Chapter 67 68
He didn’t smile. He just moved to the window and peered out. Dawn was an angry smear of gray at the horizon. The rain had given us temporary reprieve; the mud would be worse. But we had more than shelter now—we had timing, and we had an edge: Xander had taken out a Black Fang staging camp. We weren’t walking into a welcoming committee.
Before we left, Beta Xander came over and handed me a small, sealed piece of paper. “Zach gave this to me,” he said. “If things go south, follow these coordinates and head toward the third ravine. There’s a cache of supplies and a dead drop. We’ve also arranged a decoy—something to pull attention away if the Fang try to trace your scent.”
Sugar smacked his arm like it hurt. “Heroic and logistically efficient. I like you.”
Prince Leon raised his brow at Sugar. She rolled her eyes instead.
We moved out in a churn of mud and urgency. The horses waited, but this time we walked more than we rode—safety in unpredictable motion. If the Black Fang had trackers, we wanted them confused. Our route looped in ridiculous, animal-crisscrossing ways. We trod like thieves fleeing a burned theater, with Leon’s men covering every flank, Xander’s eyes cutting the tree line, and Sugar narrating our flight with the sort of commentary that would have made me die from laughter if I hadn’t been terrified.
At one point, the wind threw a branch at my hood and I bent down to tie my boot. Sugar sat on a fallen rock and, in the way she resembled an exhausted, feral toddler, rubbed her hands together and said, “So. Who fetches the tissues when we finally kill a queen?”
I snorted, which was somehow worse than giggling. “We’ll need more than tissues.”
She growled a laugh. “Yes. And wine. And vengeance.”
There was a comfort in that—small, incendiary, and utterly ours. It fueled me with the sort of steady heat that had nothing to do with the fevered panic of the last few days. It was the hot coal of a plan.
We pushed on until the light yawned pale and thin across the trees and the northern cliffs rose like a promise. The safehouse held us only long enough to patch and plan: a bowl of hot broth, a strip of gauze for the cut on Leon’s hand (he winced when Sugar wrapped it, but he kissed her and because why not? Sugar smirked with her smugness, which made her fingers clumsy), and another message from Zach pinging across a burner that Xander had set up.
They’re routing troops. Your smoke is small. Move to ravine B. We’ll meet you there.
Zach’s messages were mercilessly efficient. He had a talent for making me feel simultaneously protected and wildly exposed.
I slid my hand inside my cloak and pressed the corner of the old seam where I had hidden Gregor’s name, my promise still sizzling like an open wound. “We move at first light,” I said.
Sugar yawned dramatically. “I’d like to be poetic and say this is the bravest I’ve ever been, but honestly? My butt still hurts.” She waggled her hips like a woman offering her dignity for sale. “Also, I might have to murder someone.”
“Save it for the queen,” I muttered, but the smile at the corner of my mouth felt like a small, private rebellion.
The storm had done something to the woods—they smelled of iron and possibility. Under everything, my wolf thrummed demanding, bold and vengeful. He is alive, I kept telling myself, turning the mantra until it felt solid. He’s alive. I will find him.
We were still moving, not yet safe, but alive. And for the first time in days, the plan felt less like a desperate gamble and more like a promise.
Tomorrow we would run toward him. Tonight we bandaged wounds, made maps, and pretended to sleep. Sugar snored within minutes—dramatically loud—and Prince Leon kept a quiet watch at the window like a silent guardian.
I pressed my cheek to the wool of my cloak and let the rain’s last dampness dry into a stubborn, stubborn hope. My wolf sagged into a low, hopeful whine. I closed my eyes and, for the first time since the Queen’s voice had cut into my head, pictured Gregor cutting a path through the dark, black fur flashing like a blade, and knew, absurdly and fiercely, that nothing short of the world ending would keep me from him.
Near dawn.
You’d think dawn meant peace, meant new beginnings, meant birds chirping and maybe the faint smell of coffee if the Moon Goddess was merciful. Nope. Not in my life. In my life, dawn meant absolute hell raining down on us with teeth, claws, and enough blood to make a butcher faint.
