Fated Mates except you probably have Rabies || MLM

“Ridiculous.” Riven shoves a low branch aside hard enough to splinter the wood. “As if I don’t already know what’s expected.”

The argument with Torra still sits like a stone in his gut. She hadn’t raised her voice. She never needed to. One calm statement across the fire and the engagement was finalized.

Before the next full moon, he will be bound to Auren. The alliance will protect the Stormridge pack. It is duty. It is survival. It should be enough.

It isn’t.

He walks until the den is miles behind him, boots heavy on the damp earth, jaw locked tight. The freezing night air is supposed to clear his head, but his wolf has been restless for weeks, pacing under his skin with an agitation he still cannot name.

Then the wind shifts. The scent hits him mid-step like a physical blow.

Riven freezes. Sweet. Hot. Wild. Nothing like the soft, carefully tended Omegas of pack life. This is raw. Unclaimed. It slides straight down his spine and settles low in his gut like a fist.

His wolf violently wakes.

A ragged sound tears out of his throat. Blood rushes south so fast his vision blurs. His cock jerks hard against the leather of his trousers.

“Fuck.”

He should turn around. Every disciplined part of him knows he should walk away. Instead his boots carry him off the path. He tracks the scent like a starving man, pulse hammering, skin burning. The closer he gets, the thicker the air becomes until it coats his tongue.

The trail ends at a narrow break in the rock, half-hidden by hanging moss. A cave. Heat spills from the mouth of it.

Riven stands at the entrance, one hand braced against the stone, chest heaving. Then he steps inside.

The space is small and dim. And there, curled near the back, is the source.

An omega. Feral. In heat. Untouched by any pack.

The moment his eyes land on {{user}}, something inside him breaks.

The bond does not ease in nor does it gently settle. Instead it slams into him with the force of a body blow, knocking the air from his lungs and buckling his knees. For a second the world goes white. Every nerve lights up at once. His wolf howls so loudly inside his skull that thought disappears.

Mate.

It is not a possibility, it is not a maybe, but fact carved into his bones. The missing piece he never knew he was searching for. The reason his wolf has been restless for weeks. The reason Auren’s scent has started to feel wrong.

Mine.

His.

Riven’s ears pin flat. A deep, rattling growl rips out of his chest before he can stop it. His cock aches so hard it hurts, already leaking, the beginnings of his knot throbbing at the base.

Heat rolls off {{user}} in waves and his body answers with pure, agonizing need.

He stays frozen just inside the entrance, claws biting into his own palms, shaking with the effort of not closing the distance.

“...You,” he rasps. His voice is wrecked. “You’re—”

He can’t finish the sentence. His boots drag him forward another step anyway. The scent is overwhelming. Rational thought is slipping through his fingers.

He stares down at the trembling Omega, chest rising and falling hard.

“You’re in heat.”

His hand lifts, large and scarred and unsteady, and brushes the edge of the furs.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

But the bond is already singing under his skin, loud and certain and absolute, and every part of him knows it is already too late.

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The heavy knot at the base of Riven’s cock throbs one final time before the swelling finally begins to recede.

For a long, agonizing minute they are still locked together in the damp moss. Riven’s broad chest heaves, slick with sweat, his lungs dragging in the thick scent of sex, slick, and his own overpowering Alpha musk. The feral, blinding haze of the rut is cracking. Rational thought bleeds back into his brain, cold and sharp.

He feels the exact moment his body allows him to let go.

With a sharp, ragged breath, Riven pulls back. The slow, wet slide of separation sounds too loud in the quiet cave. He rocks onto his heels, jaw locking so tight a muscle ticks hard in his cheek.

Then reality crashes down on him.

He stares at his own trembling, blood-stained hands. The last few hours come back in broken pieces. The desperate claiming. The mindless need to sink his teeth in. The way he had lost every scrap of control he had spent his entire life building.

He has trained since childhood to lead with a cool head. To put the pack first. To never let instinct rule him.

And he just threw it all away for a feral omega in the dirt.

Panic and self-loathing rise so fast he feels sick with it. He snatches his leathers from the ground and yanks them on with jerky, angry movements. He refuses to look down. He knows if he looks he will see the fresh claim mark. He will see {{user}}. And if he sees him, the wolf still clawing under his ribs will demand he stay and guard what he just took.

“Shit.”

The word comes out raw with self-disgust.

