Pain comes back before memory does.

Not sharp. Heavy. A deep ache buries itself beneath Anastasia Vale's ribs, making her feel as though her body has been dragged through ice and rebuilt incorrectly afterward.

Warmth presses against her cheek. Blankets. Real blankets. Not snow. Not the frozen ground of the endless white wilderness she collapsed into after running until her lungs nearly tore apart.

For one disorienting second, she thinks maybe she has died. Then voices drift through the walls—low, male.

The scent hits next—Wolf.

Anastasia's eyes snap open instantly. She jerks upright so fast agony explodes through her spine, tearing a strangled breath from her throat.

The room spins. Wooden ceiling. Stone fireplace. Heavy western-style furniture. Dark green curtains move softly beside a frost-covered window.

Not a dungeon. Not a prison cell. Which somehow makes this worse. Wolf territories disguise danger beautifully. Always have.

Her pulse slams harder. She shoves the blanket aside, realizing she is still mostly dressed. Her boots are gone, and her coat sits folded carefully over a nearby chair. Someone has cleaned the blood from her hands.

That realization chills her more than the snow ever did.

Someone touched me.

Anastasia swings her legs off the bed. She swallows hard and forces herself to stand anyway. Never look weak in enemy territory. The instinct comes automatically.

Outside the door, one of the voices stopped.

Then another.

A man muttered, "Did you hear that?"

"She's awake," another replied, voice tighter now. "Don't go in. He said not to crowd her."

He?

Anastasia freezes. She moves silently toward the bedroom door, every muscle protesting. Her fingers wrap around the handle slowly, carefully, opening it just two inches.

A cabin hallway stretches beyond it—wide and dimly lit by iron lanterns mounted along dark timber walls. Mounted antlers cast long shadows. A woven runner disappeared toward a staircase. The cabin was larger than she had first thought.

Three unfamiliar men stood near the entryway, all of them wolves, all of them alert in the careful, controlled way of men who had been trained not to look startled even when they were.

One was enormous, with a shaved head, a scar dragging pale through his beard, and shoulders that made the staircase behind him look narrow. Another leaned against the banister with dark blond hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, his posture casual in the way only dangerous people could afford to be casual. The third was younger, perhaps barely older than Anastasia, with anxious eyes that kept flicking toward the upper floor no matter how hard he tried to stop them.

Anastasia's eyes narrow. Definitely pack wolves. Not ordinary ones. Organized. 

The younger wolf glances upward. Their eyes meet, and his expression changes instantly. "Ah—shit."

All three men turned. Anastasia opens the door fully, every instinct sharpening.

"Where am I?" Her voice comes out rougher than intended.

The scarred wolf straightens immediately—professional, controlled, but wary. Interesting. Most wolves either underestimate her instantly or treat her like a political inconvenience. These men look careful, like they've been given very specific instructions.

The blond man answers first. "You're safe here."

Silence. The younger wolf visibly shifts, awkward under her gaze.

The scarred one speaks next. "You need rest."

Anastasia's eyes turn colder. Who the hell are these people?

She takes another step into the hallway. Pain flares brutally through her legs, and her balance nearly slips. All three wolves move at once—too fast, protective rather than aggressive. 

"I'm fine," she snaps.

The scarred wolf immediately stops approaching, respecting her distance. 

Anastasia studies them harder. No visible territory insignia. No official Alpha marks. No scent-bond hierarchy filling the cabin. Which makes absolutely no sense; a powerful wolf safehouse should reek of dominance. 

"Did Kaelen send you?" The question slices through the room instantly.

The younger wolf looks confused. The blond one looks uncomfortable. The scarred wolf's expression doesn't move at all—too disciplined.

"No," the scarred wolf says.

Anastasia searches his face. Lie? Maybe, maybe not. Her chest tightens anyway.

Kaelen rejecting her publicly should have destroyed whatever remained between them, but humiliation doesn't erase instinct. Part of her still expected him to come after her. The thought makes nausea twist through her stomach.

Anastasia looks toward the front door. "How far am I from Black Hollow territory?"

Another silence. Jesus Christ.

"Do all of you communicate through silence?"

The blond man finally exhales. "You're in a private safehouse in the northern range."

Northern. Anastasia's pulse stumbles. That is impossible. She collapsed near the eastern forest line; the northern territory sits hours away even at full wolf speed.

Unless whoever found her moved incredibly fast. Or incredibly powerfully.

Her stomach tightens harder. "Whose safehouse?" Anastasia asks quietly.

The blond man pushed away from the banister with a controlled exhale. "That's not something we can answer yet"

"I need an answer."

Again, silence. Her patience snaps. "Either tell me what this place is or move out of my way."

The blond man rubs a hand over his face. "You almost died out there, you need to rest."

"Thanks for that, but I don't need medical advice now."

Anastasia crosses her arms despite the pain. "Fine. Let's simplify this." Her voice sharpens. "Am I a prisoner?"

"No."

"Can I leave?"

A beat too long.

Anastasia's expression flattens instantly. "Right."

"You physically can't survive the mountain roads right now," the blond wolf says carefully. "Your wolf is unstable."

That hits harder than expected. The rejection ceremony nearly shattered her bond system entirely, and her wolf still feels distant inside her, hurting and ashamed.

God, Kaelen's face flashes through her mind again—the coldness in his eyes, the public humiliation, the way the entire pack watched her collapse.

Anastasia looks away sharply. No. She will not fall apart in front of strangers. Not again.

The younger wolf suddenly clears his throat awkwardly. "There's soup downstairs."

Everyone looks at him. He immediately regrets speaking. 

The blond wolf stared at him. "Brilliant tactical contribution, Milo."

His ears went red. "I mean—she probably needs food. That's all I'm saying."

Anastasia blinks once. Soup?

Anastasia's gaze drifts again toward the far hallway. Then she sees it, mounted partially behind the staircase wall. A crest.

Black iron worked into dark wood, elegant and ancient—a crowned thorn circle split by a wolf fang.

Anastasia's breath stops. No. No way.

Her eyes lock onto the symbol.

The Western Thorne royal crest. One of the oldest bloodlines in wolf history, a family so powerful most territories only spoke their name during political negotiations or war...