Chapter 2 — Chapter Two

Elowen

I jerk upright, gasping for air.

I’m tangled in the bedsheets. The shirt I’m wearing—oversized—clings to my skin, slick with sweat. I’m cold. So cold. Ice surges through my veins, and I wonder if I’ll ever be warm again. The world is shadowed, grey, as if I’m peering through a veil of ash. In my mind, echoes linger—a prison of iron and stone, chains rattling in the dark, and a guttural snarl pursuing me through endless corridors. Malric’s voice, cruel and mocking, whispers from the void.

A floorboard creaks. The mattress dips near my bare feet. A wave of heat washes over me, carrying the scent of male and the mountains.

“Look at me.” The words are soft but firm. A hand cups my cheek—callused, strong, yet restrained. “Look at me.” More insistent now. This is the voice of someone accustomed to obedience.

Helpless, I lift my gaze.

“That’s it. Eyes on me. Now breathe.”

I draw in air, letting it flood my lungs, letting it push back the lingering darkness.

“Good lass. Come on. Breathe with me. In. . . and out. . .”

My heartbeat steadies, no longer a cacophony in my ears. We’ve done this before, I think—in the Iron Pits beneath Malric’s Blackthorn Hold.

*Malric. Goddess. I killed Malric.* The memory slices through me—his blood on my hands, the weight of his final gasp. Relief wars with guilt, a bitter knot in my chest. Did I free myself, or did I damn my soul?

A fresh wave of panic crashes over me.

“Princess.” The word cuts sharp, commanding. “Breathe. In. . . and out. . .”

A half-burned candle flickers on the bedside table beside a chipped cup and a stack of worn books. A decanter of whisky rests on the mantlepiece, where a carved wolf emblem snarls in the dim light—a relic of Gravemoor’s fierce legacy. Silas left the drink there, untouched. A dull throb pulses in my side. Caelan bit me—only since the battle at dawn, mere hours ago.

Rain patters against the window.

“That’s it. Come back to me, Princess.”

Warmth radiates from the figure before me. The vise around my lungs loosens, and my breaths steady. “Thorne?”

“Aye. I’m here.”

Thorne’s expression is tender, at odds with the coiled tension in his frame, his hard biceps straining against his shirt. His hair, the hue of dark sand, is swept back from his forehead, and his green eyes glint with concern.

“Are you in pain?” His brow furrows. “Do I need to get Silas?”

“No. . . I. . . it was just a nightmare, I think.” I exhale, shaky. A faint dizziness hums at the edges of my mind, a whisper of weakness I can’t quite shake.

“What did you dream about?”

I shake my head, grasping at fragments. “I was in a prison, iron walls closing in, and Silas was there, watching. Something hunted me—claws scraping stone. And. . .” I tense as our conversation earlier this evening slams back. I draw my knees to my chest. “Goddess, I need to tell you something about Silas. He’s plotting against you.”

Thorne’s face hardens. “What?”

My hands tremble as I speak, the weight of betrayal pressing down. “Everything he did. . . that bond he forged, linking my life to his. . . It was no act of mercy. It’s a weapon. He told me tonight, in that cold, calculating tone of his, that he plans to help you claim the Wolf Throne—then challenge you for it. He knows he’ll win, because our lives are tied. You can’t kill him without killing me.”

Thorne stares at me, his biceps like forged iron. A beat of silence stretches, heavy, before a low, rueful laugh escapes him, warming the chill air.

“This doesn’t concern you?” I ask, my voice tight.

“Oh, it concerns me. It’s just. . . I couldn’t fathom it before. Why he’d risk everything—years of loyalty, schemes, power. He set me free, fought Caelan, and when he saw you fading. . . His face. . .” He swallows hard. “He saved your life. I’ve been searching for his motive since we reached this refuge, and I found none. I started to think. . . I don’t know what I thought. But this. . . *this*. . . makes sense. There’s a grim clarity in it, I suppose. Even if it tangles our path.”

“We need to sever the bond between Silas and me.”

“We do. But he won’t strike until I’ve claimed the throne—the Wolf Throne, an ancient seat of power and curse, binding our kind to blood and duty. He’ll wait until then.”

My pulse spikes. “You think he’ll try to kill you.”

“I’m certain of it. I forfeited to Caelan years ago, and the whispers never ceased—speculation on who would’ve triumphed. It undermines his claim. Silas won’t abide weakness.” I clutch Thorne’s wrist, as if he might be torn from me, and he offers a steadying smile. “He will not defeat me. We have time. Until then, he could be useful. Rest now, and we’ll face it later.” His thumb traces my cheek. “I’m sorry I left you alone. With the battle’s chaos, it was the only moment to slip one of Silas’s messengers into Blackthorn Hold to send word to Fiona and Kian.”

“I know. I understand.”