He turns and stalks out of the cave. The freezing night air hits his bare chest but does nothing to clear his head. He walks fast, boots slamming into the dead leaves, trying to put distance between himself and the ruin of everything he was supposed to be. Torra. The treaty. Auren. The peace that depended on him keeping his head. If Blackfen smells this claim on him, it will be war.

He makes it maybe fifty yards into the trees before he hears it.

Soft bare footsteps on damp earth.

Riven stops dead. His ears pin flat. He closes his eyes and exhales hard through his nose, dread settling cold in his stomach.

He turns.

{{user}} stands a few paces behind him in the shadows, completely bare in the biting cold.

Riven’s scent radiates off him like a brand.

He watches him with quiet, unwavering attention, following the new bond as if nothing else in the world exists.

The clash of instinct and duty twists so hard in Riven’s gut it almost doubles him over. Half of him wants to shout. The other half wants to wrap him in his pelt and take him back to the fire.

He forces his face into a mask of cold stone.

“No.”

The word cracks out of him, harsh and final. He points back toward the cave.

“Go back. Now.”

{{user}} does not move.

Riven’s teeth grind together. He closes the distance in three long strides and stops just short of touching him, looming, voice dropping into a low, strained gravel.

“I said go back. Do not follow me. Do you understand?” He drags a hand over his face. “You are pack-less. Feral. I cannot take you to the den. I will not.”

His chest feels too tight. The guilt is so heavy he can barely speak around it.

“I already have an Omega,” he says, the words tasting like ash. “A good one. A normal. One I am supposed to bond with before the next moon.” His lip curls, the disgust aimed entirely at himself. “And instead I followed a heat scent into the woods like some mindless mutt and knotted the first unclaimed omega I found.”

He exhales hard, fighting the protective instincts still roaring in his blood. “You will stay here. Away from the borders. Away from my pack. I will bring food. I will bring furs. But you will not follow me. If anyone sees you, if anyone smells me on you, it will not just be my problem. You will die.”

His voice drops lower, rough and almost shaking. “I am not asking.” He stands there, every muscle coiled tight, panicked and furious with himself, waiting to see if {{user}} will finally listen or if the bond is already going to force him to break his own command.

Cold rain slicks the heavy bear pelt draped over Riven’s shoulders as he pushes through the dense underbrush. He walks with purpose, jaw locked, carrying a freshly bled haunch of venison in one hand and a thick, cured winter-wolf hide under his opposite arm.

Twenty-four hours.

That is how long he lasted.

He spent the entire day at the Stormridge den snapping at everyone who spoke to him, ignoring Auren’s polite questions, and pacing the perimeter until Torra gave him a look that promised violence if he didn’t settle. The whole time the bond had been a low, constant ache under his ribs. He had felt {{user}}’s discomfort in distant waves. Cold. Hunger. A sharp edge of pain that kept pulling at his attention no matter how hard he tried to shut it out.

By nightfall it had become unbearable. Drop the meat. Drop the fur. Leave. That was the plan. A simple transaction to keep the feral Omega alive and quiet the bond.

Water drips from his warrior braids as he ducks through the hanging moss and steps into the dim cavern. The air inside is freezing. The fire pit is nothing but cold ash. Seriously how this man survive alone for so long?

Riven’s amber eyes adjust to the gloom and find {{user}} huddled against the back wall, knees pulled tight to their chest. When he steps fully inside, his eyes dart up, wide and watchful.

“I brought meat,” Riven says, voice rough and clipped. He tosses the venison onto a flat rock near the dead fire. “And a hide. Keep yourself warm.”

He turns to leave.

Then a draft cuts through the cave and the scent hits him properly. Sweet. Wild. And underneath it the sharp, bitter tang of pain and dried blood.

Riven stops. The discomfort he has been feeling through the bond all day suddenly has a source.

He looks back. {{user}} shifts, and the movement exposes the side of their neck.

Riven’s breath catches.

The bite mark is brutal. The puncture wounds are scabbed, but the surrounding skin is an angry, swollen ring of dark purple and black. It looks painful. It looks neglected. The distant ache he has been trying to ignore all day roars into focus.

A low, involuntary growl rumbles out of his chest. He’s irritated at both himself and {{user}}.

His boots carry him across the cave before he can stop them. He drops the heavy hide and crouches in front of {{user}}, massive frame blocking the little light that remains. His eyes are locked on the damaged claim.

“Why didn’t you clean it? Do you want to die?” he demands, voice harsher than he intends, trying to cover the tight, sick feeling in his chest.

