Chapter 4: Wolfless
1067 Words
He woke to the sound of her voice.
Low. Controlled. Quiet enough to be mistaken for wind at first.
“…bark first, then root. And don’t boil it. Boiling ruins it.”
Ronan blinked against the light. Dull gray morning filtered through the collapsed ceiling. Frost veiled the rafters, and the fire from the night before had died to embers, barely alive. He shifted against the stone wall, muscles locking in protest.
Every part of him ached, but it was clean pain now. Real. Centered.
He was alive.
And she was still here.
Sylra knelt a few paces away, her back to him, hands deep in her satchel. She was speaking softly to herself as she sorted through a bundle of dried herbs and vials, her dark hair pulled into a loose knot at the base of her neck.
Ronan didn’t speak. Not yet.
He listened.
Not just with ears—his whole body was straining for a sense of her. His instincts, long dulled by the curse, sparked faintly to life again. Not a full flare. More like a flicker.
She smelled of pine oil and iron. Of wet stone and sharp mint. He’d never met her before, but she felt... familiar.
Dangerously so.
He sat up slowly. She didn’t turn.
“You’re still here,” he said.
Sylra didn’t look up. “You’re still breathing.”
“That’s debatable.”
“You sound alive enough to annoy me.”
He let out a dry sound—not quite a laugh. His gaze dropped to her satchel, where bundles of roots were wrapped in leather strips and marked with symbols he didn’t recognize.
“Those herbs,” he said. “They’re not from this forest.”
Her fingers paused. “You’ve been unconscious for twelve hours and that’s your first question?”
“Humor me.”
She shrugged without turning. “Some of them grow near the southern cliffs. Others I carry with me. I trade.”
“Where?”
“All over.”
He frowned. “There’s nothing south but wasteland. Poisoned streams. The old dead villages.”
“Maybe for you.”
“And you travel them alone?”
She finally turned.
Her eyes were sharp and silver, calm as ice over deep water.
“Why does that surprise you?”
He studied her. “Because you’re not afraid of me.”
“I’ve seen worse than you.”
“Recently?”
She didn’t answer.
He shifted again, pressing a hand to his side. The bandages were firm. Fresh. He hated how efficient they were.
He hated needing them.
“You’re good with wounds,” he said.
“I’ve had practice.”
“Soldiers?”
“Wolves. Mostly the dying kind.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you do know what I am.”
“I know what you were.”
That hit harder than it should have.
He said nothing for a moment. The wind outside whispered through the cracks in the stone, cold as breath on his neck. He didn’t shiver. He wouldn’t.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She hesitated.
Then: “Sylra.”
He let the name settle in his mouth. Soft and sharp at once.
“Sylra,” he repeated. “Not from around here.”
“No.”
“Not Hollowfang.”
“Would I have helped you if I was?”
He looked her dead in the eye. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
A beat of silence. Tense. Heavy.
Then she rose to her feet, brushing off her hands, and crossed the room in three strides. She crouched in front of him again and reached for his wound.
He caught her wrist.
“I said—”
“I heard you,” she said coolly. “And I ignored you.”
He scowled.
She pulled her hand free and undid the edge of the bandage with smooth precision. Her fingers were warm. Steady. She didn’t flinch as she leaned closer.
He didn’t move.
Their faces were inches apart now. Close enough for him to see the faint scar just beneath her left ear. Close enough to smell the sharp, bitter edge of the root she’d been grinding. Close enough to feel the bond hum low and quiet, just beneath his skin.
Her touch was clinical. Her face unreadable.
But something passed between them in the quiet.
His fingers twitched. His chest tightened.
She was pretending not to notice. But he saw the way her lashes flicked. The way her breath caught for half a second when her skin brushed his.
She was trying to control it.
So was he.
He spoke before he could stop himself.
“What are you really doing here, Sylra?”
She didn’t stop working. “I already told you.”
“You’re lying.”
She looked up, calm. “So are you.”
That stopped him.
Her gaze held his for a long, silent moment.
Then she finished the dressing, tied it off, and sat back on her heels. “You’re healing. Faster than you should be.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means either the curse is weakening…” She paused. “Or your wolf isn’t as dead as you think.”
His pulse jumped.
She saw it.
He looked away.
The curse had ripped everything out of him—his senses, his strength, his wolf. He hadn't shifted in weeks. Couldn’t. That bond, that rhythm, that sacred pulse beneath the skin… gone.
But in the last twelve hours, he’d felt something.
Something old. Something buried.
And now she was here.
The bond couldn’t be coincidence.
But it couldn’t be trusted either.
“Do you feel it?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t respond.
He looked back at her. “Sylra.”
Still, nothing.
His voice dropped. “The bond.”
This time, she looked up. Not surprised. Not shaken. Just tired.
“I feel something,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it real.”
He blinked. “You don’t believe in fated mates?”
“I believe in choices.”
“And if it’s both?”
She stood, brushing ash from her knees. “Then it’s even more dangerous.”
Ronan watched her cross back to the fire.
He didn’t know who she really was.
But he knew one thing for certain.
He didn’t want her to leave.
Not yet.
- Writer
