The lodge feels like a museum at night—beautiful, carefully preserved, and utterly lifeless.

I'm standing at the window again, forehead pressed against glass that's probably warded six ways to Sunday, staring at the forest like some tragic heroine in a gothic novel. The comparison makes me want to punch something, but it doesn't make me move away from the window.

Rowan's out there somewhere.

And I'm in here, wrapped in luxury that feels increasingly like captivity.

The room they've given me is ridiculous—all exposed timber beams and rustic elegance, a king-sized bed with a down comforter that probably costs more than my entire camera collection, a fireplace that crackles with perfectly arranged logs. There's even a clawfoot tub in the attached bathroom, because apparently bear shifter lodges come with better amenities than most five-star hotels.

I'd trade it all for my tent and Rowan's amber eyes watching me from the darkness.

"You're going to wear a hole in that glass."

I don't turn around. Declan's voice has become as familiar as the lodge's cedar-scented air over the past three days. Three days of being his shadow, or him being mine. I'm not sure which anymore.

"That would solve the whole confinement issue," I say. "Fresh air, freedom, potential death by witch—sounds like an upgrade."

His footsteps are quiet on the hardwood floor. I track them by sound, a skill I've developed from years of waiting for animals that spook at the slightest noise. He stops a few feet behind me, close enough that I can smell him.

Pine and winter frost.

It's nothing like cedar smoke and wild honey.

"She's still out there," Declan says, and there's genuine concern in his voice. "Morgana doesn't make idle threats."

"Neither do I." I finally turn to face him, crossing my arms over the flannel shirt I borrowed from someone's closet. It's too big, hanging off one shoulder, and I catch Declan's eyes tracking the exposed skin before he looks away. "I told you I'm not staying locked up like some princess in a tower."

"Even if it keeps you alive?"

"Especially then."

He moves to the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantel, and the flames cast shadows across his face that make him look older. Tired. There are dark circles under those ice-blue eyes that weren't there when I first arrived.

Leading a clan while your brother suffers under a curse will do that, I suppose.

"You're stubborn," he says, but there's something almost admiring in his tone.

"You're controlling."

"Protective."

"Semantics."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Has anyone ever told you you're difficult?"

"Daily. Usually right before they stop trying to help me." I lean back against the window frame, studying him. "Is that what you're doing, Declan? Helping me?"

"I'm trying to keep you alive long enough to break my brother's curse." He turns to face me fully, and the firelight catches in his dark hair, turns his eyes to chips of ice. "Whether you cooperate or not."

"How very noble of you."

"Nobility has nothing to do with it."

The intensity in his voice makes something in my chest tighten. I've been alone with Declan a lot over the past three days—breakfast in the lodge's ridiculous dining room, walks around the warded perimeter, long evenings by this very fireplace while he briefs me on clan history and shifter politics and everything I apparently need to know about the world I've stumbled into.

I've learned that he takes his coffee black, that he reads voraciously, that he has a dry sense of humor that occasionally catches me off guard. That he's been holding his clan together through sheer force of will while watching his brother lose himself to animal instinct.

That he looks at me sometimes like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking for three years.

It's flattering and terrifying in equal measure.

"I need to see him," I say, not for the first time.

"It's too dangerous."

"Everything is too dangerous. The witch, the curse, the fact that I know about shifters at all—I'm already neck-deep in danger, Declan. Keeping me away from Rowan doesn't change that."

He's quiet for a long moment, just watching me with those too-perceptive eyes. Then he pushes off the mantel and crosses to the window, standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

Close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

"Why?" he asks softly.

"Why what?"

"Why do you need to see him? He can't talk to you. Can't explain what he's feeling, can't tell you his thoughts or his fears or his plans." Declan's voice is carefully neutral, but there's something sharp underneath it. "He's a beast, Isla. Nine feet of fur and claws and instinct. What could you possibly get from him that you can't get from—"

He stops himself.

But I heard the unspoken word anyway.

Me.

What could you get from him that you can't get from me?

The air between us feels suddenly charged, dangerous in a completely different way than Morgana's threats.

"He sees me," I say quietly.

"So do I."

"It's not the same."

"Why not?" Declan takes another step closer, and now there's barely a foot of space between us. His scent wraps around me—cold and clean and nothing like what I crave. "I can give you everything he can't, Isla. Conversation. Answers. Protection. I can tell you about the man he was, help you understand what you're fighting for."

"I don't need to understand. I just need to—"

"What? Save him?" There's an edge to Declan's voice now, frustration bleeding through his careful control. "You think love is enough to break a curse this powerful? You think feeling something for a beast you've known for a handful of days is going to undo three years of dark magic?"

"I think it's worth trying."

"Even if you're wrong about which Blackwood you're meant to save?"

The question hangs between us like smoke.

I stare at him, at this man who looks so much like the brother he described that it makes my chest ache. Same dark hair, though Declan's is shorter, more controlled. Same strong jaw, same broad shoulders, same intensity in his gaze.

But his eyes are ice-blue, not amber.

And his scent is all wrong.

"What are you saying?" I ask, though I'm afraid I already know.

Declan reaches up, and I freeze as his fingers brush a strand of copper hair back from my face. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and his hand lingers against my cheek.

"The curse requires love," he says quietly. "True love, freely given, to break the spell and restore Rowan to human form. That's what Morgana told him when she cast it—that only a woman who could love him as a beast would be able to save him."

"I know. You told me."

"But she never specified which beast." His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I can feel my pulse hammering against my skin. "Blackwood blood runs in my veins too, Isla. The same magic, the same legacy. What if the curse doesn't care whether you love Rowan or me? What if loving a Blackwood—any Blackwood—is enough?"

