My brain is stuck in a fog.

For days I’ve been trying to break free, swim out, but I’m weighed down. There’s too much pain.

And then suddenly it lifts, and light filters through my eyelids, the mist scurries out of my mind. I open my mouth and groan.

Something clatters beside me, like an object hitting the floor, followed by the scurrying of feet, but I don’t see it. I can’t pry my eyes open. My body aches. Every inch of me feels like it's been beaten and broken, and the pain radiates from my bones to my muscles and skin. It's a dull throb, like I've been hit by a battering ram. As I regain consciousness, I become aware of the sensations—the heaviness of my limbs, the stiffness in my joints, the sharp stabs of pain every time I take a breath. I take a slow breath and inhale smoke, must, hazel, and . . . Wolf.

The scent of an unknown male wolf makes my heart race. I try to remember what happened, but it's all a blur. I was running, I was fighting, and then... darkness. I can't recall the details. Just fragments of sounds and smells and feelings. Panic bubbles up in my throat as I realize I don't know where I am or how I got here.

My eyes finally respond. They flutter open, and I find myself in a small, dimly lit cabin. The walls are made of rough-hewn logs, and a stone fireplace casts a warm glow across the room. The air smells of herbs and wood smoke, the scent wrapping around me like a soothing balm. I try to sit up, but my body protests, and a whimper escapes my lips as I fall back onto the bed.

My bed. 

It's not mine, but it feels like it is. The soft mattress cradles me, the blanket covers me with a gentle warmth, and I fight the despair sweeping over me. How did I get here? Why do I feel...safe?

I push the feeling away. I’m not safe. I'm a prisoner. I didn't want to be here. I was dragged into this place, unconscious and broken.

My eyes narrow as I scan the room, looking for any signs of a threat. I don't recognize this place. There's nothing familiar about the walls, the fireplace, the small table and chairs. The door is closed, and I feel like I'm trapped in a life-size coffin.

Where is the wolf? I still smell him.

And then I see him, by the door, nearly obscured by the shadows. A chair lies toppled on the wood floor between me and him.

Anger and fear rise within me. 

"Who are you?" I demand, my voice raspy and weak. Is this the wolf that attacked me? I try to lift my head, but it feels like it's weighed down by a hundred-pound stone. "What do you want with me?"

He shifts his weight but doesn’t step into the light. I can only see his silhouette, but his presence sends a shiver down my spine. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of authority that makes me instinctively want to submit. But I force myself to stay still.

"You're awake," he says, his voice smooth and deep. He walks closer, and I see he's carrying a loaf of bread. He sets it down on the table and turns to face me. My breath catches in my throat.

He's handsome. Devastatingly handsome. Dark hair, sharp blue eyes, chiseled features. He has the kind of face that would make any woman weak in the knees. But his expression is cold, his eyes calculating as they scan my face.

"I'm glad to see you're healing," he says. "I was worried you wouldn't..."

I narrow my eyes, cutting him off. "Who are you?" I ask again, my voice sharper this time. "What do you want with me?"

He doesn't answer right away, and I see a flicker of something cross his face. Pain? Regret?

"You were hurt," he says. "I found you in the forest, unconscious and bleeding. I brought you here to heal you."

I sit up suddenly, and the room spins around me. My head throbs, and I grip the edges of the bed to steady myself.

"You did this," I say, my voice trembling with rage. "You attacked me and then brought me here to finish the job."

His eyes widen in surprise, and he shakes his head. "No," he says quickly. "I didn't... I didn't attack you. I would never..." He trails off, his eyes flicking away from mine.

"Then why?" I ask, my voice rising. "Why would you help me? Why didn't you leave me there to die?"

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he looks at me, his eyes dark and stormy.

"I couldn't leave you," he says quietly. "I couldn't..."

He's lying. 

I can smell his lies, taste his deception. He's hiding something, and he's doing it for his own reasons. Probably to benefit himself. It's the way of the world. The way of the male wolf. No one does anything for another unless they can benefit from it.

I narrow my eyes at him, studying him. His hair is tousled, and his eyes are shadowed. He's tired. But his expression is guarded, his face a mask of indifference. I don't trust him.

"You don't have to thank me," he says, with a twist of his lips. "It was the right thing to do."

His words bring back memories I'd rather forget. My uncle, telling me it was the right thing to do. My punishment for disobeying him was the right thing to do. It was the right thing. 

And my anger and curiosity get the better of me.

"Were you the one who found me?" I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or did your master send you to check on me?"

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash. "My master?"

I snarl at him, baring my teeth. "Or are you the master?"

He turns and walks away from me, his footsteps loud on the wooden floor.

"I thought so," I say, my voice triumphant. “You’re a slave.”

And that means he can't be trusted. Who knows what he was doing in the forest? Maybe he was going to try to survive on his own. Maybe he's running from his master. Either way, I don't want anything to do with him.

"I'm not a slave," he says, his voice clipped. He turns back to face me, his eyes blazing. "I'm the alpha."

My heart skips a beat, and I stare at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He's the alpha? How is that possible? He doesn't have the reserves of extra fat, the hair covered with wolf's bane, the stink of the herbs and the scent masks. He's clean. His hair is short and curly, his face free of blemishes. And there's no smell of rank herbs. 

Even Ethan carries the scent on him, and he’s only been alpha a few months.

He's a liar.

I shake my head to clear the fog, to steady my thoughts. "Who are you?" I ask again. "What pack are you from?"

He doesn't answer right away, but I can see him trying to decide what to tell me. How much to tell me.

"I'm Kalen Nightshade," he says finally. "I'm the alpha of the Nightshade pack."

The Nightshade pack. I hiss and rear back, my fingers clutching at the blankets. My eyes scan the room, looking for a weapon. “Stay away from me!”

He snorts and rolls his eyes, then walks toward me, lowering himself onto the bed. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, and I feel a rush of... something as his body gets closer to mine. Heat? Arousal? I don't know. I pull my legs up to my chest and scramble away from him.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have left you there to bleed out.”

My breathing comes in short gasps, and my hands fly to my throat. I feel the damaged skin beneath the bandages with every word I speak.

He’s right. But I can’t shake the fear, the tremors at being so close to the enemy. “Why didn’t you finish me off?”

"You're a Were," he says. "I couldn't leave you. And I couldn't let my pack have you."

I stiffen. His pack. Which means they live close by. Which means I'm in danger if they find me.

I narrow my eyes at him. "You’ve endangered us both by bringing me here!” I’m a traitor to my pack just for being here. And if Ethan gets wind—we’re both dead. “What do you plan to do with me?"

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. The action makes him look adorable, like a little boy. 

The thought makes me want to punch him.

"Nothing," he says. "I plan to do nothing. I'm trying to help you."

"Help me," I repeat. "A Nightshade pack member is trying to help me. What are you going to do, shave my head and sell me to the slavers?"

He frowns, his brow furrowing. "I don't have any intentions of shaving your head," he says. "Why would I do that?"

Of course. I'm in the territory of an alpha who doesn't submit to the Sequoias. He doesn't know about the slavers. He doesn't know what Blackwood has had to do to survive.

He leans toward me, and I’m captivated by the energy in his dark eyes. 

“What I need to know from you is . . . Who attacked you?”