Chapter 3

No one from Snowridge came.

St. Jude’s had heat again, but our fuel would not last long.

We were no longer waiting for Snowridge to save us.

I was in the middle of rationing our remaining dried provisions when Kael hurried into the classroom, his face pale.

“Vehicles outside.”

Three heavy, black-armored trucks had blockaded the main courtyard.

Armed wolves spilled from the doors, moving with the disciplined, lethal precision of a true fighting force. They didn't look like Snowridge’s lazy patrol units; they looked like an army.

A tall man in a heavy dark coat stepped out from the lead vehicle.

He paused, scanning the repaired windows, the steady plume of smoke rising from the chimney, and the watch rotation I had stationed near the front entrance.

His gaze locked onto mine through the glass.

A moment later, he walked into the lobby.

“Who is in charge?” his voice was deep, cutting through the chatter of the refugees.

“I am,” I said, stepping forward.

His dark eyes dropped briefly to the iron restraint locked around my wrist, then back to my face. A flicker of calculation crossed his sharp features.

“This building is supposed to be condemned,” he said.

“It was.”

“My patrol stores emergency supplies in this district. Two fuel drums disappeared from the depot last night.”

“We didn't take them,” I replied, my voice unyielding.

He didn't blink. Instead, he walked past me, entering the main corridor without waiting for an invitation. The armed wolves behind him lingered at the threshold.

“My trackers followed fresh footprints straight to your doorstep.”

“We arrived in a transport truck during the blizzard. Search the school if you want,” I said, stepping into his path and forcing him to look down at me. “But your men leave their weapons at the door.”

One of the armed wolves behind him snorted with amusement.

The man raised a hand, silencing his guard instantly. He pulled a heavy hunting knife from his belt and laid it deliberately on a nearby desk—a gesture of calculated respect.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He introduced himself as Damon Cross, Alpha of Northvale—the largest and most ruthless territory north of the mountain pass.

Rowan had always warned Snowridge that Damon was a predator who took whatever his pack needed.

But standing face-to-face with him, I saw something Rowan was too blind to notice: Damon didn't just conquer; he evaluated.

I let him walk through the school without saying another word.

He saw what Snowridge had abandoned.

“You did this overnight?”

“With the help of the people Snowridge threw away.”

“How many trained engineers do you have?”

“None.”

For the first time, the cold mask slipped, revealing a sharp, assessing curiosity.

He offered a trade: two full fuel drums in exchange for permission to use the school as a base while his patrol hunted the thieves in the surrounding woods.

“One drum for three days,” I countered instantly. “And medical supplies included.”

A slow, dangerous smile touched the corner of his mouth. “You negotiate aggressively for a woman with no territory, no pack, and an iron shackle on her wrist.”

“I’m negotiating for people who will die if I blink.”

His eyes held mine, locking them in a silent contest of wills.

Then, beneath my glove, the silver ring flared with a sudden, unexpected heat.

Damon caught the faint red glow radiating from my wrist. He reached out as if to touch my hand, stopping just a fraction of an inch away, his breath hitching.

“Where did you get that ring?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“It belonged to my mother.”

He turned sharply toward the faded stone crest carved above the basement door. It was an exact match to the wolf engraved in my silver band.

His eyes moved from the repaired windows to the survivors working together in the halls.

For the first time, I saw something change in his expression.

Not pity.

Respect.

“Rowan made a mistake,” Damon said.