Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 84

[Theron’s POV]

I’m at my desk in the study, working through grain reserves and timber allocations, when Senna appears in the doorway. The numbers are finally starting to look promising: our stores building steadily, the pack finding its footing after everything we’ve weathered.

It’s not prosperity yet, but it’s progress.

My Beta has the particular look she wears when something has landed on our border that requires a decision — mouth set, shoulders squared, one hand resting on the doorframe as if she’s bracing the whole building against what she’s about to deliver.

“Border patrol found a lone wolf on the eastern ridge,” she says. “Female, collapsed near the tree line with a deep slash on her left arm. She was barely conscious when they brought her in. She’s with the healers now.”

“Rogues?”

“That’s what she claims. She says she was hit during travel, drifting since her pack dissolved. The wound’s consistent with a blade, not claws.” Senna pauses. “She’s young, mid-twenties, maybe. She came in alone, no supplies, no pack scent on her at all.”

The old Theron would have sent someone to assess and report back, dealing with a stranger’s fate as one more line item in the administration of a territory.

I stand and push the ledgers aside. “Take me to her.”

Senna’s eyebrows rise a fraction — the only surprise she allows herself — and falls into step beside me as we cross the settlement toward the healers’ wing.

“I’ve posted two wolves at the door,” she says as we walk. “Standard precaution for unidentified visitors. She hasn’t objected or asked for anything beyond water and a bandage.”

“Did she give a name?”

“Ciri. No family name and no territory of origin beyond ‘eastern wildlands,’ which covers enough ground to mean nothing.”

The healers’ wing is warm and dim, smelling of dried herbs and linen. The woman is sitting upright on the cot’s edge when I enter — most rogue-attack survivors curl inward, guarding injuries with instinctive self-protection.

This one sits straight, her weight balanced, her uninjured hand resting on her thigh with relaxed readiness.

She’s compact. Golden-brown hair in a ruined braid that falls across one shoulder, strands escaping in every direction.

The deep slash on her left arm is freshly bandaged, but I can see the bruising that spreads beyond the dressing — dark purple shading to green, days old.

Her knuckles are callused, the skin across them thickened in a pattern that comes from sustained, practiced impact. This woman knows how to fight, and she’s done it often.

Her face turns toward me when I enter, and I catch the flicker of recognition — she knows who I am — before it’s smoothed into something carefully neutral.

“Alpha Nightshade.” Her voice is steady, slightly hoarse. “Thank you for taking me in. Your healers have been kind.”

“Ciri,” I pull a chair from the wall and sit across from her, close enough to read her face, far enough to give her space. “Tell me what happened.”

“I’ve been traveling alone for three months since my pack in the eastern wildlands dissolved. Territory dispute that went badly, the Alpha lost his challenge, and the victor had no interest in absorbing the lower ranks—”

“I’ve been moving west since then, working where I could, avoiding rogue bands where I couldn’t,” she gestures at her arm.

“Four days ago, a group of three caught me near the river crossing south of here. I killed one and outran the others, but the third got a blade into me before I put him down.”

“You killed a rogue in combat while injured.”

“I did it before the injury. The second one cut me during the chase. The third decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.” She meets my gaze with an evenness that’s notable. “I’m not helpless, Alpha. I’m just unlucky.”

Everything Ciri says is plausible. Her injuries are real, and her account matches the upheaval we’ve been hearing about for months.

But something doesn’t fit.

“Put eyes on her,” I say quietly. “Nothing that makes her feel hunted, observation only. I want to know if anything doesn’t fit.”

“You think she’s lying?”

“She’s telling a story that’s too clean for someone who just survived what she describes. That could mean she’s resilient or rehearsed. I want to know which before I decide what to do about it.”

Senna nods once and disappears down the side passage.

I find Brennan in the training yard — young, fast, the quickest runner in Shadowpine. I pull him aside.

“Verbal message to Queen Kira at the Silver Throne.” I wait until his full attention is locked on me.

“Lone wolf, female, calling herself Ciri; her injuries are genuine but suspiciously precise. No pack scent. My instincts say something’s off. Does the crown’s intelligence network have anything on her? Deliver it to the queen directly, no intermediaries.”

Brennan repeats it back perfectly and runs.

That night, I walk the battlements alone. The wind carries pine resin and frost, and I think about trust — the cost of giving it too freely and the cost of withholding it too long.

I made both mistakes with Kira. I gave trust to Celeste without questioning what they placed in my hands. Withheld it from the one woman who deserved it most, and lost her because I couldn’t see past manufactured certainty.

The woman in my healers…

I’ll watch and wait. I’ll keep my hand open long enough to learn the truth, even if it turns out to be something I’d rather not hold.