Frost needles the air, biting at the exposed skin of Itzel’s neck. Behind her, the rhythmic rumble of her father’s armored SUV fades into a whisper, leaving her alone where the gravel road surrenders to the encroaching Blackthorn timber. She grips the strap of her single leather bag, the weight of her entire life reduced to a few changes of clothes and a heavy, unspoken dread. The silence of the forest is unnatural—no birdsong, no rustle of small game—just the oppressive weight of thousand-year-old pines watching a sacrificial lamb.
He won't even look back, she thinks, her jaw tightening until it aches. Tomas Arroyo didn’t offer a hug or a blessing; he simply stopped the car at the border and waited for her to climb out. This is the price of a treaty written in blood and desperation. She is a peace offering, a hostage draped in the silk of a rival’s daughter, left at the altar of the wilderness to appease a pack that thrives on the hunt.
A massive shadow detaches from the ancient pines, footsteps crunching the frost as it moves deliberately toward her.
