Chapter 12 Pressure Points
The forest doesn’t sleep beneath a waning moon.
It listens.
I stand on the balcony long after Alaric leaves, the stone cold beneath my palms, the air sharp with pine and frost. Somewhere below, wolves move through shadowed paths, their footfalls quiet, purposeful. The bond hums low and steady, like a warning bell struck too softly to ignore.
Two nights.
The words press in on me from every angle.
I finally turn away from the view and head back inside, my steps measured, my breathing controlled. Panic is useless. Regret is worse. What I need now is clarity.
I don’t find it.
Sleep comes late and shallow, filled with fractured dreams—Alaric’s hands steady on my wrists, the taste of iron and wine, the bond flaring bright and punishing as I choose wrong again and again. When I wake, it’s with my heart racing and my magic restless under my skin, like it knows something is coming and wants to be ready for it.
Morning brings no relief.
The compound feels wound tighter than ever. Wolves pass in pairs now. Doors close more quietly. Voices carry less. Even the air seems heavier, weighted with anticipation.
I dress quickly and make my way back to the infirmary, grateful for the distraction of work. Selene is already there, her movements brisk, her expression guarded.
“You were up late,” she says without looking at me.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
She snorts softly. “Neither could the Alpha.”
The bond pulses, sharp and immediate, and I have to school my reaction quickly.
Selene finally looks up, her eyes keen. “Careful. The pack notices things like that.”
“Notices what?”
“Patterns.” She hesitates, then lowers her voice. “And right now, you and Alaric are becoming one.”
A chill slides down my spine.
Before I can respond, a runner enters the infirmary, breathless. “Skirmish near the eastern ridge,” he says. “Three injured. One critical.”
Selene is already moving. “Prep the far tables.”
I follow without hesitation, my thoughts scattering as instinct takes over. Wolves are brought in moments later—bloodied, grim, carrying the sharp scent of magic scorched into flesh.
Witch magic.
The sight hits me like a blow.
I force myself to focus, cleaning wounds, binding gashes, murmuring reassurances I don’t feel. The bond thrums uneasily, echoing my tension, my guilt. Every injured wolf feels like an accusation.
This is what they sent you to stop, a voice whispers in my mind.
This is why the poison exists.
Alaric arrives while we’re still working, his presence immediate and commanding. He moves through the infirmary with quiet efficiency, issuing orders, checking wounds. His gaze flicks to me briefly, then away—but the bond tightens, a subtle acknowledgment.
He knows this is hitting me harder than it should.
The critical wolf—a young scout—doesn’t regain consciousness. We stabilize him as best we can, but when Selene meets Alaric’s eyes, the answer is clear before she speaks.
“He won’t make it through the night.”
Alaric nods once, his expression unreadable. “Stay with him.”
The wolf dies an hour later.
I step back, my hands slick with blood, my chest tight. I’ve seen death before. I’ve caused it, indirectly, in quieter ways.
This feels different.
Alaric watches from across the room, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched. The bond hums with restrained fury—his, not mine. When our gazes meet, something dark and heavy passes between us.
Later, when the infirmary has quieted and the body has been taken away, Alaric gestures for me to follow him.
We don’t speak as we walk.
He leads me not to his quarters, but to a smaller room tucked away from the main corridors—an office of sorts, lined with shelves and old maps. He closes the door behind us and leans back against it, arms crossed.
“Tell me what you felt,” he says.
I blink. “About what?”
“The skirmish.” His eyes sharpen. “You reacted before anyone said the word ‘witch.’”
My pulse spikes. “I’ve seen magic wounds before.”
“Not like that,” he counters. “You recognized the pattern.”
The bond pulses, tense and watchful.
I choose my words carefully. “I’ve traveled. I’ve seen… things.”
Alaric studies me for a long moment, then exhales slowly. “The council wants retaliation.”
My stomach drops. “Against the witches?”
“Yes.” His voice hardens. “They believe this was a test. A warning.”
“And you?”
“I believe it was provocation.” His gaze locks onto mine. “And I believe you’re standing at the center of it.”
The words land like a verdict.
“I didn’t cause this,” I say quietly.
“I didn’t say you did,” he replies. “But I don’t believe it’s coincidence either.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy and brittle.
“Two nights,” he says again. “After the blood moon, I will act.”
“Act how?” I ask.
His expression is grim. “With force.”
The bond surges, hot and sharp, my magic flaring in response before I can stop it. The room seems to vibrate, air crackling faintly.
Alaric stills instantly. “That,” he says softly, “is exactly what I’m talking about.”
I clamp down on my magic, my heart hammering. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” His voice is quieter now. “But you’re running out of room to hide.”
I swallow hard. “And you’re running out of patience.”
A faint, dangerous smile touches his mouth. “Yes.”
He steps closer, close enough that the bond hums loudly, insistently. “If you care about this pack,” he says, “about the lives you just tried to save…”
My chest tightens. “Don’t.”
“Then help me prevent a war,” he finishes.
The words hang between us, heavy with implication.
I look up at him, really look—at the weight he carries, the control he maintains even as everything strains against it. At the man who will make hard choices because no one else can.
“I don’t know how,” I whisper.
The bond pulses, conflicted.
Alaric studies my face, then nods once. “Then you’d better figure it out.”
He turns away, opening the door.
“Rest,” he says over his shoulder. “Tomorrow will be worse.”
He leaves me alone in the small room, my thoughts spiraling.
The skirmish wasn’t random.
The coven is tightening the leash.
And if Alaric retaliates, the war they fear will begin—with or without me.
I press a hand to my chest, feeling the bond hum beneath my skin.
Two nights.
Two nights until everything breaks.
And for the first time since I took the vial into my hand, I wonder if the poison was never meant for Alaric alone—
But for whatever part of me is still pretending I can walk away untouched.