Surviving isn’t always a win. Sometimes, it is life’s way of dragging things out, giving you a front-row seat to your own pitiful downfall. That was the thought bouncing around my head as I drifted between consciousness and whatever was on the other side.

When I finally woke up, the silence hit me first. It wasn’t peaceful, no, it was more like that suffocating quiet that follows a massacre when even the wind doesn’t dare move. The pack house was dead still, tense, like everyone was holding their breath. Or maybe they were just waiting for me to wake up and explain why I’d come crawling back, half-dead, reeking of magic.

The pack house was the beating heart of our territory, a fortress of stone and tradition, housing the ranked wolves, warriors, and those who hadn’t yet earned the right to private residence. Only those bound by duty, hierarchy, or necessity lived here.

The Alpha and Beta families had their own residence away from the compound, while the Gamma private quarters were closer to the training grounds and the gate. Lower-ranked wolves either shared dormitories or lived off-compound in the lowlands, establishing homes of their own. Ours was a system built on structure, and proving yourself. We thrived on knowing where we belonged.

And I—well, I belonged here. Technically. As a Baudelaire and a warrior, I had my own small flat on the second floor of the pack house, tucked away from the high-ranking wolves but not quite among the trainees or low rung. My space was functional, nothing extravagant—just a bedroom, a modest living area, and a bathroom. No useless decorations, or unnecessary frills. The walls were a deep charcoal gray, the furniture simple and practical. A bed, a dresser, a weapons rack. The only personal touch was the collection of worn-out books stacked haphazardly on my night stand.

I had never needed more than that. Until now.

I tried to sit up, but my body had other plans. Every muscle screamed, and it felt like my joints had been pulled apart and shoved back together by someone with no clue how anatomy worked. Bandages were wrapped tight around my ribs, arms, and even my neck. My head pounded like a drum in sync with my heartbeat. Whoever patched me up really went all out.

The door creaked open, and I blinked, trying to focus. Damien walked in, filling the doorway with his broad frame. His presence was intimidating even without trying. He looked exactly like he always did. Composed and solid, like nothing in the world could shake him. His stance wasn’t the only thing that made him feel rigid, though; everything about him made him feel that way. The sharp angles of his jawline, the perpetual shadow of stubble that made him look like he hadn’t slept in days, grey eyes that held the burden of a thousand unsaid things.

Damien was a fortress in human form. Broad shoulders stretched against a simple black shirt, his arms corded with muscle from years of relentless training. He carried himself with effortless control and a quiet kind of dominance that didn’t need to be spoken out loud. Wolves followed him not because he demanded it, but because he was the kind of leader you wanted in combat.

Even now, standing at the foot of my bed, exuding nothing but quiet scrutiny, he was still the most hulking man I’d ever seen. One that made my already wrecked pulse stutter in ways I refused to acknowledge.

And by the look on his face, he wasn’t here to comfort me. Damien had never been the type to offer comfort anyway. He was the definition of restraint, all sharp angles and discipline, a man who carried the responsibility of his rank without complaint. Even when he had been my brother’s closest friend, he had never been warm, never indulgent. Damien was a man of duty, not sentiment. He did what needed to be done, no more, no less.

In all the years I had known him, I had never seen him truly smile. Not a real one, at least. A smirk, maybe. That dry, unimpressed expression that made it clear he thought the rest of us were idiots. But a genuine smile or something unguarded, never.

And yet, even knowing all that, I couldn’t stop the way my chest tightened at the sight of him now. The way his presence calmed me, even as he stared at me with nothing but cold expectation. Even half-dead, I was apparently still pathetic enough to want something from him that he wasn’t built to give.

“So,” he said, his voice rough, like he’d gargled gravel. “You’re awake.”

No relief or warmth. Just cold, hard expectation. He was here for answers, and I couldn’t exactly blame him. I had a few questions of my own—starting with what in the hell those witches did to me—but I wasn’t sure I was ready for the answers.

Besides, Damien was Gamma. It was his job to demand answers, and technically, I was under his command.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper. Great. Just great. Damien crossed the room in two strides and shoved a cup of water from the dresser into my hand. Practical, nothing more. But the way he stared at me as I drank? Yeah, he wasn’t just checking for physical damage. He was watching for something else that could possibly explain the lingering stench of magic around me. Like maybe, I was more than just hurt.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure of anything at this point.

After I managed a few sips, Damien dragged a chair up to the bed and sat down. Silence stretched between us until, predictably, he broke it.

