The air was cold again.
Colder than it had any right to be, even in a cave made of stone and silence. I sat on the cot, blanket wrapped tight, still feeling like it could never be tight enough. Not against the chill sinking deep into my bones.
Not against the way Damian looked at me now—like I was something sharp that might snap if he got too close.
He stormed in without warning, a dark blur of motion, something clutched in his hand. It slapped the stone floor at my feet.
A strip of fabric. Red. Gold-threaded. Familiar.
I froze.
My Crescent cloak.
"You want to explain this?" he asked, voice low.
I stared at it. "That's mine."
"Yeah," he said, cold. "I figured. Kellan found it near the southern patrol border."
"I didn't know I dropped it."
He crossed his arms. "Funny how that happens. Near one of our routes. The kind Crescent patrols sometimes sniff around."
My chest tightened. "You think I planted it there?"
"What I think doesn't matter. You were raised by a pack that is known to smile while stabbing someone in the back."
"I'm not a spy, especially not for that pack" I said, standing even though my knees were trembling and I could barely steady myself. "I didn't ask to be here."
"But you are here. And now this." He gestured to the cloth. "You want me to believe that's just some innocent little accident?"
My mouth opened. Closed. He didn't believe me.
Not even a little.
He turned toward the door. "Come with me."
My heart sank. "Where are we going?"
He didn't answer.
I followed him anyway, down a narrow stone tunnel lit by flickering torchlight. The deeper we went, the darker it became and quieter.
Until we reached a thick metal door.
He opened it.
Inside was nothing but stone walls, cold air, and a chain bolted to the ground.
A cell.
"You're locking me up?" I asked, staring at him.
"Until I figure out what the hell you are," he said. "And why the hell I keep risking everything for someone who might be playing me."
I flinched. "I'm not—"
"Save it." He stepped aside. "Get in."
And for some reason, I did.
The door slammed shut.
---
Time passed weird in the dark.
No light. No sound. Just the wind outside and the heartbeat in my ears.
I tried to sleep.
But all I could think about was him.
Not Damian.
Jaxon.
I remembered standing in the moonlight, waiting for him to walk toward me, heart pounding so loud I couldn't hear the chanting anymore. I remembered holding my breath like an idiot—like I really believed love and fate were the same thing.
And then—
> "I, Alpha Jaxon, reject you as my mate."
I still heard it in my head like a broken record.
Like a slap I never saw coming.
I remembered the cheers when he marked Celeste instead. The way her lips curled. The blood on her shoulder. The smile in her eyes.
I remembered falling.
The silence from my wolf.
The silence from my parents.
They let me collapse.
They didn't even blink.
I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, willing the sob to stay down.
But it didn't.
---
That's when the dream came.
Not a nightmare.
Not even a memory.
Something else.
Snow crunched beneath my boots—but they weren't my boots. I was small. A boy.
Damian.
He knelt in the white, hands cupped around a wounded rabbit. Blood matted its fur.
"It's okay," he whispered. "You're safe now."
His voice was soft. Gentle.
A man stood behind him. Broad. Strong. With the same silver eyes.
"You've always had a protector's heart," the man said. "But hearts like yours get broken the most."
Then—flames.
Screams.
A crowd. Torches. Silver.
"He killed them!"
"It's the cursed boy—get him!"
"Damian Black is a traitor!"
I felt him run. Not because he wanted to—but because he had no one left to believe him.
The pain in his chest felt like mine.
And I knew.
He didn't do it.
He was innocent.
I woke up gasping, soaked in sweat.
Back in the cell. Still alone.
Still cold.
My hands trembled as I pulled the blanket tighter. I wanted to scream. To tell someone what I saw.
To tell him.
But no.
Damian couldn't know.
He'd think I was cursed. Or insane. Or worse—he'd think I was some Crescent spy using magic to mess with his head.
I bit my lip, hard enough to taste blood.
No.
Better to keep this to myself.
---
Hours passed—maybe more. I didn't sleep again.
The door opened.
I expected more yelling.
But Damian stayed quiet.
He walked in slowly, like he thought I might jump on him or something.
"I'm not tied up," I said flatly.
"I know. You haven't tried to leave," he replied.
I didn't answer.
He walked closer, crouching a few feet away.
"I don't trust you," he said.
"Shocker."
"But I also don't believe you're a trained Crescent spy."
I looked up. "Why not?"
He tilted his head. "Because you cry in your sleep."
My breath caught.
"You talk too much to be a spy," he added, almost like it was a joke. "And you flinch every time someone mentions that Alpha's name."
My cheeks burned. I turned away.
"You're broken," he said. "But not dangerous."
I almost laughed. "Thanks."
He stood again. "Come on. I'm letting you out."
"Why?"
"Because I need to figure out what you really are. And keeping you locked up won't help me do that."
He stepped back, waiting.
I rose slowly, knees stiff. My legs ached, but I moved toward him.
As I passed through the cell door, our shoulders brushed.
Just for a second.
And in that second, something flickered inside me.
Something sharp. Ancient. Familiar.
—
While I slept that night, I had another dream. Another memory.
This time, Mira.
She was older than Damian in the last dream. Sixteen, maybe. Dark hair braided back, eyes like silver storms.
They were running. Together. Through trees.
"Damian," she panted. "It's a trap."
Then they stopped—frozen. Smoke rising in the distance.
Screams.
Flames.
Wolves—dead and dying—torn apart across the snow. Crescent patrols with their silver blades and emotionless faces.
Then Mira turned, eyes wide. "Run!"
Silver flashed.
A howl ripped through the night—pure pain.
Damian screamed her name.
Mira crumpled to the ground.
Her blood stained the snow.
And I felt it.
Her death.
The same way Damian must've felt it.
Because in that moment, so did I.
---
I shot awake, gasping for air.
Back in the cell. Alone.
But not untouched.
The pain in my chest wasn't from my wound. It was from him. From her.
Mira had died protecting him.
And they'd blamed him.
I wanted to tell him.
I sat there for a long time, heart pounding, wondering if I should.
I could hear his voice in my head already. Asking what kind of magic this was. Calling me a spy all over again.
So I said nothing.
Because I wasn't ready to be hated again.