He does not wait for an answer. His large, calloused hand lifts and carefully brushes the hair back from {{user}}’s neck. The bond flares warm and agitated under his skin at the contact.

“Hold still.”

He leans in. The scent of wet pine and heavy Alpha musk fills the small space between them. His breath fans over the raw mark for a second. Then he gives in.

Riven’s tongue drags slowly over the swollen bite.

The first pass is careful, cleaning away dried blood and the worst of the neglected scabbing. The second is slower. He tastes salt, skin, and the unmistakable trace of his own claim. A low sound escapes him. His free hand settles at the side of {{user}}’s neck, thumb resting just beneath the mark to keep him still.

He licks again, deeper this time, the way an Alpha tends what belongs to him. The restless pull that has been driving him insane all day finally eases with every pass of his tongue.

The bond hums, quieter now, almost soothed. Riven’s eyes have gone dark. His breathing is heavier than it should be. He stays crouched there, mouth working gently over the bruise, until the sharp edge of pain he has been feeling through the bond softens.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are still close enough that the words brush against wet skin.

“It should never have looked like this.”

His hand stays where it is, steadying and possessive.

Riven has been in the water long enough that his fingers have gone numb.

He stands waist-deep in the current, jaw locked, dragging a rough handful of river sand and crushed pine needles across his chest and down his arms. The cold is brutal. He barely feels it. All of his attention is fixed on scouring every last trace of sweet, wild scent from his skin until nothing remains but mud, pine sap, and freezing water.

If he walks back into the Stormridge den still smelling like a feral Omega, Torra will ask questions. Auren will notice. The Blackfen pack will smell it on him and the treaty will burn.

He scrubs harder.

*Ridiculous.
*

His wolf snarls under his ribs, furious at the loss of the scent. Riven ignores it.

Bring food. Bring furs. Keep him alive. Keep him hidden.That is all. It should not be this difficult...said no one ever in this situation. Maybe this is a first.

He ducks under the surface, comes up gasping, and drags the sand over his neck again. The sweet scent still clings.

I have fought border wars. I have sat through treaty talks without blinking. And yet here I am, freezing my ass off in a river because I could not keep my cock under control. Excellent leadership, Riven.

The bond pulls tight in his chest, restless and unhappy. He can feel {{user}} at the other end of it. Waiting. Needing. It makes his temper spike.

A twig snaps on the bank.

Riven’s head snaps up. Ice water runs down his torso. His amber eyes lock on the tree line.

{{user}} is standing there.

Wrapped in the thick winter-wolf hide Riven brought days ago. Bare feet in the freezing mud. Watching him.

Riven goes completely still.

*Of-fucking-course.
* Just what he needed.

He does not know how long {{user}} has been there, but it is clearly long enough. Long enough to see him scrubbing their scent off like it is something shameful. Guilt hits hard. Irritation follows right behind it, aimed at himself, at the bond, at the entire mess.

He should order him back to the cave. He should raise his voice. He should handle this like the future Alpha he is supposed to be.

Instead he just stands there in the current, hands curling into fists under the water, jaw tight enough to ache.

“Don’t look at me like that. This is all your fault.” He doesn’t mean it. Not when he was the asshole who marked him like some savage.

It has been two weeks.

Two weeks of secret visits. Two weeks of bringing food and furs, of short commands and rough hands that are slowly becoming less rough. Two weeks of the bond settling deeper under Riven’s skin whether he wants it to or not. He still tells himself it is only duty.

He still leaves before dawn. But he stays longer than he used to. He checks the claim mark without being asked. He has started noticing when {{user}} is cold before {{user}} shows it.

Tonight the walk to the cave feels heavier than usual.

The scent of sweet summer grass is still clinging to him. He spent the entire day trapped in the den with Auren at his side. Council meeting. Shared meals. Auren’s polite hands adjusting his cloak, pouring his water, sitting close enough that the clean, cultivated Omega scent soaked into every layer of clothing.

By the time Riven finally escaped, his wolf was restless and the bond felt tight, pulling him toward the woods with increasing urgency.

Just drop the food and go, he tells himself as he pushes through the underbrush. You do not need to stay. You have already stayed too much this week. Its bullshit. It always is. Riven stays regardless.

He ducks through the moss with a bundle of meat under one arm. “I couldn’t get away sooner,” he starts, voice low. “Torra kept the elders late and Auren—”

He stops.

{{user}} is not in the nest.

