Chapter 24 – Planning the Impossible
Eli
Days blur, but I don’t stop looking for a way out.
I move through camp with my head down, jacket pulled tight against my neck to hide the bruises.
My eyes never rest. Every crate that’s unloaded, every truck’s arrival, every group heading to the borders, I count them, mark them in my mind.
Jace catches me hanging back near the storage shed one afternoon. He eyes the crate in my arms and then the map tacked to the wall behind him. “You’re even quieter that usual lately,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Planning something?”
I force a tired shrug. “Just trying to figure out how far this place stretches.” Keep the questions harmless and small.
He studies me, unreadable, then jerks his chin toward the tree line. “Blackthorn runs from the river bend to the old watchtower. Don’t cross either unless you’re sick of breathing.”
I nod, filing that away. River bend. Watchtower. Both guarded. Both dangerous.
Jace hands me a canteen, a note of resignation in his voice. “Stick close to the east patrol if you’re dumb enough to try. Trails out that way are older… fewer eyes are kept on them.”
I meet his gaze. He doesn’t look like he’s joking. My chest tightens. “Thanks,” I mutter.
“Don’t thank me,” he says, pushing off the doorframe. “Just don’t get killed.”
The next night I linger by the supply trucks longer than I should, pretending to sort ammo while I memorize the driver’s routine.
Two trips every three days. Headlights off past the east ridge. My wolf flicks its ears back, uneasy, but I force calm into my hands as I stack boxes.
The bond hums low, never silent now. Ronan’s presence sits in the back of my head like a pulse I can’t ignore. Sometimes I think I hear his breath when I’m alone, feel his mood like a brush of claws over my thoughts. It scares the hell out of me.
So I test it.
Each morning I walk a little farther from the heart of camp under the excuse of gathering firewood. At fifty paces, nothing. At a hundred, the bond tugs, a dull pressure in my chest. By the third day I make it to the treeline.
The pull sharpens, like teeth on my skin. I grit my teeth and take another step. Pain blooms behind my eyes. I stagger back, shaking, gasping for breath until the pull eases.
Not far enough. Not yet.
By dusk of the third day, I’ve sketched the patrol rotations in my head.
East patrol is thin after midnight, only two wolves, one of them half‑asleep on his post. The supply shed’s lock is old.
I won’t be able to take much. They keep meticulous count of the stock.
My plan is shaky and desperate as hell, but it’s all I’ve got.
I’m headed back from the treeline when I sense him.
The bond tightens like a noose. I slow, heartbeat thudding against my ribs. A figure leans against the corner of the lodge, half hidden.
His arms are crossed, black shirt open at the throat, wind teasing his dark hair. His eyes catch the light, making them shine like bright molten gold, fixed on me. He steps into my path before I can veer away.
“Out late,” he murmurs.
“I was gathering wood,” I say. My voice sounds thin even to my own ears. I lower my gaze like I’ve seen the others do. “For the fire.”
He circles me slowly, boots crunching in the snow, the way a wolf might circle prey. “You’ve been wandering,” he says softly. “Past the markers. Past where you should be going.”
My heart stutters. He knows. My wolf curls tight, trembling.
“I didn’t know-” I start, but he cuts me off with a low growl that makes my legs weaken.
“Don’t lie to me.” He steps closer, heat rolling off him. His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to meet those burning eyes. “Tell me, little pet. Are you looking for a way out?”
I swallow hard. My pulse pounds so loud I’m sure he hears it.
“No,” I whisper, eyes wide and innocent. “I… I wouldn’t.” I force my shoulders to dip, head to tilt slightly in a submissive angle. One I’ve seen others take when he’s angry. “I belong here.”
His thumb strokes over the bite on my neck, slow, almost tender. “Belong,” he echoes, dark amusement threading his tone. “Is that what you call it?”
I hold still, breath shallow, hoping the shiver running through me reads as submission, not terror.
Ronan leans in, lips close to my ear. “You think I can’t feel you plotting?” His voice is soft and dangerous. “You think I don’t know every step you take?”
My knees nearly give out. “I’m not-”
His other hand closes around the back of my neck, firm, possessive. “If you run,” he whispers, “I’ll hunt you. I’ll drag you back bleeding, and you’ll thank me for it.”
I can’t move, can’t speak. His breath ghosts over my skin, and for a heartbeat I think he’ll kiss me again, crush me against the lodge wall, make me lose myself all over.
Instead, he lets go. Steps back. His eyes linger on me, unreadable, then he turns and walks into the shadows, leaving me trembling in the snow.
My breath rushes out in a shaky gasp. My fingers curl into fists.
He knows. I’ll have to be faster. Or I’ll never get out alive.