Blackthorn Pack doesn't sleep.
I realize that the moment the doors close behind us.
The fortress hums with quiet motion—guards shifting at their posts, servants moving soundlessly through stone corridors, the low murmur of pack links brushing the edges of my mind like distant thunder. This place is alive in a way Silverfall never was.
It doesn't pretend to be gentle.
Jonah is taken immediately to the infirmary. Ronan doesn't leave his side, not even when the healer assures him the injuries aren't life-threatening. He stands close, arms folded, presence heavy and unyielding, as if daring pain itself to return.
I hover uselessly near the doorway.
Every instinct screams at me to go to Jonah, to touch him, to apologize again and again until the words lose meaning. But the bond between the three of us is… unstable. I can feel it now—three threads pulled too tight, vibrating with tension.
Too much emotion in one place.
"Wait here," Ronan says without looking at me.
It's not a command.
It's an instruction given with absolute certainty of obedience.
I sink onto a bench outside the infirmary, my legs finally giving out beneath me. My hands shake violently now that there's nothing to distract me from what I've done.
You broke him, my wolf whispers.
"I know," I breathe back.
Time stretches.
Wolves pass me, some curious, some openly wary. None are hostile. If anything, they seem… cautious. Respectful. Like they're watching a storm form and waiting to see where it strikes.
The healer emerges eventually, nodding once at Ronan. "He'll heal. Bones set. Bruising will fade. The rest…" She glances briefly at me. "…isn't physical."
Ronan exhales slowly. "Thank you."
When Jonah is finally settled, Ronan turns to me.
"Come."
I rise on unsteady legs and follow him through corridors that grow quieter the deeper we go. We stop outside a heavy oak door carved with sigils I don't recognize.
"My quarters," Ronan says. "For now."
My heart stutters. "All of us?"
"No," he replies. "Jonah needs rest. You need containment."
The bluntness stings.
He opens the door and gestures me inside.
The room is large, spare, unmistakably his—dark wood, steel accents, a massive bed that looks rarely slept in. The air smells like pine, smoke, and something darker beneath.
Alpha.
The door shuts behind us with a decisive click.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The silence is oppressive, thick with unasked questions and simmering tension. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly acutely aware of how small I feel standing in his space.
"You should hate me," I say finally.
Ronan's gaze snaps to mine.
"Hate is inefficient," he replies. "But don't mistake that for forgiveness."
I swallow. "I never wanted to hurt him."
"Intent doesn't erase consequence."
"I know."
He studies me for a long moment, then turns away, pouring himself a drink. He doesn't offer me one.
"Triad bonds are rare," he says quietly. "Most packs deny they exist at all."
"I've heard the stories," I murmur. "They never end well."
"No," he agrees. "They don't."
He faces me again, eyes sharp. "Which is why this stays quiet. My pack will accept what I tell them to accept. Yours…" His mouth tightens. "Will not."
Fear coils low in my stomach. "What happens now?"
Ronan steps closer, stopping just short of invading my space. The bond flares instantly, heat rushing through my veins, my wolf stirring uneasily.
"Now," he says, voice low and absolute, "we figure out how to keep you both alive."
His gaze drops briefly—to my throat, my pulse, the place where the bond hums strongest.
"And how to make sure," he adds, "that no one ever uses you against us again."
The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and inescapable.
I thought being taken was the worst thing that could happen.
I was wrong.
Being claimed—even provisionally—is far more dangerous.