Garrick walked slowly toward the shelter. He didn't try to hide his approach. He wanted her to know he was coming. He stopped a few feet from the entrance, letting the moonlight cut through the canopy to illuminate his face.
"I know you are in there," he said. His voice was calm, cutting effortlessly through the howling wind.
Inside the lean-to, silence.
"The hounds would have torn you apart," Garrick continued, taking a step closer. "My men would have put a dozen crossbow bolts in your back. You are lucky I came alone."
"Don't come any closer."
Her voice was ragged, destroyed by screaming, but it held no tremble. It was a cold, flat warning.
Garrick stepped into the shelter.
Bridget was backed into the far corner. She looked feral even in her human skin. The moth-eaten blanket was draped over her shoulders, her hair plastered to her face with sweat and snow. She held the rusted skinning knife in her raw, blistered hands, the point aimed steadily at his chest.
Garrick looked at the knife, then at her eyes. In the dim light, they weren't dull brown anymore. The shift had broken her human disguise completely. Her eyes were that piercing, luminescent ice blue.
"Put the knife down," he said quietly.
"I will put it through your throat if you take another step," Bridget hissed.
Garrick didn't flinch. He looked at her battered, shivering frame. She was freezing to death. Her lips were turning a dangerous shade of blue.
"You killed Corvin," Garrick stated flatly. "You broke his chest cavity. You tore open my ribs. You are a rogue, an unregistered wolf who assaulted the king and murdered a general. By all laws of the territory, I should sever your head from your shoulders right now."
Bridget's grip on the knife tightened. "Then do it. But know this — I will take an eye before I die."
"I don't want your eye," Garrick said. He slowly reached up and unclasped the heavy fur cloak from his own shoulders. "And I don't want to kill you."
Bridget laughed. It was a broken, cynical sound. "Right. The great king of the Iron Veil, famous for his mercy. You slaughter packs in their sleep. You killed my father. You burned my mother alive. Don't play games with me. Just draw your sword."
Garrick froze. The accusation hung in the freezing air between them. He stared at her, the pieces finally clicking together.
"The Northern Ridge," he murmured. "Twenty years ago. The Silver Mane pack."
"Don't say their name," she snarled, taking a step forward, the knife shaking in her hand.
"That was my father's war," Garrick said, his voice dropping an octave. "I was a boy. I didn't hold the torch."
"But you wear his crown. You live in the castle built on their bones."
Bridget's breathing was shallow, erratic. The poison was taking its toll. Her knees buckled slightly, but she locked them, refusing to fall in front of him.
Garrick saw the weakness. He moved with a speed that defied his massive frame. Before Bridget could thrust the blade, Garrick was on her. He didn't strike her. He simply caught her wrist with one hand, twisting it just enough to force her fingers to open. The rusted knife clattered harmlessly to the dirt floor.
Bridget panicked, kicking out, trying to bite him, but Garrick used his other arm to wrap the heavy fur cloak around her shaking shoulders, pulling her flush against his chest.
"Stop," he commanded.
The proximity was devastating. The moment her skin touched his, the mate bond flared to life — not as a whisper, but as a roaring inferno. Bridget gasped, her struggles dying instantly as the shockwave hit her. It felt like being submerged in warm water after freezing in the snow. It was a deep, molecular recognition. Her wolf, weak and poisoned, whimpered in the back of her mind, not in fear, but in profound, desperate relief.
Mine, the beast purred.
"No," Bridget whispered, tears of sheer frustration finally spilling over her lashes. "No, no, no. Not you. Anyone but you."
Garrick held her tight, wrapping his arms around the cloak, trapping her heat, trapping her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of pine, blood, and snow. He could feel her heart hammering against his, their rhythms syncing in the dark.
"It seems the fates have a sick sense of humor," Garrick murmured against her skin, his voice rough with an emotion he hadn't felt in a decade.
He didn't love her. Not yet. She was his enemy. She was an assassin waiting for a chance to strike. But she was his mate. And a wolf did not let its mate freeze in the dirt.
"You are coming back with me," he said, pulling back just enough to look into her ice blue eyes.
Bridget glared up at him, her hatred warring violently with the biological tether pulling them together. "I will burn your castle down from the inside," she promised softly.
Garrick offered a grim, cynical smile. "I look forward to watching you try. But tonight you survive."
He didn't wait for her to argue. He swept her up into his arms, carrying her out of the lean-to and into the howling storm, holding his prisoner and his queen tight against his chest.