Rowan's heartbeat thrashed in her ears, her chest heaving as though it was she that was racing across the outland, the weight of Striga and Meera on her back.

Just one more Mantor eye to go. They'd been counting the stones gleaming like white beacons. Everything was going as planned. So why was her body wracked in tremors? Why was she shooting furtive looks over her shoulder all night?

Something was terribly wrong. It wasn't just the feeling of being followed. She'd neither heard nor seen any sign of the Jorg and its messy gurgle of black rapids. The snaking beck was nowhere in sight. Thus far, she'd ignored the slithering dread in the pit of her stomach. They were going the right way. They had to be. The Mantor stones popping into view every few leagues told her so. She wasn't wrong. So why did her gut churn wit such wrongness. Maybe the Jog had dried up. Yes, that had to be it. Something logical like that.

The towers of West Gate, and the fires on the ramparts, would be appearing any moment now. Rowan had expected the terrain to be quaggier than this. More treacherous. Instead, the ground was firm and thick, vibrating with thunder as Striga pounded along. It was a landscape she hardly recognized. But that, too, could be because of the missing Jorg waters or the changing season. What did she really know of the outland? Nothing, that's what.

When the last Mantor eye disappeared beneath Striga's hooves, Rowan looked up hopefully, her gaze straining. Finally, the silhouettes of buildings began to emerge, yawning out of the shadows of a dark horizon. Soon she would see the bridge.

She gave a whoop of relief, heart soaring. She'd done it! She'd found West Gate! She'd survived the outland and the stalking vishwa. For once, she hadn't failed at something.

The thought of facing her mother quickly stole her thunder, though. She swallowed and pushed Elgret from her mind. Merritt was on the bridge. He'd promised to be. He'd get her inside and then they'd flee to Wrais together. To his uncle. She would never have to see her mother again, nor hear Elgret's cold voice snapping like ice as she spoke the family motto. Not for self but kin.

Her thoughts snapped and whirled like a cloud of bats, so much so that it took a full minute before she realized her colossal mistake. The skyline looming ahead was nothing like West Gate. No ramparts, no gatehouse, no towers lit with fires, and no Black Bridge to convey her across the sucking black mud. Most of all, no Merritt.

With a cry of shock, she yanked Striga to a halt. The horse reared and Meera shouted in alarm. Rowan hissed against the pain as Meera snatched her long braid like a lifeline to keep from falling backwards. But the pain in her scalp was nothing to the crippling dismay that speared her heart.

Meera clutched her. "What...what is it, Rowan?"

Rowan's face felt bloodless and cold as she turned to look at Meera. The girl's eyes were wide, but Rowan knew her friend couldn't see what lay before them. Not with clouds occluding the moonlight. She almost wished the night gift away so that the truth might be hidden a few seconds more.

"Rowan?" The chill in Meera's voice was seeping into Rowan's marrow.

"Carthyrk," she said at last, her teeth chattering. "We're back in Carthyrk, Meera."

"What?!" Meera leaned forward, her gaze wild and blind.

Cold dread clawed in her chest, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Striga pawed restlessly, her muscles taut.

How? How in the world had the Mantor eyes lead them in a giant arc? Her disappointment was so keen, her tears sliced raw tracks down her cheeks.

She glanced back the way the'd come. They'd set off from one side of Carthyrk and they'd arrived at the other. Hours of galloping through the perilous night, terror-soaked and tired, only to end up where they'd started. Was it too late to turn around and try again? She knew Striga had the spirit, but did she?

"I wouldn't," said a voice in the dark.

Rowan's lungs billowed, a primal scream squeazing in her chest. But all that came out was a violent rush of air. She gulped her heart back down and dragged her gaze around to where Thrax had been hidden in the long grass. Behind him stood his sister.

In the dark, she watched as he nodded over her shoulder, gesturing to someone else. With a jerk, she twisted back around and found, to her horror, a warg loping forward from it's hiding place. His was a pelt of grey and black, a patch of silver on his breast. Barthac! And he looked as worn and bedraggled as Rowan felt.

