Chapter 8

Red silk rustles as I bring my carriage to a halt before the borderland general's den. My heart pounds like a war drum, fingers tightening over the handkerchief in my lap.

Back in my other life, I'd only heard tales of Jason—cold, hard, lone wolf who shunned she-wolves and perished on the battlefield. Now, I'm to be his mate.

The curtain opens, and a calloused hand extends. "We're here," in a deep, gravelly voice.

I hesitate, and then insert my hand into his. His coarse grain palm, the scarring scored by years of the hold of a blade, sends me shivering.

As I step out, there is a gust of sandy wind, catching at the corners of my veil. I cover my eyes, but before it hits, he steps, thrusting his broad back into its path.

"The borderland blows. Be careful," he tells me.

I look up to find black-as-night eyes, sharp and silent, with a depth that I can't fully read.

"General," I say softly.

Jason nods, leading me across a scorching brazier to his quarters. The room is stripped bare—walls untouched, swords cold-glittering on their racks—and over the door a courtyard of soldiers swing into attention, their simultaneous shout booming over us: 'Hail the general's new bond!'

The shout unsettles me, fingers quivering. Jason notices it, stooping to whisper near my ear. "Don't worry. They're just rowdy."

The wedding ceremony is simple, solemn—not Yates splendor, no fawning guests, but the honest, unadorned howls of border wolves.

Jason next takes me to the wedding chamber. Red candle flames blaze, the bed with red silk draped over it, a tray of ritual wine on the shelf.

He stands over me, towering above me, his massive height almost closing in around me. "The union wine," he growls, holding out a cup.

I nod, my arms folding across me as we drink. The liquor burns, scorching my throat, my eyes watering.

He wrinkles his nose. "borderland wine's strong. Mind your drink."

Then he takes a small wooden box out of his pocket and holds it out to me. "For you."

I lift it, curious, and discover a snow-white tiger-tooth hairpin, the letter "Peace" engraved at the end of it, the strokes thick, like his.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Tiger I hunted. Cut it myself," he says matter-of-factly. "The borderland is not safe. Put it on. It will protect you."

My fingers follow the curves etched into it, and something inside me shifts. In the other life, I stitched sachet after sachet for Shawn, embroidered handkerchiefs until my eyes were blurry, and he merely flung them to the nearest slave. Tonight a stranger—this wolf I've known only a few minutes—gives me something that he shaped with his own hands.

"Thank you, General," I whisper.

He stands there, silent for a second, then utters, "You're here now. You're my mate."

His voice cracks, husky. "The army's disciplined. It'll be tough on you. Rest tonight. I'll sleep outside."

He attempts to walk away, but I stop him, surprised. "You're not sleeping?"

He pauses, back to me, voice low. "We've just met. No need to hurry."

I notice that he is giving me space to settle. The so-called merciless frontier war god has a gentleness I didn't expect.

"General," I call softly. "We're mates now. We should sleep together."

He bristles, then slowly turns. By candlelight, his eyes twist like a churning sea, pulling at my heart.

Finally, he says, "Alright."

But that night, he lies next to me, dressed, a hand's breadth of distance between us, never crossing the line.

I glance over at him in moonlight, his angular planes softened in sleep, and something in my heart shifts.

Perhaps, perhaps maybe so, this life, I will find my true home here.