“Tell me what happened.”

Not a request. An order. And there was no dodging it. But where the hell was I supposed to start? How could I explain witches, mate bonds, and the complete chaos that followed? Even I didn’t fully understand what went down.

I leaned back against the pillows, gathering my thoughts, my body still aching like I’d been through hell—which, to be fair, I had. My mind reeled back to the Enchanted River, the way it had wrapped around me, holding me in its grasp, and how it just so easily let me go. Twice. That was no accident.

A shudder ran through me. The Dominion of Anarion had been forged on absolutes—wolves on one side, witches on the other, the Enchanted River between us. That was the law. That was the balance. So why had I survived when no one else ever had? And what did that mean for me now?

I met Damien’s gaze. “I was on scouting duty and I stumbled into a coven,” I said simply, voice hoarse. “I wasn’t stealthy enough so they found me out.”

Damien’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“They were in our territory, and they tried to take me.” The words tasted like ash on my tongue, but I forced them out.

Damien’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the slight shift in his posture—an almost imperceptible tension, a tightening of his grip on the armrest. Wolves and witches didn’t just stumble into each other’s paths. If a coven had been this deep into our lands, it meant something.

I didn’t tell him the full truth. That they had taken me across the river, that I had crossed back and lived to tell the tale, again. Even though I trusted Damien more than most, I wasn’t sure how anyone—especially the Elders—would take that revelation. And I wasn’t about to find out.

I could see the flicker of disbelief, the way his fingers flexed against the armrest. “And?”

“I managed to get away, and the only way was through the river. Luckily, I survived.”

His eyes narrowed at me. “No one survives the Enchanted River, Luna.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. I did.”

“Anything else?” he arched a brow.

I hesitated. The words hovered on the tip of my tongue, the confession itching to be spoken. One of them was mine. My mate.

But the moment I admitted that, I would never be able to take it back. I didn’t even know what it meant yet, how it was possible, or what kind of disaster it would bring down on both our heads. The Elders would demand answers I didn’t have. The wolves would see it as a betrayal. Hell, even Damien, as level-headed as he was, might not be able to look at me the same way.

And then there was the other side of it—the witch. Would protect me? Or would he do what I was already considering—kill me to bury the secret before it could destroy him?

I swallowed hard, forcing the magnitude of it down. “No. That’s it.”

Damien exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. He wasn’t buying it, not entirely, but he also knew I wouldn’t lie about something like this. He leaned forward slightly, his forearms braced against his knees. “You’re going to have to give the Elders something better than that. They’re already talking.”

Of course, they were. I was a walking disaster waiting to happen.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat. “I know.”

Damien studied me for a long moment before shaking his head. “You should rest.”

Like sleep was going to fix whatever the hell was wrong with me now. But I nodded, because it was easier than arguing.

Damien stood, but he didn’t leave right away. He hesitated, then placed a hand on the back of the chair, his grip tightening. He lingered for another second before sighing and heading for the door. “Try to stay out of trouble for once.”

No promises.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I exhaled slowly and let my head fall back against the pillows. My mind was spinning.

It wouldn’t be long before this became an inquest. Witches didn’t just cross the river on a whim, and now that I’d claimed to have run into a coven inside our borders, the Thetas and the Alphas would demand answers. Not just the Nightclaw Alpha—who, as the Ultima Alpha, was already judge and executioner to all—but the Alphas of every pack in Anarion.

The laws of the treaty were absolute. Any breach of the balance meant war. And I, like a damn fool, had landed myself square in the middle of a political nightmare. I would be expected to report everything I saw, every spell I felt, every breath I took in enemy presence. And knowing Marrick, he’d be the one delivering the summons to the Alpha’s estate personally.

I swallowed against the crushing pressure pressing down on my chest. There would be no escape from this. No way to bury it. I had to keep my mate out of it, had to keep the river out of it—because if either of those truths surfaced, I wouldn’t just be interrogated. I’d be condemned.

The Elders wouldn’t care about circumstances. A wolf crossing the river and living to tell about it? That alone was treason. And if they knew what else had happened, what I had felt—what I was now—execution would be a mercy. More likely, I’d be stripped of my rank, of my name, cast out into the wilderness as a rogue, left to die alone.

And for what? For something I never asked for, never wanted? The injustice of it burned, but it wouldn’t save me. Only silence would.

For the first time since crawling out of that river, I realized I was screwed.