Realization struck hard. Her glare spun back to Thrax. "You had me followed?!"

His fangs were wolf sharp, his eyes molten. "I protect what's mine."

"I'm not yours!"

"I gathered that when you snuck off tonight." His face was cold granite, but a roaring furnace shone behind his eyes. "Sister," he said, addressing Thesta, his glare never leaving Rowan, "Take Meera home. Her mistress has put her in enough danger for one night."

His words lashed her and she winced. She opened her mouth, ready with a seething denial, but nothing came out. Her gaze fell. He was right.

She watched impotently as Thesta helped Meera down from Striga. She couldn't meet the warga's eyes, though they weighed heavy on her.

Barthac shifted, his pelt rolling off in the blink of an eye to reveal naked flesh. Once he was on two legs, he joined Thrax. The two males conferred at length, heads bent. Thrax watched her all the while, eyes bright with distrust. It left her cold and she hugged her waist, unable to get warm. Even Mantor couldn't look at her. He hid his light behind a distant billowing anvil that streaked with lightening.

Meera briefly touched her hand before Thesta lead her away. The maid looked back, squinting through the darkness. Her brow was fatigued with worry, and in that moment she looked far older than the girl she was.

Guilt roared in Rowan's chest. She opened her mouth to say something to Meera, but she could get no words past the pain in her throat.

What if something had happened tonight? What if that vishwa had caught up to them? She'd thought only of herself—of getting to Merritt. The prodigious weight of her folly was dawning, black and hideous. That nothing had happened to them was evidently because the beasts of the night had been thwarted by Barthac. Here she'd had the hubris to think it was her swift horse and clever plan that'd outrun danger. The measly nixrath on her thumb would've been little help against a vishwa. Gods, how stupid she was. And Merritt, too! He never should've nurtured her folly as he'd done. He should've come to her room that night and bid her farewell forever. He should've helped her accept her fate, yet he'd stoked her rage and stroked her ego—made her think she'd cooked up some ironclad plan. Her mother was right to think her a useless pawn. Right to keep her fettered to reality.

Suddenly her mother's grim looks on her wedding day made sense. Why the High Lady had never looked on their union with much enthusiasm. Because Rowan and Merritt were two of the greatest fools in all of West Gate. And two fools together were a recipe for mayhem.

Her hands balled into clammy fists. But Merritt deserved only a small portion of blame. She was the ultimate fool. Heat welled behind her eyes, blurring her vision. And in the blurry darkness, all she could see was Thrax's shadowy form drawing near and Barthac trailing after the other two. She deserved whatever he did to her. Even if only for endangering Meera.

Alone with him, she was more naked than he. She felt afraid, her body hyper aware of the violence pulsing in his hooded yellow glare. "Are you...are you going to beat me?"

"Do you want a beating?" he rasped.

"Of coarse not!"

"Then I won't beat you." He blew out a long sigh, some of the brimstone glow waning from his eyes.

Her hands tightened in Striga's mane. "What's to be my punishment, then?"

"You're my wargrix, not a child, despite your childish whims."

"Then what—?"

"You betrayed my trust, Rowan." His fangs snapped together, proof he was reigning in his temper. "To wargs, the loss of trust is punishment enough. Trust lost is hard to earn back."

"I never asked for your trust!" She spread her arms wide. "Or for any of this."

"I chose to give it all the same."

Her lips compressed into a line. "You trusted me so well you sent Barthac after us."

His jaw ticked menacingly. "Did you think I'd let you leave on your own? Clearly, I have more care for your wellbeing than you do."

"So you knew of my plan all along?"

"Of course I knew. I watched Meera drop the Mantor eyes." He gave a snort of disgust. "I'm insulted you thought me so dense, Rowan."

Ugh! How had she not thought of that? Gods, she'd never felt more little in all her life. Never more stupid. "You're not the dense one," she whispered. "I am."

"Oh, I'm a little dense," he admitted.

Her brow furrowed and she wiped her wet cheeks dry. "How?"

