By midday, Lira’s hands smelled like every herb in Ashridge.
She’d repacked a dislocated shoulder, lanced a festering cut on a farmer’s calf, soothed two fevers, and told five people in varying levels of politeness that *no,* she could not look at their old scars “just in case Thornfell does it differently.”
Word had spread fast.
Thornfell’s healer. No wolf. Stopped the beta’s half-shift with her bare hands.
Every time someone’s gaze snagged on the collar at her throat, she felt it like fingers pressing on a bruise.
“She’s smaller than I thought.”
“She doesn’t smell like pack at all.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Magic can’t get hold of her.”
“Or maybe she’ll crack and take us with her.”
The whispers slid under the hum of the infirmary, threading through the clink of glass and the rustle of linens. Lira let them wash past.
Let them talk. She couldn’t stop them.
She *could* teach Idris the difference between a desperate mother’s worry and a real emergency.
“No,” she said firmly, pushing the young woman’s hands away from the child’s arm. “It’s a bruise, not a break. He’ll be sore, that’s all.”
“But he fell from the wall,” the mother protested, eyes wide. “And with the magic—”
“The magic isn’t in my exam room,” Lira cut in, sharper than she meant. She softened her tone. “I would know if it were. I promise.”
The woman’s gaze flickered to her collar, then back. “How can you be sure?” she whispered.
Lira swallowed. “Because it… screams,” she said quietly. “And no one is screaming, are they?”
The boy shook his head, lip caught between his teeth to stifle a sniffle.
Lira touched his forehead lightly. The familiar, low-level thrum of a young wolf’s magic kissed her fingertips. Healthy. Unmarred.
She gave him a small smile. “You’ll have a nice bruise to show off,” she said. “Tell your friends you wrestled a boar. Make it a big one.”
He sniffed a laugh.
Idris, hovering at Lira’s shoulder, relaxed visibly. “You see?” he told the mother. “He’s fine. If Lira says the land isn’t touching him, it isn’t.”
The woman hesitated, shoulders knotting, then sagged. “All right,” she murmured. To Lira, she added, “Thank you, healer. Even if you are…” Her gaze dipped, almost involuntarily, to the collar.
“Odd?” Lira supplied dryly.
A faint flush climbed the woman’s throat. “Different,” she said. “May the moon keep you.”
“And you,” Lira replied.
When they were gone, Idris blew out a breath. “They listen to you,” he said.
“I’m not sure that’s… wise,” Lira murmured.
“It is,” Idris insisted. “You see what we don’t. That’s worth something.”
“Worth enough to trust a Thornfell wolf?” she asked.
He shot her a look. “I trust *you,*” he said. “Thornfell’s just geography.”
“That’s not how most of your pack sees it,” she said.
“No,” he admitted. “But they respect what keeps them alive. If you keep doing that, they’ll come around.”
“Or they’ll turn on me the second something goes wrong,” she said.
He flinched. “Cheerful.”
“Realistic,” she said.
A low rumble of voices drifted from the corridor outside. Heavy footsteps. The faint clink of armor.
Idris stiffened. “Corin,” he murmured.
And someone else. The scent cut through the infirmary’s constant background—clean pine, steel, that particular alpha-wolf dominance that made Lira’s skin prickle.
She turned just as Alpha Corin strode in, Garron at his shoulder. Both men brought the cold in with them. Corin’s gaze swept the room, taking in every occupied bed and every healer in a single, practiced glance.
It lingered on her.
“How are we?” he asked. The question was for Mara, but his eyes didn’t leave Lira.
“Busy,” Mara replied, appearing from her alcove with uncanny timing, apron smeared with something dark and unidentifiable. “No new surge-twisteds. I call that a win.”
Corin’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “And Bram?”
“In one piece,” Mara said. “Annoyingly conscious. Human. For now.”
Garron’s jaw worked. “He should still be in wolf-form,” he muttered. “Safer. Stronger.”
“He’s not a horse you can stable,” Mara snapped. “He shifted back because his *wolf* wanted to. That’s a good sign.”
“Or it means he thinks he’s ready to put himself in the line of fire again,” Garron said darkly.
