Chapter 68 69
One second, I had Leon, Sugar, and Xander. The next? They were gone. Taken. I didn’t even know if they were alive.
And me? Naked, bruised, smelling like death and river water.
My wolf growled inside me, restless, angry, desperate. She wanted to turn back. She wanted to hunt down the Black Fang and rip every single one of them to pieces. But I clenched my fists, gritted my teeth, and forced myself to breathe.
Not yet. Not like this.
I had to be smart. I had to get to Gregor.
But first—I had to survive this forest without looking like a walking horror show.
I looked down at my makeshift hat-skirt and groaned.
“Moon Goddess help me. Because clearly, fashion won’t.”
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Like the creepy kind of quiet where every twig crack made you wonder if a serial killer wolf was about to pop out and chew your leg.
I trudged barefoot through mud and leaves, still dripping river water, my scratchy hat-skirt digging into my thighs. I swear, I looked like the tragic third cousin in The Jungle Book—the one no one wanted to adopt.
“Okay,” I muttered, swatting a mosquito the size of a coin, “this is fine. Totally fine. I’m not lost. I’m just… taking the scenic route. Yeah. Scenic route, covered in mud, half-naked, with no shoes. Love this journey for me.”
The forest didn’t answer, because of course it didn’t. Nature was rude like that.
After what felt like an eternity (and three near-death experiences involving squirrels that I mistook for assassins), I started talking to myself. Loudly.
“Alright, Marigold. Options: one—you keep walking and pray Gregor’s wolf GPS is still tuned into your scent. Two—you die of hypothermia and your obituary reads ‘Naked girl found wearing a hat skirt.’ Or three—you eat the squirrels and join the woodland critters as their feral queen. Honestly? Tempting.”
My stomach growled so loud I actually froze, thinking it was a wolf behind me. Nope. Just my gut, screaming for food like a diva denied champagne.
“Great,” I groaned. “Starving, naked, and talking to squirrels. Margaux would never.”
I kept walking, pushing past brambles that clawed my arms like they had a personal vendetta. My wolf was restless, pacing inside me, growling every time I tripped on another root.
“You could help, you know,” I snapped at her in my head. “Maybe sniff out some berries? Find me a cheeseburger? No? Just keep growling dramatically? Fine. Be that way.”
Just when I was about to give up and build a hut out of leaves like a deranged fairy-tale reject, I saw it.
A tree. With something weird dangling from a low branch.
I squinted.
“Is that…?”
I jogged closer, ignoring how every twig stabbed my bare feet. And then I stopped dead.
Hanging from the tree was a plastic bag.
A glorious, miraculous, shining-in-the-morning-sun plastic bag.
I gasped like I’d discovered Atlantis.
“NO. FREAKING. WAY.”
I yanked it down, hands shaking, and opened it. And there—inside—was salvation.
A pair of jeans. A jacket. Shoes. Actual underwear. And, the holiest of holies: a bar of chocolate and a pack of biscuits.
“GREGOR, YOU MAGNIFICENT SAVAGE,” I shouted, clutching the bag to my chest. “WHO NEEDS THE MOON GODDESS WHEN I HAVE YOU?”
I didn’t even bother with sass. Didn’t even try to play it cool. Nope. I ripped that chocolate open with my teeth like a starving cavewoman and devoured it in seconds. Crumbs smeared my face. Chocolate coated my lips. My wolf purred like I’d just fed her the blood of my enemies.
Then I attacked the biscuits. No shame. No dignity. Just primal, desperate hunger.
By the time I was done, I sat on the forest floor, crumbs all over my lap, clutching the empty wrappers like they were love letters.
“Oh my god,” I moaned. “That was… better than sex.”
I froze.
“Okay, maybe not better than Gregor-sex. But close. Very close. Like… prequel close.”
Once the sugar high hit, I finally pulled on the jeans and jacket. They fit perfectly, which was either divine intervention or Gregor being creepy in the most thoughtful way. Shoes? Perfect size. Jacket? Cozy. Underwear? Let’s just say I nearly cried actual tears.
I stood in front of the tree, arms spread, looking up at the sky.
“Thank you, mysterious tree gods. Thank you, Gregor. Thank you, random plastic bag. I am now officially clothed, sugared, and slightly less tragic.”
Then I noticed something at the bottom of the bag. A token.
Small. Simple. A wolf tooth carved into a pendant.
I froze. My heart clenched so hard I thought it might stop.
This wasn’t just a gift. This was Gregor. A sign. His sign. A promise.
He was alive.
I pressed the pendant to my chest, closing my eyes.
“Alright, Alpha Savage,” I whispered. “I found your little breadcrumb trail. You better still be breathing when I catch up. Because I swear to the Moon Goddess, I did not crawl through mud half-naked and eat biscuits like a feral raccoon just to lose you.”
My wolf howled inside me, loud and clear, for the first time since the attack.
Hope.
And just like that—I started walking again.
Okay. Plot twist I did not schedule: enemy scout #1 and enemy scout #2—two very wrong men from the Black Fang—popped out of the trees like bad extras in a tragedy. They looked like they were auditioning for “villain, but uncomfortable,” with one of them sporting the saddest mustache I’ve ever seen on a person about to die for their career choices.
I had the pendant at my throat, crumbs still stuck to my lips, mud crusting my calves, and the world, for once, had given me a ridiculous little gift: two men who were more stunned than dangerous.
They leveled their weapons—yes, pointy, unpleasant things—and delivered the standard “you are trespassing” speech, complete with the stare that clearly read: We will take you back to the Queen and have tea with your bones.
I looked at their boots. Their hands were shaking. New recruit.
Their eyes kept flicking to the jacket and jeans I was wearing like they were mentally reheating a lobster. I felt my wolf prickle; instinct wanted to rip them open like bad wrapping paper. But my brain, and also my jeans, whispered: we are not ruining these clothes.
So I did the only civilized thing a feral, slightly blood-smeared woman with zero options could do. I leaned forward, fixed them with the calmest possible smile, and said exactly what any sane person would say in a forest when cornered by armed men:
“Okay. Time out.”
They blinked. The taller one adjusted his mustache like that would make this less awkward.
“I’m serious,” I said. “Time out. Before we fight, okay? I would really prefer not to ruin my clothes. If we’re about to have a fight of the savage and lethal variety, I’d like—at minimum—the option to be properly naked for it. It’s more aerodynamic. Also, less laundry.”
The shorter one coughed. Mustache-man spluttered. They both exchanged the kind of look that said: Is this for real? which, to be fair, it was. I was a walking disaster in borrowed jeans uttering nonsense while pebbles of dried blood dotted my skin.
“What are you doing?” Mustache-man demanded, clutching his gun like that explained his masculinity.
I started unbuttoning my jacket, very deliberately, with all the theatricality of a diva at a crime scene. “Removing this,” I announced, peeling it off and tossing it to the side. “And this,” with another flourish for the shirt. “Also,” I added, as I gave him my most apologetic smirk, “if you’re going to stare, at least be respectful. Some of us are trying to keep our dignity.”
The two of them literally froze. Then, like someone hitting a switch labeled mortified, their cheeks flushed pink.
“Oh, my—” the blushing one squeaked, turning his face away like he’d bitten his tongue. Mustache-man’s mouth opened and closed. He tried to avert his eyes, but he kept sneaking glances. It was astonishing. They were the most easily scandalized recruits I’d ever seen. For a moment I thought maybe they’d been raised by nuns with exceptionally strict pajama rules.
“Turn the fuck around,” I said, because politeness is a form of warfare, and I was utterly exhausted from fighting anything that wasn’t a breadcrumb.