The moon, pale now in the encroaching dawn light, still cast just enough light down on the Elmwood streets to illuminate the two exhausted figures, ducking out of sight down one of the numerous alleyways.

Hannah slumped against a happily gurgling fountain, reaching down to massage the dull ache in one of her feet. "How much further?" she complained, stifling a yawn.

"Not far now." Dylan pressed himself against the wall, eyes constantly fixed on the road beyond, tracking the movements of the guards. "We'd be quicker if we didn't have to hide every few minutes." He ducked back out of sight as another set of heavy boots traipsed by. "You'd think a rogue attack would give us an advantage," he muttered. "Most of these warriors should be out defending their borders."

"They're still looking for us," Hannah whispered, her heart sinking. "So much for Riker leading them away."

Dylan cast a glance in her direction. "I don't think so, not enough stealth. Probably regular patrols Syrus is reluctant to commit to battle. I doubt they've even been informed we're out here." He scratched thoughtfully at his matted beard. "Syrus is playing a dangerous game tonight. The rogue attack won't stop unless he can produce you, but his pack knows we're under his protection. He can't be seen to openly betray us either."

"It's so nice to be so universally wanted," Hannah murmured, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She risked a glance out onto the street. "Where are we, exactly?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Dylan admitted, frowning down at the water in disgust. Lined with a perplexing mixture of old, worn gates and intricately carved fountains, every street looked almost identical in the gloom. "I swear they've used the same three designs for each of these damn water features. We must be close though. If Riker's directions are anywhere near accurate we ought to be able to slip out past the eastern square with little resistance, the only thing is the pyres, so there's not much call for a heavy guard presence. It should be easy enough from there."

"Only if my luck changes," Hannah scoffed.

"It can't get any worse," he agreed. "Our advantage is they're distracted by the pack-link, listening for the battle, not us. Maybe if we try going through the gardens again... " His brow furrowed even further and he halted mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on the street behind her. He held up one hand, warning her into silence, his full attention on the shadows beyond the moon's weak light.

What is it? She sucked in a rush of icy, cold air, relying on a heightened sense of smell to tell her what her eyes could not.

The guards walked with a universally heavy tread, carrying with them a strong aroma of cheap alcohol and making just enough noise to suggest they'd rather not encounter anyone on the darkened streets. In contrast, these footfalls, approaching rapidly from the east, were soft and accompanied by a subtle scent of tobacco and burnt sage just perceptible on the slight breeze.

Shit.

Fear rose to the surface, she took another lungful of air and his familiar scent suddenly mingled with an undertone of burnt wood and ash. It triggered a sharp, insistent pain that rose up from the back of her neck and spread rapidly to every corner of her mind. No, she pleaded softly. No, not now! Don't do this now! Furiously, she clenched her fists in an effort to retain control.

With a definite edge of panic, Dylan reached out, one hand wrapping firmly around her own, and they exchanged a silent look of mutual understanding. Run, the look said, run like your life depends on it.

Without a second thought, they turned to flee, all sense of stealth abandoned in their desperate flight. Behind them, the sound of footfall quickened to match their own. Within seconds Hannah had lost all sense of direction as Dylan turned first left, then right, then left again, dodging guards, and cutting through alleyways in a desperate effort to shake off their pursuer. She followed him without question, the sudden onset of pain cutting off her ability to think clearly. Or maybe, she thought as she ran blindly from street to street, the pain had ignited in her that childish fear that paralysed her in her sleep.

Their efforts to shake him off were in vain, and they skidded to an abrupt halt as her uncle emerged from the darkness like a predator blocking their desperate escape. The air around them grew colder, the light fading he drew the darkness around him like a cloak.

As Hannah stared into the dark voids of his eyes, her vision blurred, a haze of white impairing her ability to keep track of his movements. She blinked rapidly, one hand clutching the side of her head. Why am I seeing snow? she demanded angrily to her silent wolf. In response, another wave of pain nearly toppled her to her knees and she swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that rose through her throat.