Corin lifted a hand. Silence dropped. Even the low murmur from the far beds died.
“Lira Voss,” he said.
Every eye swung to her.
She straightened instinctively. “Alpha.”
“Walk with me,” he said.
The words held no compulsion. They didn’t need to. Every instinct drilled into her by pack hierarchy and healer training sat up and obeyed.
She wiped her hands on her apron, unfastened it, and stepped away from the table.
Idris shot her a sympathetic grimace. *Good luck* ghosted over his face.
She followed Corin and Garron toward the back of the infirmary. Past Bram’s curtained space. Not into it.
Instead, Corin stopped by the small side door that led out onto a narrow balcony overlooking the village.
“Out,” he said.
The air bit at her cheeks as she stepped into it. The balcony was small, just wide enough for two or three people to stand without bumping shoulders. From here, she could see the square, the smithy, the training yard beyond.
Wolves moved below—some in human form, some furred. They all looked… normal. Tense, yes. Coiled, yes. But alive.
Garron shut the door behind them. The muted thrum of the infirmary cut off.
Corin rested his hands on the warped wooden railing, gaze scanning his territory. “Mara says you prevented my beta from tearing himself in half,” he said.
Lira’s stomach clenched. “I… intervened,” she said cautiously.
“What, exactly, did you do?” he asked, turning his head just enough that his pale eyes pinned her.
Lira resisted the urge to shrink. “There was… surge residue,” she said. “In him. Old magic, of the same flavor that… cracked Thornfell’s stones. It tangled in the seam between his human and wolf selves. When he heard the patrol’s howl and tried to shift, it tightened.”
“And locked him halfway,” Garron said.
“Yes,” Lira said. Her fingers dug into her own palms. “I… touched him. Reached for his magic. The surge followed my hand back. It… likes wolves. It wants that… crossing. In and out. Human to wolf. It feeds on that.”
“And you don’t have that,” Corin said quietly.
“No,” she said. The old ache flared. “I don’t.”
“So when it hit you…” Garron began.
“It found nothing to anchor to,” she finished. “No wolf. No shift. Just… emptiness. Raw. It poured in. Burned.” Her throat thickened at the memory. “And then it died. Like water thrown into a pit of coals. No fuel. No way forward. Just… gone.”
A muscle jumped in Corin’s cheek. “Could you do that again?” he asked.
Lira’s stomach lurched. “You mean—on purpose,” she said.
“Yes,” Corin said.
She looked out over the village to avoid his gaze. The ash-streaked mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks lost in cloud. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I didn’t… control it. I reacted.”
“But you could try,” Garron pressed. “If we find the… source. The heart of it.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “It nearly tore me apart,” she said. “I was… lucky. It was… residue. A knot. Not the full storm.”
Garron hesitated. “We’re not asking you to walk into the center of it,” he said, unconvincing even to his own ears.
“You *will,* eventually,” she said. “If you think it’ll save your pack.”
“Would you?” Corin asked quietly.
The question landed heavy.
Would she? Sacrifice what little she had left of herself to burn out the magic that had already taken her wolf? Step into that raw, howling void and let it chew through the last of her until there was nothing left?
She thought of Thornfell’s cracked stones. Of Ashridge’s. Of patrols not coming back. Of twisted half-shifts and pyres.
She thought of Bram’s wolf, pressing against her emptiness. Wary. Needing.
She thought of the way the entire infirmary had exhaled when the patrol returned whole.
“Yes,” she said, voice low. “If… there was no other way. If it meant fewer wolves… ending up like me. Or worse.”
Garron swore under his breath.
Corin’s expression didn’t change. But something in his scent did—a faint, metallic note of anger. Not at her.
“At this moment,” he said, “you are the most valuable creature in Ashridge.”
Lira flinched. “I am not *creature,*” she said sharply.
His gaze snapped to her. “No,” he said. “You’re not. You’re a wolf. Even without your wolf.”
“I’m not—” she began, then shut her mouth.
She was Thornfell by blood and rite. The bond to Cael’s land still hummed faintly under her skin, even if her wolf didn’t answer. Now Ashridge’s magic buzzed too.