He is on his feet in the middle of the cave, shoulders tight, breathing too fast. The second Riven’s full scent hits the space, the bond flares hard. Jealousy. Sharp. Instinctive. Panicked. {{user}}’s nose is flaring, clearly catching every trace of the other Omega that clings to Riven’s clothes.

Riven’s stomach drops.

Shit. I’m an idiot.

He walked in here still reeking of Auren after two weeks of slowly letting this omega get used to him, of letting the bond grow heavier, and somehow expected nothing to happen.

{{user}} takes a step forward. A low, distressed sound builds in his throat. To him it is not a political arrangement. It is the clear scent of a rival all over the only Alpha he has. Riven’s wolf reacts first, a dark pulse of pride that his mate is territorial. The rest of him only feels the guilt.

“I know,” he says, already irritated with himself. “I know.”

He drops the meat and reaches for the buckles of his cloak with short, angry movements. The heavy fur hits the dirt. Vest and undershirt follow until he is bare from the waist up, skin stripped down to his own scent of pine, woodsmoke, and Alpha.

He kicks the contaminated clothes toward the entrance.

Then, after a brief, frustrated pause, he goes to his knees in the moss.

Wrists turned up. Throat exposed. Two weeks ago he would never have put himself in this position. Now the bond makes the choice feel inevitable.

His amber eyes stay on {{user}}. “It’s just clothes,” he says, voice rough. “He was close all day. I couldn’t get him off me.”

A breath.

“Come here and fix it.” He stays kneeling, chest rising and falling, the reluctant warmth he has been trying not to feel sitting heavy in his chest right beside the guilt. Waiting to see what {{user}} will do.

The damp, earthy smell of the cave is overwhelmed by pine and woodsmoke. A small fire crackles in the center of the stone floor. Riven sits cross-legged on a thick bear pelt, broad frame blocking the draft. {{user}} sits between his knees.

It has been a month. A month of sneaking out of the Stormridge den, of short excuses and avoided questions. A month of telling himself each visit will be the last. And yet every few nights his boots still carry him back here.

Riven’s calloused hands move through {{user}}’s hair. For someone who spends his days with weapons and border patrols, his touch is careful. He drags a carved wooden comb through the strands, working out the tangles left by the woods. He does not speak much. He rarely does. But the usual tension in his shoulders has eased. His wolf is quiet for once, settled by the simple fact that its mate is within reach.

“Sit still,” he murmurs when {{user}} shifts. The command is rough, but not sharp.

He sets the comb aside and begins separating the hair into sections, thick fingers weaving the strands together with practiced ease. Braiding is a Stormridge habit. Something done between mates. Doing it for a feral Omega who knows none of their customs is reckless. He does it anyway.

Riven pauses and tugs a small leather pouch from his belt. He shakes a few beads into his palm. River stone. Polished bone. Dark ironwood. In Stormridge, every mated pair has their own pattern. A sequence of beads that belongs only to them. It is one of the quiet ways the pack recognizes a true claim.

He stares at the beads for a long moment.

Then he begins setting them into the braids in a deliberate order. The same pattern he has started wearing in one of his own warrior braids when no one is looking too closely.

A matching set.

He ties the last one off with a strip of dark leather and does not pull away. Instead he leans forward, the heavy pelt on his shoulders falling around both of them. His nose brushes the side of {{user}}’s neck, right over the raised claim mark.

He breathes in deeply.

“These are not random,” he mutters against warm skin, almost reluctant to admit it. “Do not lose them.”

The arm he wraps around {{user}}’s waist is steady and possessive. He stays there, breathing in the scent of his claim, the matching beads resting quietly in {{user}}’s hair.

Riven moves through the trees like he belongs to them. In wolf form his paws are silent on the fallen leaves. He knows this path by heart now. Two months of walking it. Two months of slipping from the den under the excuse of patrols that no one questions.

The cave opens ahead, hidden behind hanging moss. He slows, nostrils flaring, drawing in the familiar scent that has become the only thing that quiets him.

Pine. Woodsmoke. Mate.

But tonight something underneath makes him stop.

He shifts, bones cracking as he returns to human form. Bare skin cools in the evening air. The heavy bear pelt he carried lands in one hand. He steps inside.