The suggestion steals my breath.

Because he's right. The curse's wording was vague, poetic, the kind of riddle witches love. And Declan is offering me an easier path, a clearer solution.

A man instead of a beast.

Conversation instead of silence.

Certainty instead of impossible hope.

"You've thought about this," I say, and it's not a question.

"Every day since you arrived." His hand slides down to cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "Every time I see you staring out that window, waiting for a beast who can't even reach you anymore. Every time I watch you break a little more because he can't give you what you need."

"Declan—"

"I could give you everything, Isla." His voice drops lower, intimate and urgent. "I could tell you stories about Rowan, help you fall in love with the man he was. And maybe that love would be enough. Maybe the curse would break, and you'd get your happy ending, and Rowan would get his humanity back, and the clan would be whole again."

"And you?" I ask, because I can see the hunger in his eyes, the desperation. "What would you get?"

"You."

The word is barely a whisper.

Then his mouth is moving toward mine, and I have exactly one second to decide.

One second to choose between the practical solution and the impossible one.

Between the man who can give me everything and the beast who can give me nothing.

Between ice-blue eyes and amber.

Between pine and winter frost and cedar smoke and wild honey.

I turn my head at the last moment.

Declan's lips brush my cheek instead of my mouth, and I feel him go rigid against me.

"I can't," I whisper.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. His hand is still cupping my jaw, his body close enough that I can feel the tension vibrating through him. Then he steps back, and the absence of his warmth is like a physical shock.

"Because of him." It's not a question. Declan's voice is flat, carefully controlled, but I can see the rejection burning in his eyes. "Because of a beast who can't even speak to you."

"Because my heart already chose." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. "I'm sorry, Declan. I know that would be easier. I know it makes more sense. But I don't want easier. I want—"

"Him."

"Yes."

The word falls between us like a stone.

Declan turns away, one hand dragging through his hair, and I can see the moment his composure cracks. His shoulders shake once, twice, and when he speaks again, his voice is raw.

"I've spent three years watching my brother suffer. Three years holding this clan together, making impossible decisions, sacrificing everything to keep our people safe while Rowan loses himself piece by piece." He looks at me over his shoulder, and the anguish in his face makes my throat tight. "And now you're here, and you're everything the curse demands, and I thought—God, I thought maybe I could fix this. Maybe I could save him and save myself and save you all at once."

"By making me love you instead."

"By giving you a reason to stay." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "But you were never going to choose me, were you? Even before you met him. Even when he was just a beast in the darkness, you were already his."

I want to deny it, but I can't.

Because he's right.

From the first moment I saw those amber eyes watching me from the shadows, from the first time Rowan brought me food and stood guard while I slept, from the first gentle touch of his massive paw against my hand—

I was his.

Even when I didn't want to be.

Even when it made no sense.

Even when loving him meant choosing the impossible over the practical.

"I'm sorry," I say again, and I mean it.

Declan's laugh is bitter. "Don't be. I knew it was a long shot. But I had to try." He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame. "You should know—loving him won't be enough if you can't reach him. The curse is getting stronger. Every day he spends in that form, he loses more of himself. Soon there won't be anything left to save."

"Then I need to see him. Now. Tonight."

"No."

"Declan—"

"Morgana is hunting you, Isla. She'll kill you the moment you step outside these wards." He turns to face me fully, and his expression has gone cold, distant. The clan leader instead of the desperate man who just tried to kiss me. "I won't let you throw your life away on a futile gesture."

"It's my life to throw away."

"And it's my clan to protect." His voice is hard now, final. "You'll stay in this lodge until we find a way to neutralize Morgana's threat. That's not a request."

He leaves before I can argue, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds like a prison cell locking.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the wood grain, feeling the weight of everything that just happened settle over me like a shroud.

Declan wanted me to choose him.

And I chose Rowan.

The beast over the man.

The impossible over the practical.

The one who can't speak over the one who can tell me everything I want to hear.

I'm either the bravest person I know or the stupidest.

Probably both.

I turn back to the window, pressing my palms against the glass, and stare out at the darkness. The moon is rising, nearly full, turning the forest silver and shadow. Somewhere out there, Rowan is hunting or patrolling or just existing in that massive body that's become his prison.

Does he know what just happened?

Can he sense it somehow, the way I swear I can feel him even when he's miles away?

Does he know I chose him?

"I see you, Rowan Blackwood," I whisper against the glass. "And I'm not giving up on you. Not for an easier path. Not for safety. Not for anything."

The forest doesn't answer.

But as I watch, a shadow detaches itself from the tree line—massive and dark and unmistakably him. Even from this distance, even in the darkness, I know that shape. Those amber eyes that catch the moonlight like coins.

He's come as close as the wards allow.

As close as he can get to me.

My breath catches as he rises on his hind legs, nine feet of muscle and fur and trapped intelligence, and I swear I can feel his gaze lock with mine across the distance.

I press my hand flat against the window.

He mirrors the gesture, one massive paw raised toward me.

And even though there's glass and wards and fifty yards of warded ground between us, even though he can't speak and I can't touch him, even though Declan just offered me everything and I turned it down for this—

This impossible, desperate, completely insane connection—

I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

"I'm coming to you," I mouth against the glass. "I don't care what Declan says. I don't care about the wards or the witch or the danger. I'm coming to you."

Rowan's head tilts, and I know he understands.

Then he drops to all fours and disappears back into the shadows, and I'm alone again.

But not really.

Because my heart is out there in the darkness with him.

And tomorrow night, when the moon is full and the wards are strongest and Declan thinks I'm safely locked away—

I'm going to find a way past every barrier between us.

Even if it kills me.

I turn away from the window and start planning my escape.