Chapter 29
title: "Wolves and Witnesses" wordCount: 2269
The bond feels like swallowing glass—every breath cuts, and I can taste blood that isn't mine.
I am sitting on the floor of the safe house bathroom because standing requires more energy than I have. The tile is cold against my spine. My watch says 4:47 AM but the hands have not moved in years. Outside the door, Iris and Moira are arguing in low voices about something I cannot make myself care about.
The nausea comes in waves. My hands shake. There is a pressure in my chest like someone is standing on my ribs, and every few minutes the world tilts sideways and I have to close my eyes and count to ten just to stay conscious.
"Sloane." Iris knocks. "I am bringing you water."
"Not thirsty."
"You need to drink something."
Yeah, no. I need to stop existing for a few hours. Maybe a few days.
The door opens anyway because Iris does not believe in privacy when someone is suffering. She crouches beside me with a glass of water and a look on her face that says she has seen this before and knows exactly how bad it is going to get.
"Partial bond breaks are worse than clean severs," she says. "The connection is still there. It is just corrupted. Poisoned. Your body keeps trying to reach for something that hurts to touch."
I take the water because my mouth tastes like copper and ash. "How long does it last?"
"Until you repair it or sever it completely."
"Great. Option three?"
"There is no option three."
I drink. The water sits in my stomach like a stone. "Then I guess I am going to feel like this forever."
Iris sits down beside me. Her shoulder touches mine. She does not say anything for a long time, and I am grateful because I do not have words for what is happening inside my chest. It is not just pain. It is wrongness. Like my body knows something is broken that should not be broken, and it is trying to fix itself but does not know how.
"Moira wants to know if you want to try to repair it," Iris says finally.
"No."
"Sloane—"
"I said no." My voice comes out harder than I mean it to. "This is what I deserve. For trusting him. For letting him—" I stop because finishing that sentence means admitting things I am not ready to admit.
Iris is quiet. Then: "Pain is not penance."
"Maybe not. But it is a reminder."
She stands. Offers me her hand. I take it because staying on this bathroom floor forever is not actually an option, no matter how appealing it sounds right now. My legs are unsteady. The world tilts again and Iris catches my elbow.
"You need to eat something."
"I need to—"
The front door slams open downstairs. Shouting. Running footsteps. Iris is moving before I am, pulling me behind her, one hand already shifting into claws. We are halfway down the stairs when I see them.
Two rogue wolves I do not recognize, half-carrying someone between them. Someone small. Someone covered in blood.
Someone who looks exactly like my mother.
Mira is sobbing. Gasping. Trying to talk and breathe at the same time and failing at both. One of the rogues—a woman with a shaved head and a scar across her throat—is saying something about Cascade Pack and blown cover and barely made it out.
Moira pushes past me. "Get her inside. Now."
They carry Mira to the couch. There is so much blood I cannot tell where she is hurt. Her shirt is shredded. Her face is bruised. She keeps trying to sit up, keeps saying the same thing over and over: "I have to tell her, I have to tell her, I have to—"
"Mira." Moira's voice is sharp. Commanding. "Look at me."
Mira's eyes find her. Wild. Terrified.
"You are safe," Moira says. "You are here. You are safe."
"No." Mira shakes her head. Frantic. "No, you do not understand, I have to tell her, I have to—" Her gaze lands on me. Standing in the doorway. Frozen.
She starts crying harder.
"Sloane." My name breaks in her mouth. "Oh god, Sloane, I am so sorry, I should have told you sooner, I should have—"
"Told me what?" I cannot move. Cannot breathe. The bond is screaming in my chest and Mira is bleeding on the couch and nothing makes sense.
"He tried to stop it." Mira is shaking. "Sloane, he tried to stop it, he tried—"
Iris appears with a first aid kit. Starts cutting away Mira's shirt. There are claw marks across her ribs. Deep. Still bleeding. Mira does not seem to notice.
"Who tried to stop what?" My voice sounds far away.
"Declan." Mira grabs my wrist. Her grip is weak but desperate. "He tried to stop the massacre. He tried to save them."
The floor drops out from under me.
It takes twenty minutes to get Mira stable enough to talk. Iris stitches the worst of the wounds. Moira makes her drink water. The two rogues who brought her in disappear into the kitchen, and I can hear them talking in low voices about how close the Conclave enforcers were, how they barely made it out, how Garrett Voss himself was leading the hunt.
I sit in the chair across from the couch and wait. My hands are shaking again but this time it is not the bond. This time it is something else entirely.
Finally, Mira looks at me. Her eyes are red. Swollen. "I was searching Garrett's files. Looking for anything we could use against the Conclave. He came back early. Found me in his office."
"How did you get out?"
"I shifted. Went through a window. The rogues were waiting outside—Declan sent them to watch over me." She swallows. "Garrett knows who I am now. Knows I have been feeding information to the resistance. He will tell the Conclave. They will come for all of us."
Moira's face is grim. "Then we move. Tonight."
"Wait." I lean forward. "You said Declan tried to stop the massacre. What does that mean?"
Mira closes her eyes. "I found records. Communications between Garrett and the Conclave from that night. Orders. Confirmations. And—" She reaches into her jacket. Pulls out a phone. Cracked screen. Covered in blood. "I found this in Garrett's safe. It belonged to one of the enforcers who was there. The one who was supposed to make sure no one survived."
She hands it to me. I take it. My fingers leave smudges on the screen.