Dylan took a step back, head twisted over his shoulder, assessing their only escape route. Without taking her eyes off their pursuer, Hannah braced herself, ready to flee again.

"Don't bother," her uncle advised with narrowed eyes. "I'm tired, and quite frankly you're both trying my patience. You thought you could run, boy?" Angus pulled his lips back to reveal two rows of perfect teeth. "Did you think I wouldn't take measures to counter the day you allowed your conscience to get the better of you?" His lip curled further upwards as if the very word made him cringe with distaste. He waved a phone in their direction. "I've been tracking you ever since you failed to respond to my call,"

He must have concealed something in Dylan's clothes, she realised. Or hers. He'd been following them all along. Dylan's eyes widened, surprise clear on his face. It surprised her that he was still able to feel the sting of such duplicity after all his father had already levelled at him, but then, how much had he so far been willing to ignore to keep his love?

"Bring her back to the pack house." Macleiry's command was absolute. "We have a mating to attend to." He turned to walk back the way they came, confident his recalcitrant son would obey him.

Dylan didn't move, his focus entirely on his father's retreating back, his face settling into a look of resolute determination, the fire in his hair catching the threads of moonlight to glow a rich, rusty red. His fists clenched by his sides. He made no effort to follow. "No," he said between clenched teeth.

"No?" Macleiry turned to stare at him.

"No." Dylan's voice, though cracked and strained, rang clearly into the night . "It's over, father. I won't play this game anymore."

Hannah would have registered surprise at this unexpected defiance, but her own focus was split by the growing agony in her skull. Lightning bolts of sharp, lancing pain rose upwards from the nape of her neck, bringing with them a sense of nausea and a tight band of anxiety.

"It's not over," her Uncle spat out a vehement denial, taking a step back towards them, the clear threat of violence shining in his eyes. "And you will obey me."

"No."

Angus's answering snarl tore at Hannah's senses but, unlike the previous pain that had warned her of danger, begging her to run, this new, intense agony brought with it a wave of anger, the likes of which she had never felt before. She pushed the air through her teeth in a hiss of defiance, a reaction that both thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. Where did that come from?

"We don't need the Lachlan pack," Dylan continued to argue passionately. "Let her go and -"

"No!" The growl that accompanied his father's shout, terrifying in its magnitude, echoed off the stone walls around them. "It has to be her. I've gone too far to go back now. You have no idea what I've done to ensure your future!"

"Ensure your future you mean?" Dylan bit back. "My future has nothing to with this. It never has. I won't do it."

Behind them, Hannah fought against the pain, desperate to stay in the present. But, primal and powerful, the snow called to her, demanding her attention.

"Have you forgotten that your mate's death is a mere phone call away?" Angus continued to threaten, fixing his son with a baleful glare.

"Believe me, I never forget that." A deep anger ran through Dylan's voice. "But I won't let Hannah pay the price."

Her Uncle cast a look of deep disgust in his son's direction, and turned to Hannah with an insincere smile. "Come with me, my dear." He reached out a hand as though expecting her to go with him willingly.

Through a haze of white, she stared at him in shock. You're delusional.

"No more games, my dear," he hissed, lunging forward, his fingers curling around her arm in an iron grip. "I know you aren't nearly as clueless as you'd both like me to believe. It doesn't matter. Since my son cannot be trusted to make sure you stay where you're put, and you cannot be trusted to obey your Elders, we'll just have to hurry this along. Tonight."

His grip on her upper arm tightened and she bit her lip to keep from crying out as his fingers dug into her flesh and he began dragging her along behind him.

"Where are you taking me?" she gasped as she stumbled down the narrow street, her legs incapable of keeping up with his rapid pace.

"To a priest," he snapped, turning a corner so sharply Hannah lost all sense of balance, falling to one knee on the cobblestone. Her uncle let out a muffled exclamation of impatience, pulling her to her feet with one, powerful tug of his arm. He glanced down at her horrified expression, and a savage grin appeared on his lips. "Cheer up Eleanor, this is a happy occasion. You're about to be mated. For a night at least. After that my dear, you are very much dispensable, so I suggest you learn to cooperate."

