Page 14

I follow his gaze to the heavy clouds gathering overhead, already feeling the first drops of icy rain.

The shelter we built is sturdy but small—designed for efficiency rather than comfort.

There's barely enough room for two people to lie down, which means we'll be sharing body heat whether we want to or not.

"Alright," I say, standing abruptly. "Let's get this over with."

The first fat raindrops hit as we gather our gear and retreat into the lean-to. Thomas has layered pine needles and his sleeping bag to create insulation from the ground, but the space is even more cramped than I'd anticipated. When we're both inside, there's maybe six inches between us.

"This isn't going to work," I mutter, trying to arrange my sleeping bag without touching him.

"Fiona." His voice is gentle but firm. "The temperature's dropping fast, and it's starting to rain. We need to share body heat, or we're going to have a miserable night."

"I'll be fine on my own."

"No, you won't." He unzips his sleeping bag, creating a larger shared space. "Come on. It's survival, not intimacy."

The distinction feels laughably thin, given the electricity that sparks every time we accidentally touch. But he's right—I'm already shivering despite my layers, and the night is just beginning.

Reluctantly, I slide into the makeshift bed, hyperaware of Thomas's warmth radiating beside me. We lie rigidly apart at first, but as the temperature continues to drop and rain begins pelting the shelter, the space between us gradually decreases.

"Better?" he asks when I finally stop shivering.

"Better," I admit grudgingly.

We lie in darkness, listening to rain drumming against our shelter. The warmth from Thomas's body seeps through my clothes, and I find myself relaxing despite my better judgment. This feels too familiar, too much like the countless nights we spent camping together six years ago.

"Do you remember," Thomas says quietly, "that time we got caught in the that summer storm near Devil's Peak?"

I do remember. We'd been hiking when an unexpected storm trapped us in a cave for a day.

We were nineteen, often going off on hunts on our own to avoid prying eyes in Silvercreek, hiding what we were from all but those closest to us.

Back then, I was still living with my father on his estate ten miles outside of the territory, traveling into Silvercreek at every chance I got, and took every opportunity I could to spend as little time as possible at home as he grew more and more overbearing.

Thomas and I passed the time telling stories, playing word games, making love by the light of a single candle Thomas always packed as warm rain poured outside.

"Don't," I whisper.

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to make this nostalgic. Don't pretend we're anything more than two people completing a trial."

He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is careful. "I'm not pretending anything. But we have history, Fiona. Good history, before everything went wrong."

I snort, derisive. "Before you decided I wasn't worth the trouble."

"That's not what happened."

I turn to face him in the darkness, anger flaring. "Then what did happen, Thomas? Because from where I was lying—in your bed, planning our future—it seemed pretty clear."

His jaw tightens, visible even in the dim light filtering through the shelter walls. "It's complicated."

I prop myself up on one elbow, studying his face. "Six years, Thomas. Six years, I've wondered what I did wrong, what I said or didn't say to make you decide I wasn't enough. And you’ll never understand how much it killed me— never.”

Thomas’ eyes flash. “You moved on fast. You had a kid with some other man.”

“Don’t bring up Maisie,” I warn, voice so cold I surprise myself with it.

Thomas looks away, apologetic, eyes softening with something like sadness. He seems to consider his next words carefully.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he says eventually. "You were perfect.”

Were. Somehow, it tears me apart even more.

"Then why?" The question cracks out of me like a whip, carrying six years of hurt and confusion. "Why did you look me in the eye and tell me I meant nothing to you?"

Thomas reaches toward me, then stops himself. "I can't—"

"Can't what? Can't tell me the truth? Can't explain why you destroyed us?" Tears threaten, but I blink them back. "Because I've been trying to understand, Thomas. I've been trying to make sense of how someone could say they loved me and then throw me away like garbage."

"I never threw you away," he says, his voice raw. "God, Fiona, if you only knew—"

"Then tell me!" The words explode out of me, all my carefully constructed walls crumbling at once. "Tell me why you left. Tell me why you made me believe I was something disposable. Tell me why I had to—"

I catch myself just in time, the words carry your child alone dying on my lips. But Thomas is watching me with an intensity that suggests he heard what I didn't say.

"Had to what?" he asks quietly.

"Had to rebuild my entire life," I finish lamely. "Had to learn how to trust my own judgment again after you made me question everything I thought I knew about love."

He sits up abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "Fiona, I never wanted to hurt you. Everything I did, I did to protect—"

"To protect what? Your reputation? Your standing in the pack?"

"To protect you," he says desperately. "I was trying to protect you."

"From what?"

His mouth opens and closes. Whatever he's fighting to say, he can't force the words out. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths and years of accumulated pain.

"I can't do this," I whisper, tears finally spilling over. "I can't lie here with you pretending everything's fine when you won't even tell me why you broke my heart."

I start to pull away, but Thomas catches my wrist.

"Don't go," he pleads. "It's freezing out there, and the rain—"

"I don't care." I shake off his grip, grabbing my jacket, and pack. "I'll finish the trial, but I can't be here with you. Not like this."

"Fiona, please—"

But I'm already crawling out of the shelter, rain immediately soaking through my clothes. The cold hits like a physical slap, but I welcome it. Better to freeze than to spend another moment trapped with a man who can kiss me like I'm his whole world but won't trust me with the truth.

"It's dangerous to travel at night," Thomas calls after me, his voice carrying over the sound of rain.

"I'll manage," I call back, shouldering my pack. "I've been managing just fine without you for six years."

I hear him moving behind me, probably gathering his gear to follow, but I'm already shifting, my wolf form better equipped for navigating the dark forest. I catch his frustrated shout as I disappear between the trees, but I don't look back.

The journey back to Silvercreek passes in a blur of cold rain and righteous anger.

I switch between human and wolf form as needed, using my shifted senses to navigate treacherous terrain and avoid getting completely lost. My wolf wants to turn back, to return to the warmth and safety of Thomas's presence, but I override her instincts with sheer stubborn will.

By the time I emerge from the forest at dawn, I'm exhausted, soaked to the bone, and emotionally wrung out. But I'm alive, and I've technically completed the trial by returning before the deadline.

The trial officials are surprised to see me alone, asking questions about Thomas's status that I answer with minimal details.

He's fine; he'll be along shortly. We completed the challenge, but we traveled back separately.

They seem satisfied with my explanation, marking our trial as successful despite the unconventional ending.

I collect Maisie from Luna's house, where I find her awake early and drawing wolves in a notebook while Nic makes breakfast.

"Mama!" She launches herself into my arms, and I hold her tight, breathing in her sweet scent. "How was camping?"

"Cold and wet," I say honestly. "But we survived."

"Did you see any real wolves?"

"Just the usual ones," I reply, thinking of my own shifted form in the darkness.

Luna appears in the doorway, taking in my bedraggled appearance with knowing eyes. "Rough night?"

"You could say that."

She doesn't push for details, for which I'm grateful. I'm barely holding myself together as it is, and I need to get Maisie home before I fall apart completely.

The walk to our cottage feels endless, but finally, we're safe behind our own door. I help Maisie with breakfast and her morning routine, going through the motions while my mind replays the night's events on an endless loop.

Thomas's desperate plea to trust him. His claim that he was trying to protect me. The way he looked when I asked him to explain—like he wanted to tell me everything but couldn't force the words out.

None of it makes sense. And until it does, until he trusts me enough to share whatever truth he's been hiding, I can't let myself hope for anything more than completing these trials and finding some way to survive whatever comes after them.