"Rhea—"

"Every person in this compound was thrown away by some pack. Every single one. The rogues who guard your quarters tonight — they're exiles, runaways, wolves who were sold or traded or beaten until they couldn't take it anymore. I didn't build this place because I'm noble. I built it because I remembered standing at that cliff, and I thought — if someone had been there. Just one person. Standing behind me. Not even saying anything. Just being there."

I stopped. I'd said more than I meant to. The dark did that — stripped away the tactical Rhea, the Alpha Rhea, and left the version of me that still remembered what the cliff edge felt like under her bare feet.

Silence.

Then his hand moved across the table. Slowly. Not grabbing — reaching. His fingers stopped an inch from mine. Close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off his skin.

I pulled my hand back.

"Don't."

The word came out harder than I intended. Sharp enough to cut.

"Whatever that is — don't. Whatever your wolf is doing right now, put it on a leash." I looked at him. Directly. Let him see every wall I'd built. "I trusted an Alpha once. He stole my child and told me she was dead. So if you're about to say something kind, or do something gentle, or look at me like I'm anything other than a problem you're here to adjudicate — don't. Because I can't afford it."

He withdrew his hand. Slowly. Like moving too fast would break something.

"I wasn't going to—"

"Yes, you were."

Another silence. This one was different. Heavier. Full of the thing neither of us was going to name.

He stood up. The chair scraped against concrete. At the door, he stopped. Didn't turn around.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I wouldn't have let you stand at that cliff alone."

Then he was gone.

I sat in the dark. My hand was on the table where his had almost touched it. I could still feel the warmth — ghost heat, already fading.

My wolf stirred. Not the usual way — not the territorial growl or the battle-readiness or the cold, sharp focus I'd spent six years honing. This was something else. Something softer. Something I hadn't felt since before the exile, before the scar, before I learned that opening your chest to another person just gave them a better angle to reach your heart.

I didn't name it. I pressed my palm flat against the cold table until the warmth was gone, and I sat there until the moon moved past the window and the room went fully dark.

Some things you can't afford to feel. Not when the man who stole your daughter is gathering armies, and the only thing standing between your child and a silver collar is you.

I went to check on Lily. She was sleeping in the room next to mine — the one I'd set up with the softest blankets we had, the nightlight Isla rigged from a battery and a jar. Her hair was spread across the pillow. One hand was curled against her chest. The bandage on her wrist had come loose in her sleep.

I retied it. Carefully. She didn't wake.

"I'm right here," I whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her breathing stayed even. Peaceful. The kind of peace you only get when you've decided someone else is keeping watch.

I leaned against the doorframe and stood guard until morning.