dark of her mind.
Sloane closed her eyes, a single, hot tear escaping her lid and tracing the line of her scar before she wiped it away with a brutal, angry motion.
"It doesn't matter," Sloane whispered into the empty corridor. "He is still a coward."
But as she walked back toward her quarters, the cold wind of the mountains howling outside the stone walls, she knew she was lying to herself. The storm had only just begun.