Chapter 3

I was folding sweaters into a duffel the next morning when Knox came home.

He looked like he hadn't slept. Before he even reached the bedroom, I could smell her. Brielle's scent was all over him, soaked into the shirt he'd worn to the feast.

For three years, every time an allied Alpha came through or the war council sat, Knox had asked me to wear scent blocker. "Until it's official," he'd said. "An Alpha carrying an unmarked female's scent, other packs read that as a weak spot."

So I'd dabbed the stuff on my wrists and throat until I smelled like nothing at all. I'd done it so long I'd almost forgotten what I smelled like to him.

And here he was, walking through our house wearing Brielle like a second skin. Any wolf on the ridge could pick it up from fifty yards.

His rule had only ever had one name in it. Mine.

He saw the duffel on the bed and stopped. "Brielle got sick last night. I stayed at the patrol cabin to keep an eye on her."

I looked up. Three years, and that was the first time he'd ever told me where he'd been.

I nodded.

"Alliance trip?" He tipped his head at the bag.

"Something like that."

Something in his shoulders let go. "I'm just grabbing something. I won't be back until late."

"Okay."

I'd been working up to it all morning. Leaving Ironridge, Greywater, all of it. I opened my mouth.

He was already in the hallway, pulling a long gift box out of the coat closet. Dark green paper, a silver ribbon. He tucked it under his arm and left.

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the shelf beside it. The framed photo on top slid, tipped, and smashed on the floorboards.

Glass skidded across the floor.

It was us at the old watchtower, eight years ago. The first snow that winter, we'd run the whole ridge in wolf form and shifted back at the top, laughing and half frozen, my hair full of snow. Somebody from the night patrol took the picture.

That night, Knox had pulled me against his chest to warm me up and said, Every first snow, we run the ridge. Just us. Every year, no matter what.

We did it five years in a row. Then the war came, and Brielle came, and the first snow always found him on the line or at the training ring.

Then it hit me. Last night was the first snow.

The watchtower in Brielle's photo.

I got the dustpan and swept up the glass. Then I picked up the photo. I looked at it long enough to remember how cold my hands had been that night, and dropped it in the trash.

Tamsin called just as I was zipping the last bag. She'd been my best friend since we were pups, and she was the pack's healer, which meant she heard everything.

"Tell me you've seen the pack chat," she said. "Because if you haven't, I'm coming over, and I'm bringing something to throw."

I put her on speaker and opened it.

Brielle had posted again. An open wooden case lined in green velvet. Inside lay a hunting knife, hand-forged, the steel rippled like water, her name carved down the handle.

Just behind the case, half out of frame, lay a strip of dark green wrapping paper and a curl of silver ribbon.

So that was what he'd come home for.

Three years since you pulled me out of that river and brought me home. Happy anniversary, Alpha 💚

Three years.

The night he pulled her out of the river was the night of our Luna ceremony. He left before the last toast. A border alarm, he said. He came back at dawn carrying a half-drowned rogue girl, and I spent the rest of my ceremony night helping Tamsin keep her alive.

Today was our anniversary. We'd never once celebrated it. I'd forgotten it myself.

"Maren? You still there?"

"He's not my mate, Tam." I sank onto the bed. "Not really. You've seen my neck."

"I thought it was the war. I thought you two had agreed to wait."

"I asked him eighteen times. Eighteen times he said, when the war's over."

"The war is over."

"I know."

Tamsin swore under her breath, long and creative. Then, much quieter: "Oh, honey."

"It's fine. No mark, no oath. I don't need his permission to leave."