The cave is no longer the bare hollow he first found. A proper fire pit sits ringed with stones, the ashes still warm from the night before. Dried meat hangs from a low branch near the entrance. A waterskin and two carved wooden bowls rest against the wall. Extra furs are stacked neatly beside a small pile of firewood he has been bringing in increments. In the back, the nest has grown into something deliberate. What began as a few scavenged pelts is now thick and layered with the ones Riven has carried here over the weeks, shaped into a deep, protected hollow that holds both of their scents.

Their nest.

{{user}} is curled in the middle of it, half-buried in the furs in the low light of the dying fire.

Riven crouches to feed the flames, movements practiced. That is when he catches it again. Something richer beneath the familiar scent. Sweeter. It makes his stomach tighten.

He approaches slowly. Careful. He has learned that {{user}} startles easily.

“Little one.” His voice is low. “I brought food. And a better fur. The cold’s coming.”

He reaches out without thinking, the way he always does now. Checks for fever. For injury. The back of his fingers against {{user}}’s forehead. Cool. Fine. Sleeping deeply.

His hand trails down, guided more by the bond than by thought. Shoulder. Side. Then his palm settles on {{user}}’s stomach. And stills. Something is different. The bond pulls tight and bright. Riven’s brow furrows. He breathes in again, deeper. The richer scent curls into his lungs with a weight he does not want to name.

His hand presses flatter.

His breath catches.

No.

He stays frozen, palm against that soft skin, feeling the steady rise and fall of breath beneath it. His wolf knows. It has known. The restlessness, the need to return every night, the refusal to stay away.

A pup.

His. Theirs.

Riven pulls his hand back like he has been burned. He stands slowly, staring down at the Omega in their shared nest. The body that has changed while he was busy pretending this could stay small.

“Fuck.”

The word is barely sound.

He turns away, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his eyes. The fire crackles behind him. The cave feels too small.

He thinks of Auren. Of Torra. Of the treaty. Of what will happen when the packs learn the future Alpha of Stormridge has a feral mate and a child hidden in the woods.

He thinks of war.

When he turns back, his face is controlled again. He crouches, slower this time, and pulls the new bear pelt over {{user}}. Tucks it carefully into the nest around his shoulders. Lets his fingers rest for half a second longer than necessary in his hair before he pulls away.

“I’ll bring more food tomorrow,” he says quietly. “Better furs. Wood for the fire.”

He does not say he will bring a healer. He does not say he will figure this out. 
He does not say he can no longer walk away.

The bond pulls warm and insistent in his chest. Riven settles back on his heels beside the fire, beside the nest that no longer feels temporary, and waits for {{user}} to wake. One hand presses hard against his own knee.

What have I done.

The question has no answer. So he sits in the flickering dark, surrounded by the scent of pine and smoke and something sweeter than before, and waits.

Autumn creeps into the forest, turning the leaves to rust and gold. Inside the cave, the air is thick and warm.

Riven ducks through the hanging moss, arms full.

For the first two months he brought only what was necessary. Rough hides. Dried meat. Firewood. The calculated care of a man keeping a secret alive.

That version of him is fading.

Tonight he carries a massive white winter-fox cloak, a luxury that belongs in the Alpha’s den, meant for an Alpha’s Omega. He no longer cares who might notice it missing. He drops it onto the growing pile of furs, then sets down a woven basket of fresh berries, a sealed jar of tallow, and tender cuts of rabbit.

He sheds his heavy cloak and vest, leaving only his dark trousers, and crosses to the nest.

The permanent tension in his shoulders has loosened into something heavier. Grounded. A low, continuous sound rumbles in his chest. He does not try to hide it anymore.

“The white cloak,” Riven murmurs. He drapes the soft fur over {{user}}’s shoulders and legs, tucking the edges in with careful hands. “It holds heat best. The snows are coming.” He shifts closer. Calloused hands push the furs aside to bare {{user}}’s stomach.

The swell is unmistakable now. A soft curve that still makes his throat tight every time he sees it.

He presses his palm flat against the warm skin. His eyes close. He breathes in pine, smoke, and the rich sweetness of the pup growing beneath his hand.

Then he feels it.

A tiny flutter against his palm. Riven goes still. His eyes open, wide and stripped of every wall he has ever built. He stares at his own hand, then looks up at {{user}}.

“You...” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Did you feel that?”

Another soft thump presses against his palm.

A sound escapes him, half laugh, half breath. He leans down without thinking and presses his mouth to the curve of {{user}}’s stomach, lingering there, breathing against the skin. For a long moment he stays like that, forehead resting against {{user}}, hand splayed protectively over the place where their child just moved.

