The days blurred into pale, frozen light and dark, bitter nights. Mira kept mostly to herself. She stayed inside, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes always low. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention. She saw everything.
Every morning, Thorne stepped out into the clearing behind the cabin. Through the foggy window, she watched him move—fast, deadly, disciplined. He didn’t just fight. He trained like survival depended on it. There was nothing wasted in his motion, no hesitation. Even the air seemed to bend away from him.
He never said where he went. Never offered explanations. He came back sweating, silent, sometimes bleeding. But his eyes never changed. They were always cold, always sharp.
Mira said nothing the first time he tracked snow through the door. Or the second. But the third time he brought her food, she whispered, “Thank you.”
He didn’t look up. “I didn’t do it for you,” he muttered, brushing snow from his shoulders.
She didn’t push. Still, her curiosity grew: slow and dark beneath the surface. Why did he live here, alone? What could exile a wolf like him? She didn’t ask. But the questions clung to her thoughts, louder in silence.
One night, the wind howled louder than usual. Mira sat near the fire, her hands still and folded. Thorne stirred stew at the hearth, the only sound in the cabin the soft bubble of the pot. She watched him. She hadn’t meant to speak.
“You could’ve left me to die,” she said quietly.
He didn’t turn around. “Should’ve.”
Their eyes met over the flames. Thorne stirred the stew once, then set the ladle down with a soft clink.
“I didn’t save you out of pity.”
Mira didn’t flinch. Just met his gaze, quiet and steady. Still, she said nothing.
He looked away first, reaching for the tin cups beside the hearth.
“You were freezing,” he added, voice low. “I made a choice.”
She finally turned, watching the flames again.
“You make a lot of those without thinking?”
He didn’t answer. Just poured the stew. She waited.
“Do you ever wish you didn’t?” Her voice was soft now. Controlled.
His hand paused mid-motion.
“Wish I didn’t do what?”
“Let the cold take me.”
A beat. Two.
He set the cups down. Harder than before.
“If I did, I wouldn’t still be feeding you.”
She almost smiled, but it slipped.
“I just… I wouldn’t blame you.”
Thorne crouched by the fire, his eyes fixed on the iron pot. The light reflected off the scar on his jaw.
“You think I regret it?”
Mira didn’t answer. He shrugged once.
“You’d be surprised what I regret.”
She studied him now. His hand rested close to the blade at his hip. Not clutching it. Just… there.
She spoke again, carefully.
“You always scan the trees like something’s waiting for you there.”
His jaw tightened. “Something is.”
She nodded, unsure if she should push him any further.
“You never ask about me.”
He didn’t look at her.
“Figured if you wanted to tell me, you would.”
Silence stretched again.
“You’re not the only one with things that don’t heal right,” she said finally.
His eyes flicked to hers.
“No,” he agreed. “But some wounds make better armor than others.”
She leaned back, drawing her knees close.
“And some just keep bleeding.”
There was rustling. The sound was sharp and unnatural. Wood splitting? A paw snapping a branch? Mira didn’t know, but her body moved before her mind caught up. She rose from her place by the fire, heart already pounding, feet bare against the floorboards.
Thorne moved faster. His knife was in his hand again, like it had never left. He reached the door before she could.
“Get back,” he growled, but she didn’t stop. She pressed closer, close enough to see the way his breath fogged against the air leaking in through the frame.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Wolves.”
Her breath hitched. Not because she feared them—she had lived among wolves all her life—but because of the look in Thorne’s eyes. It wasn’t fear. It was ready. Cold, practiced, sharpened.
“Are they yours?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “And they’re not yours either anymore, are they?”