Chapter 3 · Bloodin the Water

Three days in, and my hands smelled like rot.

I kept scrubbing in the freezing creek anyway. Mud to the wrists. Pine tar ground into my knuckles. The waterwas so cold it made my fingers clumsy, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't afford to smell like *me*.

Out here, scent is everything. Every wolf knows that. Especially the ones hunting me.

Aweek ago, I was sleeping on Egyptian cotton. Today? I was squatting in a creek like a stray animal, trying to erasemy existence. The Border Woods didn't offer a warm hearth or a kind word. Just damp, rot-scented leaves anda wind that cut through my jacket like it was hunting for bone.

I sat back on my heels, listening.

Nothing. Just a jay screaming at the empty canopy.

My hand went to my stomach. A stupidhabit. Three weeks along, and there was nothing to feel but the muscle I’d built during pack drills and the cold knotof dread sitting in my gut. I forced my hand away.

"You're fine," I whispered. "I'm working on it."

Nobody tells you how a severed bond actually feels. It isn’t a clean cut. It’s a tooth yanked from your jaw while you’re still chewing. Thesocket stays raw. It aches when the pressure drops.

Mine was a fire in my right shoulder. Rightwhere he’d pressed his palm. One word, four hundred witnesses, and my whole world turned to ash. Valerius hadn't even looked back when he did it.

I’d checked the mark that morning. Stillred. Still wet.

Fine. Let it bleed. Bleeding meant I was alive, and alive meant I stillhad a say in how this ended.

I pulled the crinkled, sweat-damp paper from mypocket. *Seraphina Vale. Gestational hormone panel. Positive.*

I didn’t need to read it.I’d memorized the verdict in a bathroom stall, the echo of my aunt’s voice reminding me that the Moon doesn't giverefunds.

Life was a sick joke. And I was the punchline.

The wind shifted atnoon. It brought a sharp, northern chill—and voices.

I dropped flat behind a windfall before mybrain even registered the threat.

Three of them. I knew the gait before I heard the words. Rook,from the eastern patrol, with that lazy, permanent hitch in his left leg. Two pups, fresh from their first shift, bumbling over roots like idiots.

"She’s gotta be near the ridge," Rook muttered. "Nobody goes deeperin November."

"Alpha said dead or alive?"

"Alpha said *find her*." Rook spat on the ground. "Funny thing. Man signs the writ in front of the whole pack, and now he can't sleep. Now it’s all 'track her' and 'no one goes home until we have her.'"

One of the pups snickered. "Maybe he misses his mate."

"Maybe you shut your mouth before Itell him you said that."

I pressed my face into the wet bark, breath shallow. I’d spentthree days masking my scent with ash and mud, walking the creek to kill my tracks. If they got close enough tosmell me, it was over.

The pups kept moving. Rook stopped.

That’s the thingabout good trackers. They don’t look; they breathe. He stood there, nostrils flared, head tilting like he was catchinga sour note in a song. I watched his nose twitch. He caught a hint of something. He hesitated.

"You picking something up?" the pup asked.

Rook was quiet for a long, agonizing heartbeat. "Old scent.Angry."

My mark chose that exact moment to pulse. It ignited, searing like a hot spoon against my skin. I bit down on my own wrist, hard, to stop the scream.

Rook took a step. Two. His boot landed six inches from my elbow. I could see the caked dirt on the toe, the worn stitching.

Then the wind shifted, carrying my stench away.

"Nothing," he growled, disgusted. "Keep moving. Ridge."

I stayed flat until the woods went dead silent. Istood up too fast, my foot slipping on a slick stone. My shin slammed into a sharp, dead branch—itbit deep, peeling skin back like paper.

Blood. Bright, hot, and fast.

"Idiot," I hissed, my voice shaking. "Blood in the water. Blood on the rocks."

I rippeda strip from my shirt, tying it tight. But then I felt it—a damp, rhythmic warmth on my back. My shoulder. The bond-mark had opened again, leaking blood through my jacket in three thick lines.

Itsmelled like ozone and iron.

Dead bonds don't bleed. They’re scar tissue. Which meant itwasn't dead. Which meant it was still anchored to something.

Valerius.

I scrambled downhill, desperate to reach the creek, to hide the scent of my own betrayal. I was halfway down the slope when thesound hit me.

Not a howl. A low, rolling vibration that rattled my ribs. It tore through the treeslike they weren't even there.

My knees buckled. I hit the mud, gasping.

The mark on my shoulder throbbed in time with that sound, a magnetic, agonizing pull. It wasn'tjust a trace. It was a tether.

He wasn't at the estate. He wasn't behindhis desk.

He was out here. He was hunting.

And he’d just caughtthe scent of my blood.