The fever hadn't broken.
My grandmother's skin burned under my hand, her breaths shallow, uneven.
"There's more willow bark," I whispered. "But you need the goldenseal too."
She didn't respond. Just shifted beneath the covers, too weak even to protest.
I didn't wait for permission.
I layered the scent-blocking oil across my pulse points. Pulled the protective charm tight around my wrist. Poured the bitter tonic down my throat until my stomach churned.
Then I stepped into the trees.
The forest was wet and still, hushed like it was listening.
I kept to the narrow trail, eyes scanning the ground for the dull green leaves I needed. My basket was nearly half-full when the wind changed.
Just a breeze.
Just a shift.
But it carried something.
My breath stilled in my chest.
Not danger.
Not exactly.
But him.
Not a face. Not a voice. Just a scent.
Familiar now. Rich, earthy. Electric.
The one from the pen. The one that had followed me into my dreams even when I tried to scrub it from my skin.
And this time—it wasn't faded or distant.
It was close.
I ducked low behind a thick pine trunk, heart crashing against my ribs. My wolf surged, uncoiling like she'd just woken up from a long, hungry sleep.
No, I begged her silently. Not now. Please not now.
She didn't listen.
She reached.
And that's when I felt it.
That thread—thin as spider silk—snapping taut between us.
Recognition.
Bond.
Mate.
The word hit me harder than I thought it would. Not like a promise—more like a trap.
My stomach flipped violently.
I turned my head, and there he was.
Not twenty feet away. Standing at the edge of a clearing. Facing away. Broad-shouldered. Still. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.
He didn't see me.
But I saw everything I didn't want.
Because if he was my mate… it meant everything I'd feared was real.
And it meant we were out of time.
I ran.
Didn't care about the noise or the branches scratching my arms. Didn't stop to collect the herbs I dropped.
Didn't breathe again until I reached the cottage door and locked it behind me.
Inside, I collapsed to the floor, gasping.
My wolf was still awake.
Pacing.
Wanting.
And I—shaking, furious, terrified—wanted only one thing.
To make it all stop.
I didn't know how long I sat there, pressed against the door, heart pounding like it might tear through my ribs.
But eventually, the sound of my grandmother coughing snapped me out of it.
I rose on shaking legs and went to her room.
She was sitting up now, barely. Her face pale and glistening with sweat.
I didn't try to ease her back down.
"We have to go," I said.
Her gaze sharpened instantly. "What happened?"
I sat at the edge of the bed, the words spilling out in pieces.
The scent.
The forest.
Him.
How my wolf responded—wild and sure and aching.
And worst of all: the bond.
"I didn't speak to him," I said quickly. "He didn't even see me. But I know. I felt it."
My grandmother didn't speak for a long time.
She reached for the edge of the bedframe, gripped it like she needed to hold onto something solid.
Then: "Pack?"
I nodded.
That was all she needed.
"Get the bags," she said. "We leave before dark."
"But you're still sick—"
"I've traveled with worse. We don't wait, Elara. Not for them. Not for fate."
She swung her legs over the bed, breath hitching, but her hands were steady as she started tearing the protective wards from the windows.
We packed fast.
We always did.
Some things were never unpacked in the first place.
The herbs went into cloth pouches. The teas into sealed tins. The scent-suppressants were double-wrapped and stuffed into our coat linings.
I stripped the beds, scattered salt. Burned the small spell sachets so no trace of magic was left behind.
By dusk, we were ready.
I stood in the doorway one last time, staring into the forest.
But something was wrong.
When I stepped onto the porch to salt the threshold, I felt it.
Movement in the woods.
Not one. Many.
Shapes in the trees. Flashes of eyes. The weight of being watched.
I backed into the doorway.
"They're here," I whispered.
My grandmother appeared behind me, white with fury. "They're not supposed to be this close."
We weren't going anywhere.
I felt the truth settle like a stone in my gut. They were already circling. Too many. Too soon.
My mate wasn't among them. I knew it.
But the forest was no longer safe.
And we couldn't run.
Not yet.
My grandmother turned and pulled me inside, bolting the door. "We hold tight tonight," she said. "You stay silent. You stay hidden. I'll keep the protections burning."
She lit the herbs. Doused the cottage in layers of scent-suppressants and smoke. Drew runes across the floors. Made me drink tea so bitter it made my throat ache.
"Control your wolf," she said. "She will ruin everything if you don't."
I nodded, silent, numb.
Outside, the forest groaned and whispered.
Inside, the silence grew sharp.
And I knew—for the first time in years—we weren't invisible anymore.
We'd been found.
Or close to it.
It didn't feel like an attack. Not yet. Just a quiet pressure. A presence that had grown too near.
So we stayed inside. Kept the lights low. Let the smoke veil the windows.
I cleaned the pots while she layered more salt. Made tea, just to have something warm to hold.
It wasn't much. But it helped.
We didn't talk about him. Not yet. We just waited. Watched. Let the forest settle.
And when it finally did, hours later, I let myself breathe again—slow, careful, measured.
Whatever came next, we'd handle it. One step at a time.
Just like we always had.