Chapter 4: Frost Law

She woke beneath a ceiling of black beams. Winter stars shone through gaps in the stone. Warmth touched her skin. A fire crackled near her feet. The bed smelled of cedar, clean linen, and something else--male, unfamiliar, sharp. Her throat was raw from the snow, and when she swallowed, she tasted ash and iron. She sat up too fast. The room tilted. Her ribs ached where snow had pressed the air from her lungs. The wound where the mate bond had been torn pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Slowly." Darius Frost sat beside the hearth with a book open on one knee. Firelight carved the planes of his face--strong jaw, high cheekbones, a shadow of stubble. His eyes were the pale gray of a storm sky. He didn't look at her, but his hand rested on the arm of the chair, fingers drumming once, twice. "You're in my hunting lodge," he said. "North of the pass. Felt your blood through the snow. You were almost gone." She touched her throat. The skin was raw, burned by cold. "You saved me." "I found you." He turned a page. "What you do with that is your choice." Her heart hammered, each beat a spike. She pressed a hand to her ribs. The bond scar throbbed. She remembered the alpha's hands, the tearing, the emptiness. "Why?" He closed the book and set it aside. The room fell silent except for the fire. "Because you're bait. Blackridge wants you dead. That makes you useful to me." She should have felt anger. Instead, a cold clarity settled in her chest. "You want the name of my pack." "I want the name of everyone who touched you. The ones who held you down. The ones who watched." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice dropped, rough and low. "And I want your permission to hunt them." Her pulse skipped. "You're offering a contract." "Protection. For your life." He pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket. The seal was black wax, embossed with a mountain. He tossed it onto the bed beside her knee. "Read it. You're the one who picks the target. Every name you give me, I take. No questions, no mercy." She didn't touch the paper. Her fingers curled into the blanket. "And what do you get?" "Everything else." His eyes traveled her face, then dropped to her hands, her bare arms. "Your pack's territory. Their assets. Their bloodline. You're the last heir. Once they're gone, you inherit nothing but ashes--unless you sign that." The fire popped. A log shifted. She imagined his hands on her throat, not to choke--to claim. The thought made her stomach tight. "And if I refuse?" "Then you're on your own. I'll drive you to the next town by morning. You can build a new life in human territory. Forget you were ever a wolf." He said it flat, like it was nothing. She stared at the paper. The wax seal glinted in the firelight. She could burn it. Walk away. Start over with no pack, no name, no power. But the wound in her chest was still bleeding. Every time she breathed, she tasted the alpha's scent, his laugh, the crack of her ribs. She picked up the contract. Paper felt heavy, almost alive. She scanned the lines--legal language, territory claims, a promise of lethal service. At the bottom, a blank space for names. "No." His eyebrow lifted. "No?" She met his gaze. "You don't get to choose the price." She set the paper on the bed. "I name my own." The silence was thick as frost. He studied her, unblinking. "Name it." "I want Blackridge's secrets. Every file, every deal, everything." She held his stare. "I want them exposed. In the news. In the council. I want their name to mean nothing but rot. And I want to be there when it happens." His mouth curved--not a smile, but the edge of something dangerous. "You want me to break the law." "You want me to sign your contract." She leaned forward, letting the blanket slip. The cold air kissed her shoulder. "That's my price. Take it or leave it." He stood. The movement was fluid, predatory. He walked to the foot of the bed, close enough she could smell pine and steel. "You'd name your own pack's ruin." "They're not my pack anymore." Her voice didn't shake. "They're my wound. I want it cauterized." He looked at her for a long moment. The fire crackled. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from her face. The touch was light, almost a question. Her breath caught. Then he dropped his hand. "Fine. But you'll stay here until I find the first name. You'll follow my orders. Eat my food. Sleep in my house." His voice dropped. "And you'll trust me." "Trust has to be earned." "Then earn mine." He turned and walked to the door. "Rest. Tomorrow, you give me the first name. We'll see if you're worth the trouble." The door clicked shut. She was alone. Her fingers touched the spot where he'd brushed her skin. The heat lingered. She looked at the contract still on the bed--cracked seal, blank lines, a promise of blood. She would give him names. She would watch them fall. And when Blackridge was just a stain in the snow, she would decide what to do with Darius Frost. The scar in her chest pulsed. She was done being bait.