The conversation clearly isn't going well, leaving the air brittle and heavy.

Anastasia retreats to her room. She understands the reality of her situation perfectly: if these men truly belong to the royal bloodline, turning against them is pointless, given her current status and battered physical condition.

The cabin grows quieter after midnight, settling into the heavy stillness unique to mountain storms. Wind drags against the walls in long, violent sweeps, snow hissing across the windows hard enough to sound like whispered voices, but none of it touches the tension wound tight beneath her skin.

Anastasia does not sleep. She sits curled against the far corner of the bed with one knee pulled loosely to her chest, wrapped in a dark wool blanket. The fire across the room burns low, leaving the cabin bedroom painted in amber shadows and slow-moving light.

Anastasia stares at the flames without seeing them. It lasts four hours before she decides to leave.

Everything about the place carries the same unbearable message: someone powerful has decided she is under protection. And Anastasia no longer trusts protection from powerful men. Not after Kaelen. Especially not after Kaelen.

The memory returns in ugly fragments while she stands alone in the cabin kitchen, fingers tightening around the edge of the wooden counter hard enough to hurt. The ceremonial platform. The gathered wolves.

Anastasia's breathing turns uneven. No. She shoves the memory down violently. Thinking about him too long makes the damaged bond react again, pain spreading sharply through her chest in burning waves.

Anastasia stares toward the side entrance near the rear courtyard. No wolves. No guards.

Maybe the real guards stay hidden. Maybe this entire place functions like royal wolf politics always does—beautiful on the surface, brutal underneath.

She reaches the side door. Listened. Nothing. Then she pulls it open.

Cold mountain wind slams into her instantly. Snow whips violently across the courtyard beyond, and four wolves in black armor step directly into her path—fast, silent, and terrifyingly disciplined.

Anastasia stumbles backward on instinct, clutching a sharp porcelain shard so tightly it cuts her palm.

Each of them wears matte black western combat armor beneath heavy winter cloaks, silver wolf insignias barely visible beneath the snow and shadow. Swords rest at their waists instead of modern firearms. Old-world military. Royal military.

The tallest wolf lowers his head slightly. "Miss."

Anastasia's pulse explodes. "Move."

Her voice comes out sharper than intended. The wolves do not move. None of them even reach for weapons; they simply stand there, bodies angled toward the outer grounds rather than toward her. Protective positioning, not imprisonment. That somehow makes everything worse.

"I said move."

The lead wolf keeps his gaze lowered respectfully. "The forest roads are currently unsafe."

Anastasia's breathing becomes uneven again. She tightens her grip on the porcelain shard. "If your Alpha ordered this, tell him I need to leave."

Something shifts behind the armored wolves. Then all four men step backward simultaneously. Ten precise paces. Not retreating from her—forming around her.

Why? Why waste this level of security on her?

The wind drags violently across the courtyard again, whipping snow through the open doorway and across Anastasia's bare ankles.

The lead wolf finally speaks again. "Please step back inside, miss. The storm is worsening."

Anastasia stares at him. "I need to see your Alpha."

The lead wolf does not answer immediately. When he finally speaks, his voice lowers slightly. "You are under western protection now. You'll see him."

Then a strange sensation crawls suddenly across Anastasia's spine. Awareness.

She looks up instinctively. Beyond the courtyard walls, far above the snow-covered grounds, a stone tower rises along the northern side of the estate.

And standing there, half-hidden behind drifting snow and shadow, is Draven Thorne. Motionless. Watching.

The distance should soften him. Instead, it somehow makes him worse. His black coat moves faintly in the wind, his broad shoulders outlined against the storm-dark sky. He simply stands atop the tower outside the high western walls, silently watching the injured girl clutching a porcelain shard like a wounded animal covered in thorns.

Draven remains on the tower long after Anastasia disappears back inside the safehouse.

Behind him, boots press softly against stone. "Eastern scouts pull farther south," Rowan reports quietly. "Looks like Black Hollow expands their search into the dead-zone valleys."

Draven does not turn around. "Kaelen?"

"Leading the patrols personally."

Draven stares down toward the lower courtyard again, where faint traces of Anastasia's footprints are already disappearing beneath the falling snow.

"She tries to leave?" he asks.

Rowan pauses. "Yes."

No surprise enters Draven's expression; he expects it. Women like Anastasia do not calm down inside protection. They search for exits first. Draven understands that type of survival instinct better than most people realize.

"She thinks the guards are keeping her trapped," Rowan adds carefully.

That finally pulls a quiet breath from Draven. Not irritation, but something heavier. "She's been cornered too often recently," he says.

Rowan goes silent. The western commander serves beside Draven long enough to recognize dangerous moods, and this one is becoming increasingly difficult to predict.

"She's unstable after the rejection," Rowan says carefully. "The bond damage affects her instincts."

"I know."

"Then you also know prolonged exposure to a dominant Alpha can confuse the healing process."

This time Draven's silence sharpens. Because Rowan is correct. Her wolf instincts keep reaching toward the strongest stable presence nearby while simultaneously fearing it. Which means every interaction between them carries risk. Draven understands that very well.

That is precisely why he stays away from her whenever possible. Why he watches from towers instead of appearing beside her directly. Why he allows guards and servants to handle most contact.

Distance is necessary.