The fire crackles between us. Outside, wind moves through trees.
"You were there," I say. "During the attack."
"Attack." He repeats the word slowly, like tasting something bitter. "Is that what they call it in Ironvale?"
I falter. "The conflict. The battle. When your tribe—"
"Massacre." His voice cuts clean. "The word you're avoiding is massacre."
The correction hits like a slap. "I didn't—"
"Yes, you did." He feeds another stick to the fire, his movements controlled but tense. "You were taught to call it something else. Something that sounds justified, strategic, and necessary."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He's right. Every history lesson, every elder's account, every casual mention—it was always 'the Bloodfang conflict' or 'the northern territory incident.' Never massacre.
"Tell me what happened," I say quietly.
He's silent for a long moment, staring into the flames. "I was seven years old. They came at dawn, when most of our warriors were out on patrol. Perfect timing." His voice stays level, but something underneath it pulls taut. "My father was a warrior. One of our best. My mother was a healer. My sister was three."
My chest tightens. "What happened to them?"
"What do you think happened?" He snaps a branch and feeds it to the fire, the crack echoing in the small space. "Your husband's father led the charge. Alpha Torrhen put a sword through my father's chest while he was trying to evacuate the elders to the hidden tunnels. My mother died protecting my sister from a warrior who cornered them in our home. They killed her anyway after. Slit her throat in front of me."
Bile rises in my throat. I press my hand over my mouth, fighting nausea. "How did you survive?"
"I hid." The words come out flat, emotionless. "Like a coward. Under the floorboards of our home while they burned everything above me. I listened to my people scream and I did nothing."
"You were a child."
"I was a warrior's son." His hands clench on the stick he's holding, knuckles white. "I should have fought with them. Instead, I hid like a rat."
"You would have died."
"Yes." He looks at me, and there's something broken in his eyes, something that's been shattered and never healed right. "I should have."
"But you didn't."
"No." He tosses the stick into the fire, watching it catch and burn. "I crawled out of the ashes three days later. Alone. I've been alone ever since."
The silence stretches. I want to say something, anything, but every word feels inadequate. Sorry doesn't cover it.
"The official records say Bloodfang was planning an uprising," I say finally. "That your people were stockpiling weapons, recruiting rogues, threatening multiple packs."
"We were farmers." His laugh is bitter and sharp. "Hunters. Healers. We had maybe twenty warriors total, most of them older wolves. The biggest threat we posed was refusing to bend the knee to Ironvale's expansion."
"They lied."
"They always lie." He stands abruptly. "I'm going to find food. You should rest. Those feet won't heal if you keep moving on them."
"Kieran—"
"Rest." He's already moving toward the entrance. "I won't go far. If you hear anything, anything at all, you run. Don't wait for me."
"I'm not leaving you."
He pauses at the entrance, his back to me. "You might have to."
Then he's gone, slipping through the brush like a shadow.
***
I sit alone in the shelter, staring at the fire. My body aches everywhere. My feet throb with each heartbeat. But it's his story that hurts the most, settling into my bones like cold that won't leave.
I was raised on lies. Every proud tale of Ironvale's strength was built on the graves of innocent people. Built on the screams of a seven-year-old boy hiding under floorboards while his world burned.
My hands shake. I press them flat against the stone floor, trying to ground myself.
Rhys's father did this. The man we honored, the Alpha we mourned when he died. He murdered children. Slaughtered families. And Rhys—does he know? Does he know the truth, or was he fed the same lies I was?
The mate bond pulls at my chest, but it's different now. Steady. Like a rope connecting me to Kieran even though he's somewhere in the forest hunting.
I lean my head back against the stone and close my eyes.
I wake to the smell of roasting meat. Kieran crouches by the fire, turning two rabbits on a makeshift spit. The sun has moved—late afternoon now. I slept longer than I meant to.
"You're awake." He doesn't look at me, focused on the food. "Thought you might sleep through dinner."
"How long was I out?"
"Three hours. Maybe four." He pulls one rabbit off the spit, tests it with his fingers, then sets it on a flat stone. "Eat. You need strength."
I move closer to the fire, my feet protesting every shift of weight. The rabbit is plain—no seasoning, no herbs—but it's the best thing I've tasted in days. We eat in silence, tearing meat from bone with our hands.
When we're finished, he banks the fire low, just enough to keep the chill off. The shelter darkens as evening settles in.
"You should sleep more," he says. "I'll keep watch."
"You need rest too."
"I'll sleep when we're safe." He settles against the opposite wall, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest. "Go. Sleep."
I curl onto my side, using my torn cloak as a pillow. But sleep doesn't come. I'm too aware of him across the fire. Too aware of the mate bond humming between us, stronger now in the quiet.
I want to touch him. The urge is sudden and overwhelming. Just reach across the space and feel his hand in mine. Feel his warmth, his presence, something real and solid to anchor to.
But I don't move. I keep my hands tucked against my chest, fighting the pull.
He's grieving. Carrying fifteen years of pain and loss. The last thing he needs is me making this complicated with unwanted touch.
So I lie still, staring at the fire.
Outside, night sounds fill the forest. Crickets. Wind. The distant call of an owl.
Inside, just the crackle of flames and the weight of everything unsaid.
I close my eyes and force myself to stillness, even as every part of me wants to cross that small distance and tell him he's not alone anymore.