The air in the frost-covered clearing was sharp enough to cut. Each breath Connall took was a wisp of white smoke, vanishing into the biting cold of the high mountain pass. He stood coiled and still, a predator wrapped in worn leather and fur, scanning the silent, snow-dusted pines for threats. The scent of cold stone and pine resin was clean, absolute. Every shadow seemed to hold an assassin; every gust of wind that rattled the brittle branches sounded like a whispered warning. Beside him, Althea stood with a quiet strength that defied her fugitive status, her gaze fixed on the same treeline, a partner in his vigil. The tension between them was a familiar hum, the low-grade ache of their bond a constant, grinding presence beneath his ribs.
They were waiting. Hope was a poison he'd forsworn a decade ago, but this alliance was a necessity, a bitter medicine he had no choice but to swallow.
A flicker of movement in the distance resolved into figures. They emerged from the trees not with the stealth of killers, but with the steady, ground-eating confidence of wolves who owned their territory. Leading them was an older male, his silver-streaked muzzle and pragmatic eyes marking him instantly as Alpha Faelan. He was all business, his presence as solid and unyielding as the granite peaks around them.
But it was the warrior beside him who drew Connall's eye. He was younger, moving with a fluid grace that spoke of countless hours on the training grounds, not desperate skirmishes in the wild. There was an easy confidence in his posture, a warmth in his observant gaze that felt alien in this world of sharp edges and suspicion. He was a warrior, but he wasn't a rogue. He hadn't been forged in the same fire of loss and desperation that had shaped Connall into something hard and broken. This wolf was whole.
Faelan gave a curt nod as he stopped a respectful distance away, his breath pluming in the frigid air. "Prince Connall. You were wise to seek this meeting. It is a risk for us all."
"Alpha Faelan," Connall returned, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the quiet. "These are dangerous times for wisdom. Risk is the only currency we have left."
The introductions were brief, a formality of warriors sizing each other up. When Faelan gestured to his second, the younger wolf stepped forward. "My second-in-command, Oisin."
Oisin's gaze passed over Connall and landed on Althea. His eyes, a clear, warm brown, widened slightly. It wasn't the predatory appraisal of a male assessing a female, nor the pity often directed at her. It was genuine, unmistakable admiration. He didn't just see a she-wolf, a political pawn in a deadly game. He saw a survivor. He saw a leader. He inclined his head in a slight, formal bow, a gesture of deep respect rarely afforded to anyone, let alone a Bloodfang.
"Luna Althea," he said, his voice smooth and clear. "Your reputation for resilience precedes you. It is an honor."
Connall felt a flicker of irritation, sharp and unwelcome. He told himself it was a good sign. Respect for his Luna was respect for him, a crucial foundation for the alliance they were about to build. But the pure, unadulterated esteem in Oisin's eyes grated on him, a smooth stone rubbing against a raw nerve he hadn't known he possessed.
***
As Connall and Faelan bent over a crude map scratched into the frozen earth, their talk turned to patrol routes and enemy numbers. Connall forced himself to focus, to push aside the disquiet Oisin had stirred in him. The alliance was everything. Their survival depended on it.
He heard the low murmur of another conversation nearby. Oisin had not lingered by Faelan's side like a dutiful subordinate. He had approached Althea.
"The usurper's patrols are aggressive, but predictable," Oisin was saying, his tone thoughtful, collaborative. "They favor the valleys, using the main channels. From a tactical standpoint, what weaknesses do you see in their northern approach?"
Connall's focus wavered, the lines on the map blurring. Oisin wasn't making small talk. He wasn't posturing. He was engaging her as a strategic equal, seeking her counsel as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Althea was silent for a beat. Connall could feel her shock across their bond, a brief, sharp pulse of disbelief. For weeks, she had been hunted, treated as a political symbol, a cursed mate, a burden, or a weakness. No one had simply asked for her tactical opinion.
"Their predictability *is* their greatest weakness," she finally answered, and Connall heard a shift in her voice. The guarded, weary tension was gone, replaced by a note of crisp confidence he hadn't heard in a long, long time. It was the voice of a Luna. "They assume no one would dare use the high ridges in this weather. They believe the cold is a better barrier than any sentry."
"My thoughts exactly," Oisin replied, a note of genuine warmth and excitement in his voice. "The cold is a weapon, not a wall. A small, swift force could use it for cover, bypassing their entire network."
Connall risked a glance. He saw Althea nod, a small, genuine smile touching her lips as she spoke. It was a brief, unguarded expression of intellectual connection, of being seen and valued for her mind. And it was directed at another male.
A hot, possessive spike, utterly separate from the bond's familiar pain, lanced through Connall's gut. It was a primitive, ugly thing, a territorial instinct that roared to life from the deepest parts of his wolf. His concentration on Faelan's words shattered completely. He forced his gaze back to the map, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest, an animalistic sound he had to physically choke back before it escaped. The jealousy was so raw, so potent and unexpected, it left him furious with himself. This feeling was a liability, a weakness he could not afford.
***
"Guntram's treachery is a poison that affects us all," Faelan concluded, his voice pulling Connall back to the present. He pointed a clawed finger at the map. "You have given us the proof we need. We will lend you twenty of our best fighters. They will be yours to command."
"Your trust is valued, Alpha," Connall managed, his own voice tight with the effort of control.
The Alphas clasped forearms, sealing the pact. As the groups prepared to part ways, Oisin approached Althea one last time. His expression was open, his admiration clear. "It will be an honor to fight alongside you, Luna. Your people are lucky to have you."
Before she could form a reply, Connall moved.
It wasn't a decision. It was an instinct, a fluid, predatory motion that flowed from pure, possessive impulse. He closed the distance in two silent strides, his body eclipsing Oisin's view of Althea. He came to a stop shoulder-to-shoulder with her, a silent, unmovable wall of muscle and fury between her and the other warrior.
Then, his hand came up. He placed it firmly on the small of her back, his palm fitting perfectly against the curve of her spine. The touch was not gentle. It was proprietary. It was a brand. A clear, unspoken declaration that left no room for misinterpretation.
A jolt of raw energy shot through the point of contact, a current that was both his and hers. It was a potent shockwave that instantly soothed the gnawing ache of their volatile bond, only to replace it with a stunning, electric tension that made the air crackle.
Althea stiffened, her breath catching in her throat with a soft gasp. Her eyes, wide with a storm of confusion and shock, flew to his. Oisin's friendly expression didn't falter, but his gaze sharpened, shifting from Althea to Connall's possessive stance with a new, calculating curiosity. Connall ignored them both, his eyes locked on Oisin, his entire being consumed by a savage, primal command that screamed through his mind, drowning out all reason.
*Mine.*