Chapter 66 67
A few hours later.
When we finally stumbled into the northern safehouse, it felt, briefly and miraculously, like being swallowed by warmth. Not much—just a squat stone cottage with a chimney that coughed smoke and a single crooked door—but after hours of rain, mud, and the chorus of wolves on our heels, it was a palace.
My thighs literally ached from the ride. The horse had been kind enough, the saddle less so. I tried to sit like a lady when Leon’s hand offered me down from his mount, but then gravity and exhaustion decided I wasn’t that kind of person anymore. I landed in a heap on the flagstones, and for a glorious second I did not care who saw me. My butt had a permanent bruise shaped like a small, judgmental horseshoe and every muscle in my back whined with eloquent complaints.
My glorious moment of self-pity was abruptly interrupted by the sight of Sugar, who, having successfully transformed into a boneless, grumbling blob, was now using Prince Leon's expensive coat as a pillow. It was a masterpiece of passive-aggressive survivalism, and I had to admire her dedication.
"If someone tells me they live a glamorous life," she mumbled into his shoulder, her voice muffled but her meaning clear, "I will personally shove their handbag where the sun don't shine."
Leon just made a soft, weary sound and patted her head. He had the kind of tired that doesn't sleep—the sort that carries a weapon and silently vows to use it on the next person who says something stupid. He glanced at me, and in that look, I saw him already calculating eight moves ahead, probably deciding which one of us was most likely to set ourselves on fire while trying to dry our socks.
As for me, I finally managed to peel myself off the ground and stumble inside. The cottage smelled of wet wool and roasted meat, a combination that felt like a lavish perfume after a day of smelling like a wet dog that had rolled in a swamp. I eyed the coppery tang of blood on someone's sleeve, a little souvenir of the day's events. Oh, what a charming little cottage. Just like a brochure: "Cozy Fireside Retreat! Includes rustic decor, singing kettle, and the faint, nostalgic scent of a recent massacre!" It was a five-star experience, provided you didn't mind the lingering threat of being eaten by wolves or the minor inconvenience of a horse-shaped bruise on your butt.
Inside, the hearth was bright. Xander’s men had been here before us—practical as ever—piles of dry blankets, a kettle already singing, and the faint coppery tang of blood on someone’s sleeve. The place smelled of wet wool and roasted meat: small comforts that felt enormous.
I tried to stand and failed gracefully, like a drunk aristocrat. Leon offered his arm. Instinct said to refuse, pride said to refuse, but something soft in me took it. Maybe it was the taste of smoke and the way his coat smelled faintly of pine and promise; maybe it was the fact that he’d risked himself to get me out of the castle. Either way I took it, and he helped me find a seat.
Sugar sat up and, without bothering to be ladylike, wiggled her backside like it was virtue and declared, “My butt hurts more than my feelings. Which is saying something.”
I wanted to laugh. It came out as a breathy half-choke. “That’s the most tragic thing I’ve heard all day,” I told her, but I meant it. Laughter slipped through the tension like a small blessing.
We hadn’t been on the ground ten minutes before a cracked phone screen buzzed on the table. Zach. Blessed, brilliant, hacker-of-things. He’d been working the Black Fang servers like a terrier with a bone, and his message popped up with the sort of brevity that meant he’d either saved our lives or caused the next global incident.
They’re close. Their staging camp is two hours behind your trail. Xander struck at first light—took them hard. Lost a few men but they burned the camp. We created a blast that buys you time. Move north—now. GPS off, no tech. I’ll relay rendezvous. —Z
Leon’s jaw tightened. Xander’s men exchanged a look that said everything: they’d hit the Black Fang hard last night—smashed a staging ground, killed their scouts, burned whatever supplies were there. That was why we’d heard less howling, why the immediate chase had thinned. That didn’t mean the Black Fang were gone. It meant they’d been wounded and would regroup like vipers with memory.
“You mean they attacked while we were—” Sugar started.
“Yes.” Xander’s lieutenant, who’d come in to check the boilers, gave us the facts in one clipped breath. “We struck overnight. They didn’t expect the north to move. They won’t expect you to move fast either. You need to go. Now.”
Now.
My wolf untied itself from the edge of my sanity and thumped against my ribs in a frantic, hot rhythm. Gregor had to be alive. He had to. The thought had been like a single white thread through the chaos, steady and impossible. Zach’s message meant Xander’s people were hurting their enemies—good—but it also meant the Queen had the resources to sink her claws into the rest of the kingdom and the Black Fang would come hard.
I stood up because not standing up wasn’t an option. The blankets slipped from my shoulders and I saw, for the first time, Leon’s hands. Abrasions: a shallow line of blood along his knuckles, dark who-knows-what smeared on his cuff. He’d bled for this—he’d risked for us. The thought lodged under my sternum like a stone and warmed me in a dangerous, unfamiliar way.
“You did this,” I said, too softly to be proud but loud enough that Xander’s men heard. “You burned their camp.”
“We did,” Xander answered. He was practical, unsentimental—my kind of man in the keeps-you-alive sense. “We won some ground. We lost some blood. You have to keep moving. The longer you stay, the easier a hawk you become.”
Sugar pushed herself up and, for all she’d told me about her posterior, she moved like a soldier: efficient and fierce. She produced a small bundle of clean clothes—one of Xander’s crew had been generous—and shoved them into my hands like armor.
“You’re changing,” she announced. “Now. Pants on. No more diva skulking. Also, boots. Try not to walk like you’re on a catwalk, because right now we look like a trio of potential suspects and I’d rather be an actual suspect for jaywalking than a suspect for harboring an alpha.”
I laughed then, a real laugh, and it startled me. Sugar’s rudeness had always been a kind of glue, keeping us from shattering. I let her fuss with me; the motions steadied me. Leon stood a little farther away, watching, expression folded in lines like he’d been thinking too hard at once.
When I had my boots on and enough dignity to stand, Leon produced a cheap wool cloak and draped it over my shoulders. “Keep your hood up,” he said. “Move like you want to be invisible.”
“Is that an order?” I asked, because my lips liked banter even in the worst of times.
He looked at me, and there was something sharp and vulnerable in it. “Consider it a request.” Then, in a voice low enough that only I heard, he added, “Be careful with your heart.”
My stomach did a ridiculous little flip. “You’re getting sentimental, Your Highness,” I said, louder, to cover the sudden heat of it.