The cabin was wrapped in a silence so thick it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. I woke slowly, the fire reduced to glowing embers that flickered like dying stars in the stone hearth. Cold air nipped at my fingers the moment I pushed away the heavy furs Ronan had draped over me.
He was gone.
His absence filled the room more completely than his presence ever did. His scent lingered faintly—smoke, blood, wild pine, but it was fading, melting into the morning light like mist retreating from the sun. I told myself it didn't matter. He wasn't my savior, not in any way that counted. Just the scarred stranger who'd dragged me from the brink and refused to let me die in the snow.
Still, the emptiness pressed down on my chest in ways I wasn't ready to face.
I forced myself up, biting back a sharp breath as movement tugged at the half-healed wounds along my ribs. Ronan's bandages held firm—rough, but effective, just like him. Outside the shuttered window, the Direwilds stretched endlessly: towering pines scraping the sky, valleys thick with mist that seemed almost alive. The kind of wilderness that makes you feel like a speck swallowed by something vast and ancient.
My stomach growled, loud in the stillness. I wrapped the blanket tighter and shuffled to the hearth, tossing on the last few pieces of wood. Sparks danced like startled fireflies before settling into a steady flame.
"Just a little longer," I whispered to the life growing inside me, hand pressed to my belly. "We have to hold on."
That had become my prayer, my mantra—the only promise I could still make.
A noise at the door stopped me cold. Soft crunching footsteps in the snow, deliberate, nothing like the frantic scrapes of rogues.
My heart slammed against my ribs as Ronan's warning echoed: don't open the door. No matter what you hear.
The steps came closer.
I grabbed the nearest thing, a splintered piece of wood—and held it like a weapon. My hands trembled, but I forced them steady.
The latch clicked.
The door swung open silently.
Two women stepped inside, wrapped in dark furs edged with frost. The taller one moved first, her eyes sharp and assessing, as though she were hunting for threats. She filled the space simply by being there, commanding attention without a word. The second woman followed softly, smaller, gentler, but her eyes shared the same cautious watchfulness.
They were like Ronan. Those storm-dark eyes that cut through lies. That quiet strength that never shouted but couldn't be ignored.
I didn't lower my makeshift weapon.
"Put that down before you hurt yourself," the tall one said, calm and commanding—like a queen used to obedience.
"Who are you?" My voice cracked, though I fought to keep steady.
She shrugged off her cloak and tossed it on the battered table. "Lyra. That's my sister, Selvara."
"Ronan's sisters?"
Lyra's gaze sharpened, but there was no cruelty. "So you've heard of us."
I hadn't, really. Ronan spoke little of family, never enough to make him seem anything less than a force of nature. But their faces left no doubt.
Selvara stepped closer, her movements gentle but sure, eyes scanning me like a healer who's seen too much. "You're hurt," she said softly. "Sit down."
I didn't move. Distrust was carved into my bones, grown from weeks of betrayal. Every kindness I'd known came with hidden teeth.
Lyra caught my hesitation. "We're not here to hurt you."
"Ronan never said anyone was coming."
She smirked, part amused, part exasperated. "He wouldn't. My brother barely tells us what he's doing, let alone asks permission."
Selvara crouched by the fire, adding wood with practiced ease. "He sent word three days ago," she said without looking at me. "Found a woman near death in the woods. Told us to ready the cabin and come."
The neat furs, the stocked shelves, the quiet care, it wasn't chance. Maybe Ronan had planned this.
Lyra pulled off her gloves and studied me openly. "You're the one they threw out," she said flatly.
I nodded, words caught in my throat.
Her expression softened. "Cowards," she said simply. "All of them."
Selvara frowned at her sister's bluntness. "Lyra."
"What? I've seen what packs do to those who don't fit their perfect little molds." She looked at me, and for the first time I saw understanding there. "You don't need to be afraid here. The Direwilds don't play by their rules."
It should have comforted me. Instead, freedom felt like a cliff's edge.
Selvara passed me a clay mug of steaming broth, rich with herbs and meat. "Drink this," she urged. "You look starved."
I eyed it suspiciously, then let the warmth flood my frozen fingers and the cold places inside. I took a small sip.
She smiled, a rare, genuine thing. "Don't thank me yet. It tastes awful."
True enough. But my body needed it more than my tongue cared.
Lyra moved silently, checking shutters, stoking the fire, organizing supplies, no words, no fuss. Their easy rhythm reminded me painfully of what I'd lost: the silent understanding between sisters, the unspoken bond.
Finally, Lyra leaned on the table, arms crossed, studying me with an intensity that made me want to look away. "You're carrying, aren't you?"
My breath caught. "How—"
Her eyes flicked down to where my hand rested protectively on my belly. "We grew up with healers. Selvara can smell the change."
Selvara looked caught. "Only 'cause I was worried. You're too pale. Too thin. The baby needs you stronger."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I didn't ask to be saved."
Lyra's voice was steady. "Maybe not. But you were. And that means something here."
Their certainty unsettled me more than hostility would have. Weeks of waiting for cruelty had taught me to brace for the worst. This kindness was a trap I couldn't see.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why help me?"
Lyra met my eyes. "Because Ronan did. And we trust him, even when he's secretive."
"That's not an answer."
"It's all you need."
Her certainty was unshakable, and for once, I let myself believe it, even when my gut screamed no.
Outside, the wind swept through the trees like distant howls. The shutters rattled. The fire crackled, fighting the cold draft.
Selvara rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You're safe now," she whispered. "No one will hurt you. I promise."
It should have meant nothing—safety was a lie I'd been sold too many times. But her voice cut through my walls.
For the first time since Ironfang Keep, I let myself hope.
For the first time in forever, I breathed.