"I assumed your bout with that golrag would've cured you of your escape plans to ramble across the outland on your own. You surprised me."

Her lip quivered. "I wasn't alone, I had Striga and Meera."

"Exactly!" he snarled."You are wargrix! You are never alone—your thoughts and actions must never be for yourself alone!" He took a step towards her and then halted abruptly. Then he spoke again, more controlled. "You are their protector—you do what's best for the pack even when you wish it otherwise, even at the cost of pride and desire. You never put them in danger like you did tonight."

She opened her mouth, but found she'd lost her tongue. Not for self but kin. She gritted her teeth.

"And before you say something childish," he muttered, "like my pack isn't your pack, heed this—Striga and Meera are under my protection now, too. Therefore, they are part of my pack." He closed the gap between them, running his hand over Striga's hot neck. She nickered gently at his touch. "All those you love are under my protection, Har Kani."

The weight of her guilt was a hideous thing to bear, and he was making it worse by being so gods-damned reasonable. And his restraint... It was so unwargish of him. "What if I do not wish to belong to your pack? What if I don't wish to be its High Lady."

His hand stilled. "Then you should have tried to convince me to take you back. A good leader must exhaust every safe option before choosing a reckless one."

"You...you would've taken me back had I asked you?"

"No," he said, voice gruff. "I told you never. You're my mate. Your place is here with me."

"I'm not your mate! I'm not—"

"You cannot escape what is. It is weakness to try. It takes strength and mettle to face truth head-on, no matter how you hate the truth. And the truth is" —his voice lowered as he moved closer— "we belong to one another, Rowan."

She turned her face away. "I was only trying to go home."

He was crowding her, weakening her resistance. He was as big as Striga—bigger. Even mounted on the dergle as she was, they were eye level. "You are home," he said gently.

She swallowed, her mouth turning dry as he pressed closer.

His tone was low and husky. "What's in West Gate that you felt you had to risk death to get there?"

"Merritt," she whispered, knowing she couldn't lie to him.

The brimstone was back in his eyes in an instant. "I see." His jaw was ticking with the force of underlying wrath. "I'll make a deal with you, Rowan." In seething tones, he bent over her ear. "If by the end of next summer you still wish to return to the little man child, I'll take you to him myself. If he's as faithful as you believe, he'll wait for you."

Her body tensed. Was he serious? She watched him carefully with narrowed eyes. His hands slipped around her waist and she gripped his rippling shoulders as he lifted her swiftly off Striga's back. Once her feet were on the ground, she backed away.

He gave Striga an affectionate slap on the rump. The horse headed off in the direction of the lake, likely thirsting for a long drink. "I want you to promise me something," he said, watching Striga trot away.

Her nod was slow and wary. "What is it?"

He turned to face her, his gaze smoldering with barely contained anger. "Don't ever go into the outland again. Not without me." They stood staring at each other a long while, Rowan caught in his stern golden gaze. She licked her lips and nodded again. "Your word," he said, lips tight. "As thin as it is, I want your word."

She flushed, but kept her eyes locked to his. "You have my word, I promise." She wasn't that much of a fool to try again.

"Good," he said. "There are worse things out here than saber trolls and blood wyrms. If you leave Carthyrk, you leave with me and no one else."

Her brows winged up at the mention of...worse things. What in Brek's name was a blood wyrm?

Thrax's ears pricked around as he scanned the perimeter. "Barthac told me he caught wind of a soldier drone nearby. There is nothing the vishwa enjoy more than human blood. The queen in particular. You were lucky tonight."

This was probably not a good time to tell him she'd actually seen the soldier drone Barthac had scented. Or maybe she'd imagined it? Fear could do that—make the eye see things that weren't there. "Striga can outrun anything, I'm sure that—"

"Striga is no match for a hungry vishwa." His look silenced her. "You won't see the pit traps until it's too late. Above ground a warg might stand a chance of defeating one. Once they get you below..." He shook his head. "Only the gods can save you then."