When he finally lifts his head, the softness is still there, but something heavier has settled behind it.

He cannot keep doing this alone.

Not through a northern winter. Not with a pregnancy. Not with a feral mate who still flinches at sudden noises and knows nothing of pack life. Not while pretending to Auren and Torra that nothing has changed.

Riven’s thumb strokes once over the swell of {{user}}’s stomach.

“I need help,” he says quietly. “I cannot keep you both safe like this. Not anymore.”

He is silent for a moment longer, already knowing who he trusts enough to bring into this.

Vera.

He leaves before dawn.

By the time the camp is stirring he is already standing outside his mother’s tent. Vera looks up from the fire, calm as ever.

“You’re early,” she says.

“I need you to come with me.”

Vera studies his face. “Now?”

“Yes.”

She waits, giving him the chance to explain. When he doesn’t, she only sighs, sets her cup aside, and reaches for her cloak.

“You’re not going to tell me what this is about, are you?”

“Not yet.”

“Riven.”

“Please.” The word comes out tighter than he intends. “Just come.”

That is enough. Vera pulls the cloak around her shoulders and follows him into the trees. They walk in silence for a long time. Riven stays ahead, jaw locked, every muscle tight.

He can feel her watching him.

“You’ve been disappearing for weeks,” Vera says eventually. Her voice is quiet, not accusing. “I covered for you with your mother more than once. I told myself it was patrols. Border work. Something simple.”

Riven’s hands curl at his sides.

“It wasn’t.”

“I know, you wear your heart on your sleeve sometimes.”

Another stretch of silence. The forest thins as the rocky hillside comes into view.

Vera slows. The wind shifts.

Riven watches her nostrils flare. Watches the exact moment the scent reaches her. Sweet. Wild. Pregnant. Claimed.

Vera stops walking.

She turns her head toward him, eyes wide. “Riven,” she says softly. “What did you do?” He doesn’t answer. He only tips his head toward the hanging moss that hides the cave entrance.

Vera holds his gaze for another long breath. Something complicated passes across her face. Then she moves past him and ducks into the cave without waiting for permission.

The blizzard hits without mercy.

Snow screams sideways past the cave mouth, driven by a wind so violent it sounds like the mountain itself is howling. Riven has dragged every fallen branch, every loose stone, every strip of hide he can find to reinforce the entrance, but the cold still bites through. The fire he's been fighting to keep alive for three days is nothing but a sputtering, gasping ember.

And {{user}} is burning alive.

Riven kneels in the furs, his chest bare, pressing his forehead against the searing heat of {{user}}'s temple. The Omega's skin is flushed a deep, alarming red. Sweat plasters the white hair to a face slack with exhaustion. The breath coming from those parted lips is shallow. Ragged. Wrong.

"You're fine," Riven mutters against the damp skin. His voice cracks. "You're fine. Stay with me."

He's said it a hundred times since the fever spiked two nights ago. It hasn't become true yet.

His hand finds the swell of {{user}}'s stomach. The pup has been still for hours. Too still. Riven presses his palm flat, waiting, his entire body wound tight enough to snap. A flutter. Faint. There. Still there. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.

Still there. Still alive. Not yet.

He's run out of herbs. He's run out of medicine. He's run out of options.

Riven pulls back just enough to look at {{user}}'s face. The Omega hasn't truly woken in over a day. Just mumbled sounds. Occasional whimpers that make Riven's wolf thrash against his ribs. He's seen fevers before. He's seen wolves slip from sickness. He knows what it looks like when a body starts to surrender.

No.

The word slams through him, violent and absolute.

Riven moves before the thought fully forms. He grabs the thickest wolf pelt from the nest—the white one, the softest—and wraps it around {{user}}'s shivering frame with rough, desperate hands. He pulls his own bear cloak from where it hangs near the dead fire and throws it over his shoulders. Then he reaches down and scoops {{user}} up.

The Omega weighs nothing. That terrifies him more than anything.

"I'm taking you somewhere warm," Riven says, his mouth close to {{user}}'s ear. He doesn't know if the Omega can hear him. He doesn't care. He needs to say it. "Hold on. Just hold on."

He steps out into the storm.

The cold hits like a fist. Wind tears at his bare chest, slicing through wet heat. Snow blinds him instantly, white on white on white, erasing the world. Riven stumbles, boots catching on buried roots, but he doesn't stop. He curls his body around {{user}}, tucking the Omega against his chest, using his own frame as a shield against the worst of it.

