Cassian did not enter Vane territory again.

He could have.

Every instinct in him knew that. Every old, ugly part of him still understood doors as things meant to be opened by force and borders as lines that bent beneath stronger wolves.

But he stayed outside.

Three miles beyond the southern border, where the white stone road gave way to pine-dark wilderness, Cassian set up camp beneath a cluster of black cedar trees.

No banners.

No northern guards.

No announcement.

Just one torn canvas tent, one low fire, and an Alpha who had spent his entire life being obeyed learning, finally, how to remain still.

The southern patrols found him before sunset.

Six wolves approached through the trees with their hands near their weapons, their scents sharp with suspicion.

Cassian looked up from where he was fastening a bandage around his forearm.

"I'm not crossing."

The lead patrol wolf narrowed his eyes. "Alpha Lucien said you'd say that."

Cassian's fingers paused.

Of course he had.

Lucien Vane seemed like the sort of male who prepared for every possible mistake another man might make.

Irritating.

Useful.

Infuriatingly decent.

Cassian tied the bandage with his teeth and lowered his arm. "Then tell him I meant it."

The patrol wolf studied him for a long moment.

Cassian did not rise.

Did not bare his teeth.

Did not let his Alpha pressure spill into the clearing.

The effort of holding it back made his spine ache.

Finally, the southern wolf said, "You'll be watched."

"I know."

"If you step past the border—"

"I won't."

The answer came too quickly to be pride.

The patrol leader looked almost unsettled by it.

Then he turned, signaling the others back into the trees.

Cassian remained by the fire after they left, staring at the border he could not see but could feel like a blade laid across his throat.

Somewhere beyond it, Lyra was breathing.

That had to be enough.

For now.

—

He learned the rhythm of the southern estate by accident.

At least, that was what he told himself the first night.

The truth was uglier.

Cassian had spent years failing to notice the woman in front of him. Now his entire body had become a wound shaped around her absence.

Every distant sound dragged his attention.

Every carriage.

Every bell.

Every shift in the wind that carried even the faintest trace of silver-wolf scent.

By the third day, he knew the estate kitchens sent bread carts to the outer villages before dawn.

He knew Lucien trained with his warriors at sunrise in the east yard, controlled and quiet, never using more dominance than necessary.

He knew Lyra walked the southern garden late.

Too late.

The first time he saw her, the moon had already climbed high above the cliffs.

Cassian had been standing beside a stream beyond the border, rinsing blood from his knuckles after splitting firewood more violently than necessary.

A flicker of silver moved between the distant garden columns.

His breath stopped.

Lyra.

She walked alone in a pale robe, hair unbound, arms folded tightly across her middle despite the warmth of the night.

Not strolling.

Pacing.

Slowly.

Back and forth along the balcony.

A servant appeared behind her carrying a shawl. Lyra accepted it with a faint smile, but the moment the girl left, Lyra's expression emptied again.

Then she looked toward the dark tree line.

Cassian stepped back into shadow before sense caught up with him.

His heart slammed once.

Hard.

She could not have seen him.

Still, shame burned through him.

Watching was not the same as forcing, he told himself.

But it was close enough to make his skin crawl.

He turned away.

Walked back to camp.

Did not sleep.

—

The next morning, the southern patrol came with breakfast.

Not for him.

They made that very clear.

A basket was set at the edge of his clearing by a young warrior with a scar across his mouth and deep suspicion in his eyes.

"Lady Lyra said northern wolves are useless at feeding themselves."

Cassian stared at the basket.

Fresh bread.

Cheese.

Apples.

A small jar of honey.

His throat tightened so fast it hurt.

"She said that?"

The young warrior's expression remained flat. "She said no such thing. Alpha Lucien sent it."

Of course.

Cassian looked away.

The disappointment was ridiculous.

Pathetic.

Deserved.

"Thank him."

The warrior lingered. "You look like hell."

Cassian gave him a tired glance. "Is that also from your Alpha?"

"No. That one's from me."

For the first time in days, Cassian almost smiled.

Almost.

After the warrior left, he sat beside the basket for several minutes without touching it.

Then he opened the jar of honey and remembered Lyra at nineteen, stealing sugared bread from a winter feast, laughing with gold on her thumb.

The memory nearly undid him.

He ate anyway.

Not because he was hungry.

Because somewhere beyond the border, Lyra was also supposed to be eating.

And by dusk, he learned she had not.

—

It came from two servants passing near the outer road.

They did not see him through the trees.

"She sent the tray back again?"

"Barely touched it."

"Alpha Lucien will be furious."

"Not furious. Worried."

Cassian went completely still.

The axe in his hand lowered slowly.

The servants continued down the road, voices fading beneath birdcall and wind.

Barely touched it.

Again.

A cold pressure built behind Cassian's ribs.

How many meals had she skipped in the north?

How many trays had been carried away from her rooms while he sat in council chambers pretending territory disputes mattered more than the hollowing woman at his side?

He remembered her wrists.

Too thin.

Her face pale under candlelight.

The way she used to say, "I'm not hungry," with a smile that asked him not to look closer.

And he hadn't.

Gods.

He hadn't.

Cassian sank onto a fallen log and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

No roaring.

No breaking anything.

No storming through the border to demand she eat like a madman.

That would be the old Cassian.

That Cassian had ruined enough.

So he sat there until the pressure in his chest became something he could breathe around.

Then he rose, went to his saddlebags, and pulled out a small tin wrapped in cloth.

Northern ginger sweets.

Lyra used to keep them hidden in the library during winter because they settled her stomach when court dinners made her anxious.

He had not known that because he had been attentive.

He had known because once, years ago, he'd kissed her against the shelves and tasted ginger on her tongue.

The memory made his fingers tighten.

He set the tin on the border stone before dawn.

No note.

No demand.

Just the sweets.

By noon, they were gone.

Cassian stood in the tree line long after noticing, his pulse unsteady in a way battle had never managed.

He did not let himself hope.

But he breathed easier.