Bridget woke to the smell of burning birch and roasting meat, a sharp contrast to the damp mildew of the servants' quarters.
She didn't open her eyes immediately. She cataloged her body first. The glass-shard agony in her joints was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. The agonizing cold that had settled in her marrow had been driven out by heavy wool blankets and the radiant heat of a massive hearth. Her wrist, where Corvin had grabbed her, was wrapped in thick linen, smelling of comfrey and bitter aloe.
"You are awake. Don't pretend you aren't."
The voice was female, gravelly, and tired. Bridget cracked an eye open. A woman sat by the fire, grinding herbs in a stone mortar. She wore the dark leathers of a pack healer, her face crisscrossed with thin white scars from old skirmishes.
"Where am I?" Bridget rasped. Her throat felt like a scraped chimney.
"The king's chambers," the woman said, not looking up. "I am Breeda, and you are a headache I didn't ask for. Drink this."
She brought a clay mug to the bedside. Bridget pushed herself up against the headboard, the heavy blankets pooling at her waist. She realized she was wearing a clean linen shift. The panic spiked, sharp and hot.
But Breeda scoffed before Bridget could speak. "I changed you. The king hasn't touched you. If he had, you wouldn't smell like a terrified stray dog trying to bite through its own leash."
Breeda shoved the mug into Bridget's hands. "Willow bark and elk bone broth. Drink. Your liver is screaming from the poison you've been feeding yourself."
Bridget drank. It tasted like ash and fat, but it coated her throat and sent a rush of warmth to her stomach. She looked around. The room was massive, built of dark stone and heavy timber. Furs covered the floor. Weapons — swords, axes, daggers — were displayed on the walls, impeccably oiled and deadly. It was a warlord's sanctuary.
"Why am I alive?" Bridget asked, setting the empty mug on a bedside table.
"Because the king is a stubborn fool."
A deep voice answered from the doorway. Garrick stepped into the room. He had washed the mud and blood from his skin. He wore a simple black tunic and trousers, but he moved with the same predatory grace that commanded armadas. His left side was heavily bandaged where Bridget's claws had torn through his ribs.
Breeda stood, giving a curt bow. "Her fever broke, Sire, but the wolfsbane toxicity is deep. If she shifts again before the new moon, it might kill her."
"Leave us," Garrick ordered.
Breeda gathered her mortar and pestle and slipped out the heavy oak door, leaving the click of the iron latch echoing in the sudden silence.
Garrick walked to the foot of the bed. He didn't sit. He looked at her, his bruised sky eyes calculating. The air in the room grew heavy. The mate bond hummed between them, an invisible wire pulled taut, vibrating with every breath they took.
Bridget hated it. She hated that her wolf wanted to press against his chest. She crossed her arms, digging her blunt human nails into her own skin to ground herself.
"Corvin is dead," Garrick stated flatly. "You punctured his lung. He drowned in his own blood on the cellar floor."
"Good," Bridget said. She didn't blink. "He was a pig."
Garrick's jaw tightened. "He was my first lieutenant. He commanded half the standing army in the Iron Veil. His men are currently in the great hall calling for your head on a pike. They want the rogue who murdered their commander burned at the stake before nightfall."
"Then give them what they want," Bridget challenged, throwing the blankets off her legs. She stood, ignoring the sharp spike of dizziness that washed over her. She was barely five foot six in her human form, dwarfed by his sheer mass, but she refused to look up at him from a bed. "Drag me down there. Let them watch you execute the last survivor of the Silver Mane."
"Stop trying to die," Garrick snapped, his control slipping. He closed the distance between them in two massive strides, grabbing her by the shoulders. "You survived twenty years scrubbing my floors. Don't throw it away now because you're too proud to let me protect you."
"Protect me." Bridget laughed, a harsh, grating sound. She shoved her hands against his chest, right over his bandages. He flinched, but didn't let go. "Your father's men tore my mother to pieces while she screamed for mercy. They burned my cousins in their beds. You don't protect me, Garrick. You just want to cage me in a nicer room."
Garrick stared down at her, his chest heaving. The proximity was intoxicating. Her scent — pine, snow, and defiance — was short-circuiting his logic.
"My father was a butcher," Garrick said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "I am not him. I united the north so children wouldn't have to hide in root cellars covered in pig's blood. I built laws. I built peace."
"A peace built on fear isn't peace," Bridget spat back. "It's a hostage situation."
"Then help me change it."
The words stopped Bridget cold. Her hands froze against his chest. She looked up, searching his eyes for the lie. There was none, only a weary, bone-deep exhaustion.
"They won't accept you," Garrick said softly, his thumbs brushing the rough, lye-burned skin of her shoulders. "They smell the rogue on you. They smell the murder. But if they knew what you were — an alpha of the old bloodlines, my mate — they would have no choice but to kneel."
"I am not your mate," Bridget whispered, though her traitorous body was leaning into his heat.
"Lie to your ghosts, Bridget," Garrick replied, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "But don't lie to the wolf. She knows who I am."
He stepped back, severing the physical contact. The sudden loss of his heat made Bridget shiver.
"Rest," Garrick commanded, walking back toward the door. "Tonight, I address the pack. I will tell them you are mine. If you try to run, I will catch you, and next time I won't be so gentle."