Chapter 5 Chapter 5

The morning air bit like iron. Frost clung to the cracked asphalt, turning the Wintercrest compound into a patchwork of glittering white and gray. Smoke rose from the main hall’s chimney, mingling with the scent of sweat, gun oil, and pine that always hung heavy around the yard. 

The world was already awake — or maybe it never really slept here. 

Wolves in both skin and fur moved through the open space: patrol rotations changing, a few training sessions already underway. A pair of teenagers wrestled in their wolf forms near the fence line while two older enforcers barked orders from the porch. A truck engine idled somewhere down the hill, breath fogging from its exhaust in lazy curls. 

Charise adjusted the strap of the canvas bag over her shoulder and kept walking. Boots crunching over frost. Head down just enough to look disinterested — not submissive, never that — but enough to avoid the morning bullshit. 

Her jeans were worn at the knees, dark denim dusted in road salt. A black thermal hugged her frame beneath an olive jacket, one elbow patched with duct tape because she’d rather die than ask anyone to replace it. Her dark hair was tied back, messy from sleep, a few loose strands brushing her jaw when the wind shifted. 

Whispers followed her like gnats. 

“Which blood?” 

“Shouldn’t she be locked up on full moons?” 

“She healed the kid last week. I saw the glow.” 

Charise rolled her eyes. The same script every damn day. The same cowards who still lined up for her help when their mates got hurt, or their pups caught a fever. 

She caught one of the patrols staring and flashed him a razor-edged smile. 

“Keep staring, and I’ll start charging you rent,” she said, stepping past. 

A few snickers broke through the tension. He muttered something under his breath, but didn’t push it. No one really did. Not since she’d broken a grown wolf’s nose last spring for trying to “test her obedience.” 

Her humor was armor, her mouth sharper than most blades in this pack — and she wore both well. 

The mess hall doors creaked as she pushed inside. Warm air hit her face, thick with the smell of coffee and bacon. The room buzzed with morning chatter and clattering silverware. Wolves clustered in small groups, laughing too loudly, pretending not to notice when she walked by. 

Charise moved to the back counter, poured herself a mug from the carafe, black and steaming. She took a long sip, eyes half-lidded, pretending it burned less than it did. 

“Morning, witch-blood,” someone called from a nearby table — Jackson Crane, one of the enforcers, all grin and ego, elbows spread like he owned the room. 

Charise didn’t even look at him. “Morning, Jackson. Still compensating for your tiny bite, huh?” 

The table erupted into laughter. Jackson’s smirk faltered. “You're always this charming before caffeine?” 

“Only for you,” she said, and walked past him without breaking stride. 

It wasn’t bravery. It was survival — the only kind that worked here. 

She found a spot near the window, where she could watch the yard through the fogged glass. Beyond the buildings, the mountains rose like black silhouettes against a bruised sky. Somewhere past them was freedom — or whatever version of it existed for people like her. 

Her reflection in the glass looked tired. Twenty-one, but her eyes carried more winters than that. She lifted her mug again, the coffee nearly gone cold already. 

Behind her, a few of the younger wolves whispered again — quieter this time. She caught fragments: shouldn’t be here… Alpha’s mistake… too dangerous… 

Her lips twitched. “You know I can hear you,” she said without turning around. 

The silence that followed was delicious. 

She almost smiled. Almost. 

By the time Charise left the mess hall, the sun had crawled halfway over the ridge — pale gold struggling through the cold. Her coffee mug was empty, her patience more so. 

The walk to the clinic took her past the training fields, where the clang of metal and shouted orders echoed through the crisp air. Men and women sparred in the dirt, breath clouding like smoke. She didn’t linger. She’d seen enough bruised egos for one morning. 

The clinic sat on the quieter edge of the compound, a squat building of whitewashed wood and glass that always smelled faintly of herbs and antiseptic. It was Elara’s world — clean, calm, and entirely too bright for Charise’s taste. 

She pushed the door open. The bell above it chimed softly. 

Inside, Elara Quinn looked up from a stack of gauze and bottles. Her blonde hair was tied in a messy braid, green scrubs wrinkled, a pencil tucked behind one ear. She grinned the second she saw Charise. 

“Morning, sunshine. You look like you fought a blizzard and lost.” 

Charise dropped her mug on the counter with a dull clink. “Close. I fought Jackson Crane’s mouth. About the same amount of wind.” 

Elara snorted, moving to set aside her supplies. “You’re going to get yourself thrown in the pit one of these days.” 

“Please.” Charise leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I should be so lucky.” 

Elara rolled her eyes, but there was fondness beneath it. “You know, for someone who claims she doesn’t care, you spend an awful lot of energy pissing off the entire pack before breakfast.” 

Charise’s lips quirked. “Gotta stay consistent.” 

The clinic’s heater hummed low. Elara poured her a cup of tea — mint and something sweet — and handed it over. Charise took it, half for warmth, half because Elara would give her that look if she didn’t. 

“Rough night?” Elara asked quietly. 

Charise hesitated, gaze flicking to the frost gathering at the corner of the window. “Same as usual.” 

“The visions?” 

A pause. Then a small, tired nod. 

Elara studied her for a beat — the faint shadows under Charise’s eyes, the way her shoulders held tension like armor. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t scare you,” she said gently. 

“I’m not scared,” Charise said, too fast. She took a sip of tea, grimaced. “Just annoyed. Like having reruns in my head every damn night.”