The Black Fang hit us like thunder. One minute, we were half-asleep, damp from the stupid drizzle, trying to warm stale bread over a dying campfire. The next, they were everywhere. Too many. They overturned the camp like rabid dogs tearing into meat.
“Marigold, move!” Leon’s voice cut through the chaos, his sword already slick with red. His men—the few we had left—were ripped apart like paper dolls. Sugar screamed beside me as a fang grazed her arm. She still had the audacity to sass:
“Oh, of course! Wake up to THIS. Couldn’t we just once have breakfast in peace?”
“Shut up and duck!” I shoved her down as a Black Fang wolf lunged. Its jaws snapped inches from her throat, but I kicked, shifted, and my claws shredded its belly open before it could blink.
Blood sprayed. Hot. Metallic. All over me. My wolf was snarling, half in control, half feral. I felt myself slipping into her rage, into that red haze that didn’t care about who lived, only who died.
It was slaughter. Wolves clashing with wolves, men screaming, Sugar trying to stab someone with what I think was Leon’s dagger. Then—Leon’s roar, commanding, desperate:
“RUN! Take her and RUN!”
But he couldn’t even run himself. He had Sugar cradled in his arms, her body limp and bleeding, blood soaking his shirt. And me? My wolf was loose. I ripped through them. I don’t even remember half of it, just the tearing, the screaming, the feeling of bodies breaking under my jaws. Then—lightning in my brain. A thought. A plea. Leon’s voice again.
“Marigold! Run!”
So I did. I ran.
Through fire. Through ash. Through blood that wasn’t mine but soaked me anyway. My paws pounded the earth, my chest heaving as I ripped apart three more of them just to break free. I didn’t look back when I heard Leon’s voice fade into the night, didn’t look back when Sugar screamed my name.
I ran until my lungs were fire.
And then it was morning.
Hours happened. Or maybe minute, who cares! I am running with all my might.
One minute I was on four and next, I was on two legs.
I stumbled into a forest clearing, naked, covered in mud, blood, and enough scratches to look like I lost a wrestling match with a cactus. My body hurt everywhere. I was swollen, raw, and sticky with dried gore. My wolf receded, leaving me human, but damn if she wasn’t still pacing in my head, furious, aching for the fight.
I bent over, panting, mud dripping from my hair.
“Okay. Okay, Moon Goddess,” I gasped between breaths. “Not that I’m complaining, but… WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. HELL?”
Silence. No answer. Just birds chirping in the distance like the world wasn’t falling apart.
I looked down at myself and nearly gagged. I was naked. Naked-naked. No clothes, no blanket, just mud and blood like some deranged cavewoman.
“Fantastic. Just what I needed. The perfect morning look. Margaux Chic—naked, feral, and accessorized with dried intestines. Iconic.”
I staggered toward the sound of rushing water until I found a small river. Thank the Goddess. I threw myself in, scrubbing like my life depended on it. Blood swirled downstream in thick crimson clouds.
The cold water burned every cut, every scrape. I hissed, cussed, and splashed like a drowning raccoon.
“Yep. Amazing. Great. Totally normal spa day. Just me, my trauma, and a river colder than Leon’s royal glare.”
At least I got the blood off. Mostly. My reflection looked like a war criminal on the run, but hey—small wins.
Then came the clothes issue. I had none. I found a tattered hat some hunter must’ve lost ages ago. It was stiff, scratchy, and pinched my skin like it had knives sewn into the seams. But it was that or strut through the forest in my birthday suit, and while I had the confidence of Margaux down to an art, trust me—naked wolf-girl covered in scars was not a look.
So I tied it around myself like the world’s worst skirt.
“Look at me. Fashion week in hell,” I muttered, glaring at the trees. “Miranda Priestly would rise from her majestic bed just to slap me.”
I slumped onto a rock, water dripping from my hair. My muscles screamed. My butt hurt worse than before. I wanted to cry, scream, laugh, and nap all at once.
What the hell just happened?