"All right." She felt her body sinking, fatigue gripping her like hungry claws from deep underground. She had no more fight left in her. No more schemes cooking. No more thoughts of escape. A numbness crept in, snaking her in a cold grasp. She could still feel the vishwa's eye crawling over her. Although Barthac had been following her—watching her—somehow, the slithery gaze she'd sensed hadn't felt like a warg's. "Do the vishwa hunt in the daylight, too?"

"The underworld is darkest. The vishwa don't see well in the light, so they build pit traps to suck you down. Day or night, it matters not once they get you below." He placed his hand at the small of her back, stirring her pulse rate. With quiet pressure, he lead her from the tall grass.

She peeked up at his face, marking the shadows in his eyes. "Why aren't you more angry at me?"

"I'm furious," he said evenly.

She had to open her stupid mouth, didn't she?

"You put Meera in great peril tonight. But what enrages me most is that you put yourself in danger. Had Barthac not followed—had I not rerouted the stones..." He shook his head, his nostrils flaring.

"I'd have ended up in goblin stew?"

"Lucky for you this isn't goblin country. Just worry about the vishwa. And the Deadwolds."

"Deadwolds?"

"Known hive hunting grounds. The outland is no place for a human. And until you accept the mating bond, you are very much a human—defenseless and ill-equipped to survive out here alone."

"Even with a dergle?"

"If she'd carried you on her back and flown you back to West Gate, I'd be far less wroth. But on the ground you're all easy prey. All the more reason to lock the bond."

Lock the bond—a euphemism for neck biting and rutting. It would complicate everything. He told her he'd take her home in a year if she still wanted, but if they locked the bond then what was the use? She'd only outlive Merritt by centuries. She was too drained to think about any of it right now. Drained and yet so aware of Thrax's nearness. No mater how tired she was, her body never failed to react to him.

"I feel a fool," she said. "All this time you knew I planned to leave." He must've rearranged the Mantor eyes right after the new moon when he'd gone back to West Gate. No wonder it's taken him three days to conduct his business. He'd brought her the means to escape, and she'd thought herself so cunning. Yet all the while he'd been the wilier wolf.

"Take heart," he said, his hand sliding from her back to hold her right hand. "I had no idea your dergle was half horse—Barthac had a wretched time keeping up with you. Too bad about that wing of hers."

Yes, it was really too bad. She huffed a sigh, her breath silvering in the pre dawn chill.

He glanced down at her. "Are you tired?"

Her gaze darted up at him, her face heating. "I don't want to go to bed if that's what you're asking." No need to go locking bonds just yet.

He chuckled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Her brows twitched together. "Oh?"

"Yes," he said with a flash of long fangs, "I've a surprise for you."

She gaped at his fangs with a shiver. "A surprise mauling?"

He squeezed her fingers, igniting her blood. "As tempting as that sounds, no."

Then why were his fangs still so wolf sharp. "Are you sure? You look...you look keen for a mauling."

"Rowan, if you don't stop watching my mouth, I might think you in want of a mauling."

Her lips nudged up at the corner. At a time like this, how was he able to tease a smile from her? "You're taking my escape a little too well, Thrax."

"Believe me, the wolf inside is still gnashing his teeth. But I meant what I said the other day—I wish to start anew with you." A heavy sigh rolled out from deep in his chest. "No matter how many times it takes."

She watched him from the corner of her eye, surprised at his answer. She was eager to forget the escape and look forward. He seemed disposed to let her. A long silence settled between them.

His fingers were threaded tight around hers. Her blood was soaring in her ears, her body marking every breath he took, every twitch of his ears, and every rope of muscle flexing. Saliva pooled in her mouth, the cold forgotten.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her eyes drawn to the distant lightening.

"It's been a long night for both of us," he said, looking down at her intently.

Her stomach flipped at the heat in his gaze. "I told you I'm not tired."

"I'm not taking you back to the house, min skani."

Sure enough, the lake house was in the opposite direction. "Where then?"

A shadowy smile crept over his lips, pulling her flesh tight with ripples.

Where was no longer important. It was now a question of what he would do once they got there. That warg smile promised far more than new beginnings.