My blood warms at his nearness. This time, it’s not fear coursing through me. It’s something raw, feral, clawing for release—an instinct I can’t name, as if something ancient stirs beneath my skin.

Thorne’s gaze darkens. “Princess. . .” His voice is rough, a low warning.

I reach for his face, desperate to draw him closer. A sharp pang flares in my side where Caelan’s teeth tore into me, and I wince, my hand freezing above the sheets.

Thorne’s jaw tightens as his eyes drop to my waist. “Can I see?”

I ease back onto the pillows, inching down.

Thorne lifts the bedsheets. He shifts, drawing one of my bare legs across his lap as he leans over me. Weeks ago, since I fled Malric’s hold, being exposed like this—in just a man’s shirt and thin underwear—before the alpha of Gravemoor would have terrified me. Now, it quickens my breath.

He undoes a button just below my breasts, then works downward, his fingers brushing my skin with deliberate care. He parts the fabric to reveal my midriff. Cool air grazes me, but I’m burning. The scar is jagged, raw across my torso, the skin around it inflamed yet knitting faster than it should. I wince at the rough texture under his careful touch, the pain a sharp reminder of how close death came.

My fingers itch to grip his shoulders, to pull him down until no space remains between us. I need him—a fierce, primal urge to cast off the cold shadow of my nightmare, to feel alive after brushing death. My blood surges, a river breaking its banks.

Thorne stills. I prop myself on my elbows. His face is stone, every inch the warrior I first saw at the dog fight in Malric’s Blackthorn Hold. The wolf glints behind his eyes, and for a moment, I swear he senses this shift in me—this consuming need.

His anger, while mine seethes at Silas for making me a pawn in his game, seems wholly fixed on his brother. “He will die for this.”

It’s a vow, raw and possessive, as if he can’t bear that another has marked what’s his. It stokes the heat in me further.

I ache for him. My skin prickles, hypersensitive, and I shift on the mattress. A strange urge to bite, to claim, surges through me. A shaky breath escapes my lips.

Every muscle in Thorne’s body goes taut.

His gaze snaps downward, to the heat pulsing between my legs, thinly veiled by fabric, as if he can scent my need. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth. A low growl rumbles from his throat.

When he meets my eyes, his wolf is there—dark, powerful, untamed. He blinks, fighting to rein it in, a flicker of memory crossing his face—perhaps of someone lost to a moment’s recklessness, a fear of breaking what he protects.

“I thought I’d lost you tonight,” he says, voice strained.

“You did, for a moment. But you found me.” I manage a faint smile. “Come here.”

He draws a deep breath, steadying himself. I’m injured, no doubt he sees me as fragile, a thing he must shield. Goddess, I want to be shattered. I want to unleash this caged beast pacing inside me. I want the horrors of tonight to vanish.

“Don’t. . .” My voice trembles, a hesitant plea. “Don’t hold back, please.”

“Elowen. . . You’re hurt.”

“Don’t you want to protect me? To make me feel whole again?”

He lets out a ragged laugh, dragging his gaze to the floorboards. “Aye, I want to tend to you. But I fear it wouldn’t be right.”

“It would.”

His thumb traces maddening circles on my leg, still draped across his lap. “I don’t want to harm you.”

“You won’t.”

He shifts, kneeling on the mattress between my thighs, and a surge of triumph flares within me. His expression shadows.

“You need rest,” he murmurs.

“Then help me find peace so I can.”

He groans. “You’ve a bold spirit, Princess, even now.”

“The alpha of Gravemoor doesn’t frighten me. I’m bound to the future Wolf King, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, a low, husky sound that fills the small bedchamber with warmth and a dark edge. “Oh aye? Bound to him, are you?”

He lowers himself, forcing my thighs wider to accommodate his broad shoulders.

“Yes,” I whisper, breathless.

“I think we’re far past mere promises, Princess.” He presses a careful kiss to the damp fabric between my legs. “Don’t you?”

My back arches. “*Yes*.”

Sweat beads on my brow, and I’m on the verge of pleading, something I’ve never done. Yet as he hooks the fabric aside with a finger, my body locks. Cold floods me, as if I’ve been plunged into frost. Darkness creeps at the edges of my vision, and a panicked sound slips from my lips. Thorne freezes.

A growl builds, vibrates within me. Something thrashes in my chest, clawing to break free, yearning to run toward an unseen force. My skin turns clammy. My hair sticks to my face. A sharp pang stabs through my side, nausea rolling in its wake.

“*Thorne*,” I whimper.

“Princess?” He’s up in an instant, caging me within his arms. “*Ghealach, my moon*, you’re burning up.”

Dots flash before my eyes. Cold sweat slicks my skin. I fight to hold onto consciousness, but darkness crashes over me. Thorne’s face, the flickering hearth, his distant shout—“*Silas! Now!*”—all fade to grey.

Then nothing.