The ice storm reached a crescendo. Then, a wet, choking sound.

Hudson collapsed forward, coughing up a mouthful of black blood. The purple veins hadn't receded; they had spread to his face.

Areli's stomach dropped. The cold was constricting his blood vessels, pushing the neurotoxin straight into his brain faster.

Hudson's head snapped up. The last vestige of sanity in his eyes vanished. He was gone. Only the beast remained.

And the beast wanted her.

He launched himself at her. He moved so fast he was a blur.

Curt roared, throwing himself between them. "Warlord, NO!"

Hudson backhanded him. The force sent Curt flying backward, crashing through two trees.

Areli turned to run. Her legs felt like lead.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Doyle. His eyes were cold and hard.

"You can't do this!" Areli screamed, struggling. "This is a violation of my body!"

"We have no other female!" Doyle snapped. "You said yourself—any female's fluid might work. Level doesn't matter now. His ice has slowed the venom, but he still only has minutes. You're his only chance!"

Areli's eyes widened. She had specified high-level, but in truth, she didn't know the exact requirements. Doyle was gambling with her body as the wager.

"For the Warlord," Doyle said flatly.

He pulled a thick leather pouch from his belt, crushing the dried Heat-Bloom petals inside to release their potent, cloying dust. The herb stunned the senses—it would knock her out and, upon waking, ignite a feverish fire in her blood to override all resistance. He clamped it firmly over her nose and mouth. Areli thrashed wildly, her nails clawing at his thick arms, but her injured ribs betrayed her. The sickly-sweet aroma flooded her lungs.

Darkness swallowed her vision. Her last conscious thought was a furious, terrified curse.

"Get him to the river!" Doyle barked. "The cold might break through the madness!"

Brown and Curt moved as one. They baited Hudson, dodging his wild swings and leading the rampaging Warlord toward the sound of rushing water. Doyle hoisted Areli's limp body over his shoulder and followed. They burst through the treeline to a rocky riverbank. Brown and Curt drove Hudson into the freezing current, then Doyle tossed Areli in after him—the shock of the water their last hope to snap the beast back to reason.

When Areli woke up, she was drowning.

Freezing water closed over her head. She kicked frantically, breaking the surface. She was in a river, the current pulling at her clothes.

She was weak. Her limbs felt like jelly. And there was a fire burning in her gut that had nothing to do with the cold water.

Doyle. That bastard had used Heat-Bloom on her—a paralytic that left a searing heat in its wake. She remembered the cloying dust.

She looked around, her teeth chattering violently. Hudson stood a few feet away, the water up to his waist. He was staring at her, his chest heaving.

The red in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by a flicker of torment. He was fighting it.

"If you touch me now," Areli said, her voice shaking with cold and rage, "it's rape!"

The word hit him like a physical blow. He clenched his fists, his claws extending, digging into his palms. Blood dripped into the water.

"I won't force you," he rasped, his voice raw and broken. "But if you help me... I swear on my life, I will take absolute responsibility."

The promise hung in the freezing air. In this brutal world, an oath like that was sacred.

But Areli didn't care about oaths. She cared about survival. And the drug Doyle had given her was burning through her veins, melting her resistance.

She had a choice. Die of exposure and drug overdose, or save herself by saving him.

She closed her eyes. The fire inside her roared.

The cold was killing her. The drug was burning her alive. Areli shuddered, her body convulsing in the icy water.

Hudson watched her, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it would break. He thought she was just freezing. Through the haze of his fading madness, he spotted Doyle on the bank, stripped of his own dry outer layer. With a grunt of effort, Hudson snatched the dry hide from Doyle's outstretched hand and threw it at her.

The heavy fabric smacked her in the face. Areli sputtered, grabbing it. The hide smelled like him—pine, smoke, and pure, unadulterated Alpha pheromones.

The scent hit her like a drug. Which, technically, it was, given the aphrodisiac already in her system. A moan slipped past her lips before she could stop it. Her knees buckled.

Hudson took a step forward, instinct driving him to catch her. Then he stopped, his hand gripping a submerged rock so hard the stone cracked.

"Don't come closer!" Areli gasped, clutching the hide to her chest. "Stay back!"

"I'm losing control," he growled, his eyes flashing red again. "Run... if you still can."

Run? Where? She could barely stand. And the fire inside her was demanding an outlet.

She was a modern woman. A pragmatist. If she was going to die, it wouldn't be cowering in a river.

She looked him dead in the eye. "I will help you. Not because I'm forced, but because I choose to survive."

Hudson froze. The raw determination in her voice pierced the fog of his madness. The red in his eyes flickered, replaced by shock.

Areli forced her legs to move. Step by agonizing step, she waded through the freezing water toward him. Every inch closer amplified the magnetic pull between them. The water around them began to steam.

She stopped in front of him. He towered over her, his chest heaving, his muscles rigid with restraint.

She reached out. Her trembling hand pressed flat against his burning chest.

The contact was a spark to powder. Hudson let out a roar. His control snapped.