Sorry to disappoint you uncle. With a strength she didn't know she possessed, Hannah wrenched her arm from his grip, the sudden release propelling her backwards into the wall. "Never," she exclaimed out loud, curling her lips into a snarl of defiance. There was no warning. No time for her to move. No time to duck or dodge. The blow struck her across her cheek like a sledgehammer, flinging her to the floor. A sharp cry escaped her lips, and he reached for her once again, catching her wrist in a strong, uncompromising grip.

Neither of them expected the body that hurtled past her, ripping her from his grasp.

Gasping for breath, she scrambled backwards as Dylan leapt at his father, dagger slashing towards his exposed throat.

Angus spun around with appalling speed, blocking his son's attack with one sweep of his arm, wrapping both hands around his neck in a vice-like grip, and slamming him into the solid stone wall with a sickening crack, the blade falling unnoticed into the gloom.

"Grow up!" Angus snapped, his teeth gleaming in the gathering light. He threw his son against the wall a second time, showering loose stone down on Hannah, and halting Dylan's shift as he let out a howl of pain. "The time for weakness is over, Dylan."

I've heard those words before. In another language. In another place.

"Bheir thu nàire don cinneadh againn," Her uncle grated, lapsing into his native language. "Nach eil uaill agad air fhàgail?"

Wait. I understood some of that. You bring shame to our... clan? And something about pride... or the lack of it. In response the pain increased, her efforts to resist weakening. Her fingers swept the floor, curling tightly around the forgotten blade as the world began to spin.

Eyes black as coal, Dylan's wolf fought to come out. "No father. I have no pride. I haven't had any pride for a long time." The snarl was primal and savage, his muscles rippling as they attempted to shift. "I won't do it."

His voice faded, the smells of here and now replaced by a maelstrom of ash and burning flesh, multiple harsh voices barking orders in gaelic, and the chill of snow crunching under heavy boots.

"Tha an ùine airson laigse seachad," A harsh voice echoed from the frozen vista. Her uncle. His face marred with flecks of blood, his bare chest riddled with still-healing wounds. Unable to break free of the memory, Hannah hung helplessly in his grasp, overwhelmed by terror she shared with her younger self.

"Cùm a 'gluasad", other voices joined the first, cold, unfeeling, unfamiliar. They weren't her pack. Devoid of any hint of panic or concern, they moved with purpose through the forest, away from the water, talking amongst themselves in a language she was thankful she only half remembered.

"Make sure no shifters survived."

"No chance of that!"

"Am faca tu mar a bhris e?"

Oh Goddess, he had been there. Not just as a witness, but somehow directly involved. Maybe even in charge of the attack that had killed her parents.

The fear struck her stronger than any physical blow, and she shut her eyes, screwing them up tight as though to banish the memories she no longer wished to remember. But, dark and silent as the night, they flooded back. Like a breaking dam, they flowed through the breach, forcing her to face the truth. A truth she'd never been able to process before.

Macleiry let out a snarl of impatient disgust and lifted her clear off the ground, flinging her limp form over his shoulder. "Tha sinn a-ach à ùine."

Deep down inside her, her shivering grew worse. Was it her trembling, or the helpless, terrified girl trapped in the arms of a monster? She could no longer tell. They travelled for miles through the silent forest, all the while listening in horror to the lewd comments and reminiscences exchanged between the harsh voices, all rich with enthusiasm for the massacre they'd just participated in.

Eventually she found herself transferred from one captor to another, a rough hand grabbing the back of her neck and the sharp scratch of a needle.

"You're sure she won't remember?"

"Chan e rud. Are you sure you don't want to kill her? Tha i cunnartach."

Her uncle let out a threatening snarl and the voice backed off. "Are you afraid of a child?" he asked, scornfully. "Leave her with the others. Chan e sgrìob a th 'ann, tuigsinn?"

Her return to the present was accompanied by another violent shower of loose shards as Macleiry's voice blended seamlessly from then, to now.