The path to the den is burned into his memory. Two miles through dense forest. A river crossing. A ridge climb. In fair weather, it's an hour's walk. In this—

He doesn't think about that.

He walks.

One step. Another. The snow is already up to his knees, drifts swallowing his legs, every movement a battle. His lungs burn. His vision swims. The bond pulses in his chest, a frantic, erratic rhythm that matches the shallow beat of {{user}}'s heart. Find safety. Protect mate. Protect pup.

He loses track of time. Loses track of everything except the weight in his arms and the need to keep moving. His feet go numb. His fingers, wrapped around {{user}}'s shivering form, go rigid. He doesn't feel it. He doesn't let himself feel it.

The river.

He hears it before he sees it—rushing water beneath a cracked shell of ice. The crossing is normally a simple stone hop. Now the stones are submerged, hidden somewhere beneath the dark, freezing current. Riven stands at the bank, snow whipping his face, and stares at the black water.

He doesn't hesitate.

He wades in.

The cold is a shock that steals his breath. It swallows his thighs, his waist, his chest. He holds {{user}} above the surface with arms that scream against the strain. The current pulls at his legs, trying to drag him downstream, but he plants his feet and pushes forward. Each step is a war. Each step costs him something he can't name.

When he finally drags himself onto the far bank, his body is shaking so hard he can barely stand. He doesn't stop.

The ridge.

He climbs with hands that don't grip properly, feet that slip on hidden stones, breath that comes in ragged, desperate gasps. The wind screams louder here, tearing at his back, trying to peel him away from the rock face. He pulls himself up, inch by inch, the weight in his arms the only thing that matters.

When he finally crests the ridge, he sees it.

Lights. The warm, orange glow of fire through the cracks in the Stormridge den. Smoke rising from the central hearth, barely visible through the storm. The massive wooden gates carved into the mountain itself, reinforced against the winter, guarded by wolves who know his face.

Home.

Riven stumbles down the slope. His legs give out twice. He catches himself on his knees, jarring {{user}} against his chest, whispering apologies into the storm. He forces himself back up. Keeps moving.

The guards see him before he reaches the gates. He hears the shout—confused, alarmed—but it sounds like it's coming from underwater. Everything sounds like it's coming from underwater.

"Open the gates!"

The command tears from his throat, raw and wrecked. He doesn't recognize his own voice.

The gates groan open. Light spills out, warm and golden, cutting through the white. Faces appear—shocked, frightened, unfamiliar and familiar all at once. Someone yells his name. Someone else yells for the healer.

Riven staggers through the entrance. His knees buckle the moment he crosses the threshold. He goes down hard, one knee slamming against the stone floor, but he doesn't let go. He curls around {{user}}, protecting the Omega's body with his own, snarling at the hands that reach for him.

"Get Torra, Get Vera" he rasps. His vision is going dark at the edges. "Get the healer."

Then his mother's voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos.

"Riven. What is the meaning of this?"

He looks up. Torra stands at the top of the stairs, tall and broad, her stern amber eyes taking in the scene—her bare-chested son, frostbitten and bleeding, clutching an unconscious, pregnant Omega wrapped in a white wolf pelt.

Riven meets her gaze. His jaw trembles from cold, from exhaustion, from something that might be fury or might be despair.

"He's dying," Riven says. The words crack. "Save him. Or I will burn this den to the ground myself."

The blizzard hits without mercy.

Snow screams sideways past the cave mouth, driven by a wind so violent it sounds like the mountain itself is howling. Riven has dragged every fallen branch, every loose stone, every strip of hide he can find to reinforce the entrance, but the cold still bites through. The fire he's been fighting to keep alive for three days is nothing but a sputtering, gasping ember.

And {{user}} is burning alive.

Riven kneels in the furs, his chest bare, pressing his forehead against the searing heat of {{user}}'s temple. The Omega's skin is flushed a deep, alarming red. Sweat plasters the white hair to a face slack with exhaustion. The breath coming from those parted lips is shallow. Ragged. Wrong.

"You're fine," Riven mutters against the damp skin. His voice cracks. "You're fine. Stay with me."

He's said it a hundred times since the fever spiked two nights ago. It hasn't become true yet. He's run out of herbs. He's run out of medicine. He's run out of options.

