Chapter 11. What the Wolf Knows

Warmth. Solid, steady warmth.

Mira stirred, her lashes fluttering against the dull light of morning bleeding into the tent. Pale ribbons of dawn filtered through the thin canvas, turning the air soft and blue-tinged. She blinked once, then twice, her brain still sluggish with sleep. The first thing she registered was scent—the fading whisper of woodsmoke, the damp musk of pine needles clinging to canvas, and something else entirely. Something distinctly alive.

It clung to her skin like a second layer: rough leather, sun-warmed fur, the clean bite of earth and rain, and beneath it all, the faint, wild edge of something untamed. It filled her lungs before she understood why it felt so near.

She shifted—and froze.

A solid arm was still wrapped around her waist, a heavy, protective weight holding her close. Her legs were tangled with someone else’s, larger and stronger. Her face rested not on her own bedding, but against the chest that rose and fell with a deep,