"Look at the call log," Mira says. "From that night."
I do. Scroll back. Find the date. November seventh. The night my family died.
There are seventeen outgoing calls. All to the same number.
My number.
"Declan was ordered to participate," Mira says. Her voice is steady now. Clinical. Like she is reading from a report. "He was supposed to help with the killing. But when he arrived and realized the Carrigans were innocent—that the Conclave had lied about the threat you posed—he tried to refuse. His alpha beat him unconscious. When he woke up, the massacre had already started."
I cannot breathe. Cannot think. The phone is heavy in my hand.
"He was given a choice," Mira continues. "Kill Finn or be executed for insubordination. He chose—" Her voice breaks. "He chose to live. And then he stole this phone and called you. Seventeen times. Because he knew you would come home if you heard what happened. He was trying to keep you away. Trying to save you."
The room is spinning. I grip the arms of the chair. "That does not change anything. He still killed my brother."
"I know."
"He still—" I stop. Swallow. "He still took Finn away from me."
"I know." Mira is crying again. "But he saved you, Sloane. He made sure you survived. And then he spent three years trying to find a way to make it right."
Moira is watching me. Her expression is unreadable. "What are you thinking?"
I do not know. I do not know what I am thinking or feeling or whether any of this matters. Declan killed my brother. That is a fact. That will always be a fact. But he also saved my life. Also tried to stop it. Also called me seventeen times to keep me away from the slaughter.
The bond pulses. Sharp. Painful. And underneath the pain, I feel something else. Something that has been there since he left but I have been too angry to notice.
Movement. Fast. Purposeful.
Hunting.
"He is going after Garrett," I say.
Iris looks up sharply. "What?"
"Declan. I can feel him through the bond. He is moving. Hunting something." I stand. The world tilts but I force myself steady. "He is going after Garrett alone."
"Let him." Iris's voice is flat. "He made his choice."
"He will die," Moira says.
"I know."
The words sit in the air between us. Heavy. True. Declan is strong but Garrett is Conclave. Garrett has resources. Backup. An entire pack at his command. Declan has rage and guilt and a death wish.
He will not survive this.
Mira is watching me. "Are you going after him?"
"Yeah, no—" I stop. The words die in my throat. Because I am going after him. Not because I forgive him. Not because the bond is pulling me toward him. But because I cannot let him die alone. Cannot let him throw his life away trying to atone for something he was forced to do.
We are not lovers. We will never be lovers. But we are something. Allies. Survivors. Two people who have been broken by the same enemy and are still standing despite everything.
I look at Iris. "I need weapons."
Iris does not argue. She disappears into the basement and comes back with a duffel bag full of things that are definitely illegal in at least forty states. Guns. Knives. Something that looks like a grenade but probably is not because Iris is reckless but not that reckless.
"You are not going alone," she says.
"Yes, I am."
"Sloane—"
"This is not a debate." I check the clip on a Glock. Fifteen rounds. I take three more clips and shove them in my jacket pockets. "Declan went alone because he does not want anyone else to die for his mistakes. I am going alone because this is between him and me and Garrett, and I do not want anyone else in the crossfire."
Moira steps forward. "You are not ready for this. The bond is damaged. You are weak."
"I am always weak." The words come out bitter. Sharp. "That is what everyone keeps telling me. That I am not strong enough. Not alpha enough. Not Carrigan enough. But you know what? I am still here. I am still standing. And I am done letting other people fight my battles."
Siobhan stirs in the back of my mind. Approving. Hungry.
Mira stands. Winces. "If you are going, you need to know where Garrett will be. He has a warehouse on the east side. Near the docks. That is where he takes people he wants to interrogate. Or kill."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have been there. Because I have seen what he does to wolves who cross him." Her voice is steady but her hands are shaking. "If Declan is hunting Garrett, that is where he will go."
I sling the duffel over my shoulder. It is heavy. Good. I need the weight. Need something solid to anchor me because everything else is spinning out of control.
"Sloane." Iris catches my arm. "If you do this, there is no coming back. The Conclave will know you are alive. They will come for you."
"They are already coming for me."
"Not like this. Not with everything they have."
I meet her eyes. "Good. Let them come. I am tired of hiding."
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods. Steps back. "Go. But if you die, I am going to be very angry with you."
"Noted."
I am halfway to the door when Moira speaks. "He loves you, you know. Declan. Whatever else he has done, whatever lies he has told, that part is true. The bond does not lie about that."
I do not turn around. "Love is not enough."
"No," she agrees. "But sometimes it is all we have."
I walk out the door. The night air is cold. Sharp. It cuts through my jacket and settles in my bones. The bond is a constant ache in my chest, pulling me east, toward the docks, toward Declan and Garrett and whatever bloody conclusion is waiting there.
I am halfway down the driveway when the bond changes.
It does not break. Does not sever. It just—stops. Goes cold. Silent. Like someone flipped a switch and cut the power. I can still feel it there, still feel the connection, but there is nothing on the other end. No pain. No movement. No Declan.
Just emptiness.
I start running. My legs are unsteady and my chest is screaming and I do not care. I run faster. The duffel slams against my back with every step. My watch face catches the streetlight. Still stopped at 11:47 PM. Still marking the moment everything ended.
The bond is empty. Hollow. And I know—I know with absolute certainty, with the kind of knowing that comes from somewhere deeper than thought—that I am already too late.