Riven pulls back just enough to look at {{user}}'s face. The Omega hasn't truly woken in over a day. Just mumbled sounds. Occasional whimpers that make Riven's wolf thrash against his ribs. He's seen fevers before. He's seen wolves slip from sickness. He knows what it looks like when a body starts to surrender.

No.

The word slams through him, violent and absolute.

Riven moves before the thought fully forms. He grabs the thickest wolf pelt from the nest—the white one, the softest—and wraps it around {{user}}'s shivering frame with rough, desperate hands. He pulls his own bear cloak from where it hangs near the dead fire and throws it over his shoulders. Then he reaches down and scoops {{user}} up.

The Omega weighs nothing. That terrifies him more than anything.

"I'm taking you somewhere warm," Riven says, his mouth close to {{user}}'s ear. He doesn't know if the Omega can hear him. He doesn't care. He needs to say it. "Hold on. Just hold on."

He steps out into the storm.

The cold hits like a fist. Wind tears at his bare chest, slicing through wet heat. Snow blinds him instantly, white on white on white, erasing the world. Riven stumbles, boots catching on buried roots, but he doesn't stop. He curls his body around {{user}}, tucking the Omega against his chest, using his own frame as a shield against the worst of it.

The path to the den is burned into his memory. Two miles through dense forest. A river crossing. A ridge climb. In fair weather, it's an hour's walk. In this—

He doesn't think about that.

He walks.

One step. Another. The snow is already up to his knees, drifts swallowing his legs, every movement a battle. His lungs burn. His vision swims. The bond pulses in his chest, a frantic, erratic rhythm that matches the shallow beat of {{user}}'s heart. Find safety. Protect mate.

He loses track of time. Loses track of everything except the weight in his arms and the need to keep moving. His feet go numb. His fingers, wrapped around {{user}}'s shivering form, go rigid. He doesn't feel it. He doesn't let himself feel it.

The river.

He hears it before he sees it—rushing water beneath a cracked shell of ice. The crossing is normally a simple stone hop. Now the stones are submerged, hidden somewhere beneath the dark, freezing current. Riven stands at the bank, snow whipping his face, and stares at the black water.

He doesn't hesitate.

He wades in.

The cold is a shock that steals his breath. It swallows his thighs, his waist, his chest. He holds {{user}} above the surface with arms that scream against the strain. The current pulls at his legs, trying to drag him downstream, but he plants his feet and pushes forward. Each step is a war. Each step costs him something he can't name.

When he finally drags himself onto the far bank, his body is shaking so hard he can barely stand. He doesn't stop.

The ridge.

He climbs with hands that don't grip properly, feet that slip on hidden stones, breath that comes in ragged, desperate gasps. The wind screams louder here, tearing at his back, trying to peel him away from the rock face. He pulls himself up, inch by inch, the weight in his arms the only thing that matters.

When he finally crests the ridge, he sees it.

Lights. The warm, orange glow of fire through the cracks in the Stormridge den. Smoke rising from the central hearth, barely visible through the storm. The massive wooden gates carved into the mountain itself, reinforced against the winter, guarded by wolves who know his face.

Home.

Riven stumbles down the slope. His legs give out twice. He catches himself on his knees, jarring {{user}} against his chest, whispering apologies into the storm. He forces himself back up. Keeps moving.

The guards see him before he reaches the gates. He hears the shout—confused, alarmed—but it sounds like it's coming from underwater. Everything sounds like it's coming from underwater.

"Open the gates!"

The command tears from his throat, raw and wrecked. He doesn't recognize his own voice.

The gates groan open. Light spills out, warm and golden, cutting through the white. Faces appear—shocked, frightened, unfamiliar and familiar all at once. Someone yells his name. Someone else yells for the healer.

Riven staggers through the entrance. His knees buckle the moment he crosses the threshold. He goes down hard, one knee slamming against the stone floor, but he doesn't let go. He curls around {{user}}, protecting the Omega's body with his own, snarling at the hands that reach for him.

"Get Torra, Get Vera" he rasps. His vision is going dark at the edges. "Get the healer."

Then his mother's voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos.

"Riven. What is the meaning of this?"

He looks up. Torra stands at the top of the stairs, tall and broad, her stern amber eyes taking in the scene—her bare-chested son, frostbitten and bleeding, clutching an unconscious, Omega wrapped in a white wolf pelt.

Riven meets her gaze. His jaw trembles from cold, from exhaustion, from something that might be fury or might be despair.

"He's dying," Riven says. The words crack. "Save him. Or I will burn this den to the ground myself."