Chapter 3

I couldn't sleep. The baby was pressing hard against my ribs, and the side wing got cold after midnight.

I padded down the hall toward the kitchen for water. Cade's study was on the way — door half open, light spilling across the floor.

Serena's voice carried through the gap.

"The physician says within forty-eight hours of birth, the scent transfer works best. The baby bonds to me instead. She won't know the difference."

I stopped.

Silence from the other side. Long.

Then Cade's voice. Quiet. "...Handle it."

Two words.

My hand went flat against the wall. I could feel my own pulse through my fingertips.

Forty-eight hours. That's all I'd get. Forty-eight hours of being her mother before they wiped me out of her memory like I was never there.

I turned around. Forgot the water.

I was sitting on my bed, staring at the dark, when the smell hit. Rogue. Male. Close.

I got to the window in time to see the first one come through the treeline. Low, fast, starving. A second flanked from the right.

The east side of the compound was dead quiet. No sentries, no patrols — everyone stayed near the main house at night.

Six months pregnant. No weapon. No backup.

I couldn't shift. Too risky for the baby. But my claws came out. Teeth sharpened.

I went out through the side door. Snow up to my ankles. The cold hit immediately.

The first rogue lunged. I sidestepped, drove my claws across his throat, and used his weight to throw him into the second. The second hit the ground hard and didn't get back up.

A third bolted from the bushes. I snarled. He ran.

I dropped to my knees in the snow. Blood — theirs and mine — soaking through my shirt. A gash from my ribs to my hip. The second one had caught me on the way down. Deep enough to scar. Shallow enough to survive.

I dragged myself inside and locked the door.

The bathroom had a sewing kit under the sink. Hotel-grade. Tiny needle, white thread. I bit down on a washcloth and started stitching.

Forty minutes. Every stitch pulled and burned. The baby kicked the entire time — frantic, panicked.

"I know," I whispered through the cloth. "Almost done."

4:17 AM when I finished. The thread was red by the end. My hands were steady but the rest of me wasn't.

No one came. No alarm. No patrol checking the east side. Nobody knocked on my door.

If I told them tomorrow, the first question would be: "Is the baby okay?"

Nobody was going to ask if I was okay. That question didn't exist in this house.

I sat on the bed. Blood drying on my shirt. Snow melting off my boots onto the floor.

Stay: in three months, they take her. Forty-eight hours and then I'm a body that served its purpose. Serena raises my daughter. I watch through a window — or I leave with nothing.

Go: no pack, no money, no shelter. Six months pregnant in a snowstorm.

But I'll have her.

If I go, at least I'm still her mother.

I wasn't angry anymore. I was past it.

I cleaned up, changed my shirt, and walked to the infirmary.

Milo was asleep. Curled on his side, one arm hanging off the bed, breathing slow and deep. His leg was almost healed. He'd made a friend — a wolf pup two beds over. They played cards every afternoon. He'd stopped asking when we were leaving.

Good. He was safe here. He'd be okay without me.

I kissed his forehead. He didn't wake up.

I walked out the side door. Past my garden with its rough little fence. Past the greenhouse, the training grounds, the last row of cabins.

Into the dark. My side throbbed with every step. I ignored it.

The mate bond pulled as I crossed the pack border. A wire in my chest, thin and burning.

I kept walking.

It stretched. Thinned.

Snap.

Clean.

I kept walking.

In the main house, Cade jackknifed upright in bed. His hand slammed against his chest. His wolf howled — not a warning, not a call.

A scream.

He didn't know what it meant yet.