Page 82 of Arranged Wolf's Nanny
Rick’s fists clenched at his sides. He thought of Eva asleep in her bed, of Rosalia’s empty room, of the way he had let his pride drive her from him.
There was no more time for whiskey. No more time for doubt.
He turned toward the door, voice harsh with command, “We move. Now.” His wolf agreed, but beneath the snarl, there was something else. The sharp, desperate knowledge that Rosalia was not at his side, safe under his protection.
Chapter 19 - Rosalia
Rosalia paced in the dim little room, palms scraped bloody from clawing against the wood, and tried not to give in to the hopelessness dragging at her chest. Her father’s scent lingered in the air, sharp with arrogance. She could still hear his voice, smug and cruel, promising that now was the time to strike.
They’re going after Silvermist.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. Rick. Eva. The Iron Walkers. If she stayed here, caged and useless, they would walk blind into the slaughter.
She spun, scanning the small chamber. The bolt on the door was solid, the hinges reinforced. Two Green Mountain wolves had stationed themselves outside; she could hear their low voices, the scrape of boots. That way was death.
But she remembered another way.
This was not the first time John Heath had locked her away. As a girl, she had been shut in more rooms than she could count. Punishment for disobedience, for asking questions, for existing too loudly. And she had learned, back then, that windows offered more than light.
Rosalia crossed to the far wall. The window sat high, square and narrow, barred by curtains heavy with dust. She tugged them aside and unlatched the frame. The night air slapped her face, cold and wild.
Her heart stuttered. She could do this. She had done it before.
The memory of John’s punishment, of the beating she had received, haunted her. But she shoved it down. She had to be brave.
She stripped off her shoes and slung her coat across her shoulders. Then, with a last look at the closed door, she climbed onto the sill. The drop below yawned like a mouth, but the old drainpipe still clung to the wall, just as it had years ago when she was a girl sneaking to the stables.
She gripped the pipe and swung out into the night.
The metal bit into her palms. For a heartbeat, she thought it would give way, tear loose from the wall, send her crashing to the ground. But it held. She climbed down hand over hand, toes searching for cracks in the mortar. The pipe rattled beneath her, but she didn’t stop, didn’t breathe, until her feet hit earth.
Her wolf surged beneath her skin, restless, urgent.Run,it demanded.
Rosalia tore the coat from her shoulders and let the shift take her.
Pain and heat tore through her bones as her body bent, reshaped, fur bristling across her skin. Her vision sharpened; her hearing stretched wide. The night erupted into color and sound.
She landed on four paws and bolted.
The forest swallowed her whole.
Branches whipped at her flanks as she drove herself forward, muscles burning, lungs pulling air in great heaves. The earth was a blur of pine and leaf-mold, the moon a pale coin above the canopy. She followed the pull in her chest, the bond that tied her to the Iron Walkers, to Silvermist, to the fragile place she had begun to call home.
Every step carried her further from the poison of her father’s schemes. Every step closer to Rick.
She ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Ignored the growing ache, the whipping branches. Hours passed. Still, she ran. She was flying. Free. Nothing stood in her way. The miles fell away behind her, melting away in a blur of wilderness. At some point, dawn broke. Still, she ran.
But she was not fast enough. She knew it even as she galloped across the territory line to the Iron Walkers.
The first scent hit her long before the town: blood. Sharp, hot, metallic.
Then the wind shifted, and she heard it…the howls. Dozens of them, too many to count. The forest rang with them: rage, pain, triumph. Wolves are locked in battle.
Her paws skidded as she broke from the tree line, and the valley spread below.
Silvermist burned.
Flames licked at the edge of the settlement, throwing orange light against the night. Wolves clashed in the streets, bodies colliding, fur and blood and teeth flashing in the firelight. The roar of combat drowned even the rush of the river.