He grabbed her, pulling her flush against him. He pinned her against a boulder, his mouth crashing down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim. Rough, desperate, and consuming.

Areli didn't fight. She wrapped her arms around his neck, matching his intensity. She focused her mind, relying not on some mystical force, but on her deep understanding of biochemistry. She didn't know exactly how energy worked in this world, but she knew how bodies processed alkaloids. She imagined the toxin as heavy macromolecular proteins, utilizing the extreme temperature differential between the freezing river and their burning skin to force a rapid physiological flush. She guided the rhythm of their breathing, regulating his erratic pulse with her own, coaxing his hyperactive circulatory system to filter and expel the foreign substance through their intense physical connection.

The cold water lapped at their skin, but the heat between them was a furnace. The purple veins on his neck began to fade. The poison was draining.

The world narrowed to the feel of his hands, the taste of his lips, and the primal rhythm of their bodies moving together in the dark water.

When it was over, Hudson's breathing was ragged but steady. The red was gone from his eyes. The poison was gone.

Areli slumped against him, utterly spent. The last thing she felt was his strong arms wrapping around her, pulling her close, before the darkness took her again.

Sunlight stabbed through the tent flap, hitting Areli square in the eyes. She groaned, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. Her ribs throbbed with a dull, deep ache—someone had wrapped her torso tightly with clean linen bandages while she slept, the bindings firm and smelling of medicinal herbs.

She was lying on something incredibly soft. A high-quality beast pelt. And she was wearing a man's shirt. It smelled like Hudson.

She sat up slowly, wincing as her bound ribs protested, clutching the shirt closed. Hudson was sitting a few feet away, watching her. His gaze was intense, possessive, and surprisingly gentle.

"Areli," he said, his voice deep and steady.

She met his gaze, refusing to look away. She had saved his life. She owed him nothing else.

Hudson stood up. He dropped to one knee. He placed a fist over his heart in a formal salute.

"I offer you my Mating Bond," he said, his voice ringing with sincerity. "I will protect you with my life."

Areli's breath caught. A Mating Bond from a Tier-1 Warlord? It was the ultimate security blanket.

But she wasn't going to be bought off that easily.

"Before we talk about bonds," she said, her voice cool and hard, "we need to talk about justice."

Hudson raised an eyebrow but remained kneeling.

"Your subordinate drugged me and forced my hand," she said, pointing toward the tent flap. "I want accountability."

Hudson didn't hesitate. He stood up and strode out of the tent. Areli pulled on a coat and followed, moving slowly and favoring her left side, one hand pressed flat against her bandaged ribs.

The camp was quiet. Doyle was kneeling on the ground, his back bare. Curt and Brown stood nearby, their faces grim.

Hudson walked up to Doyle. "You violated her agency. The punishment is the whip."

Doyle didn't flinch. "Yes, Warlord."

Hudson picked up a bone whip studded with barbs. He raised his arm.

Crack.

The whip bit into Doyle's back. Blood sprayed. Areli watched, her face expressionless. A fine mist of crimson drifted near her boots, and her stomach gave a violent, sickening lurch. In her past life, the sight of flayed skin would have sent her into shock. She had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from looking away. But then she remembered the icy water closing over her head, and Doyle's ruthless hands forcing the drugged pouch over her face. In this primitive, unforgiving world, weakness was an invitation for death. This was the currency of survival. She forced her breathing to steady. She felt no pity. Only a cold satisfaction.

Thirty lashes later, Doyle lay in a pool of his own blood. Hudson dropped the whip, turning to look at Areli. A silent question.

She nodded. The debt was paid.

"Pack up," Hudson ordered. "We're going to Blackridge Clan."

The journey, though short by beastman standards, was grueling for Areli. She could not walk the distance unassisted. Hudson, without a word, lifted her onto his back, his hands careful to avoid her bandaged ribs. She looped her arms around his neck, her pride stinging but her body grateful. As they traveled, she focused on her breathing, consciously using the rhythmic motion to assess her injuries—two cracked ribs, maybe three, but the bindings held them steady. By the time the camp's border stones came into view, the sharp edge of the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. Hudson set her down gently, and she straightened her spine, refusing to show weakness before her enemies. As they approached the clan's territory, Areli felt a familiar knot of tension form in her stomach. This was the place where the original Areli had died. It was time to make them pay.

They walked into the central square. The clan was gathered. And in the middle of the crowd, standing in front of Areli's old, tattered tent, was Gloria.

Gloria was mid-speech, her face a mask of sorrow. Then she saw Areli. Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in malice.

"Look!" Gloria shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. "The traitor is back! She eloped with wild males!"

Eugene stepped up beside her, looking heartbroken. "Areli, how could you betray my love?"

The crowd erupted. Hisses and boos rained down on her. Curt and Brown reached for their weapons, but Hudson held up a hand. He looked at Areli.

This was her fight.

Areli looked at the mob. She looked at the two liars. A plan formed in her mind, sharp and lethal.

She let her eyes fill with tears. She let her body sway, looking like a broken, defeated woman.

And then, she struck.