She belonged nowhere. And everywhere.
Unmoored.
“What I mean,” Corin went on, as if he hadn’t dropped that stone into her pond, “is that I will not squander you. Mara’s right—you’re a person, not a tool. But I’d be a worse alpha than my father if I didn’t try to understand what you can do.”
“You’re afraid,” she said quietly. “Of what’s in your woods.”
“Yes,” he said simply. No bluster. No macho denial. “I’ve seen enough of what old magic does when it gets wild. I don’t intend to watch my pack rot from the inside while I stand on tradition.”
“Tradition says don’t trust Thornfell,” Garron muttered.
“Tradition can choke on a bone,” Corin snapped. He flicked a glance at Lira. “You’ve seen more of this than any of us. What do your instincts say?”
Instincts. As if the animal part of her hadn’t been torn away.
Still… something moved in her gut. That old, bone-deep healer sense that had nothing to do with fur.
“It’s… following cracks,” she said slowly. “In stones. In… borders. In people. Trauma. Guilt. Fear. It’s not… *thinking.* But it… goes where things are already split. Makes them wider.”
“Like Bram,” Garron said. “Blaming himself. Pulling away.”
“And your stones,” she said. “Cracking. Humming wrong. Thornfell’s did too.”
Corin nodded. “So we shore up the cracks,” he said. “In land and people.”
“Easier said,” Lira murmured.
“Ashridge is stubborn,” Garron said. “We hold.”
“And you?” Corin asked her. “Do you hold, Lira Voss?”
She wrapped her hands around the balcony rail to keep them from shaking. “I’ve held this long,” she said. “If I break, it won’t be quietly.”
A huff escaped Garron—half laugh, half incredulous noise. Corin’s lips twitched.
“Good,” he said. “Ashridge doesn’t do quiet.”
He pushed away from the railing. “For now, you keep doing what you did today. You walk my infirmary. You feel for wrongness. If you sense anything that smells like that surge, you tell Mara. And me.”
“Yes, Alpha,” she said.
“And Bram?” Garron asked.
Corin’s jaw flexed. “He’ll chafe,” he said. “He’ll want to be out there. I need him in here. With you.”
Her heart stuttered. “With… me.”
“You calm his wolf,” Corin said bluntly. “Or at least you give it something to push against that isn’t pure terror. That’s… valuable.”
“Useful,” she murmured.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you always this contrary?”
“Yes,” she said. “Ask Master Edrin.”
“I intend to,” he muttered. He nodded at Garron. “Tell Bram he’s on restricted duty. Infirmary, council hall, and his own damned bed. That’s it.”
Garron grimaced. “He’ll hate you.”
“He already hates me,” Corin said. “That’s the luxury of being alpha. Everyone loves you until you tell them they can’t die for you.”
He moved toward the door. Paused. Looked back at Lira. “One more thing.”
She braced.
“If any wolf here makes you feel unsafe,” he said quietly, “you tell Mara. Or Idris. Or Garron. Or me. This treaty is my word. Thornfell’s healer is under my protection while she’s in Ashridge. Anyone forgets that, I’ll remind them. Personally.”
Warmth flickered in her chest, unexpected and disorienting. “I can take care of myself,” she said.
“I’m sure you can,” he said. “But why should you have to do it alone?”
With that, he stepped back inside.
Garron lingered a beat longer. “He means it,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s… not what I’m used to.”
“What *are* you used to?” he asked, curiosity warring with wariness.
“Being… tolerated,” she said. “Used. Put where I’m… effective. Not… shielded.”
He scratched his beard. “We’re not very good at shielding,” he admitted. “We’re more of a teeth-out kind of pack.”
“I’ve noticed,” she said dryly.
He huffed. “For what it’s worth… thank you. Again. For Bram.”
“You already thanked me,” she said.
“Did I?” He frowned. “Feels like I mostly insulted you.”
“You did that too,” she said.
A slow, reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. “We’ll… work on that.”
“You really think I’ll be here long enough for that?” she asked.
His gaze slid, just for a heartbeat, toward the curtain where Bram lay. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think you will.”
***
Bram submitted to being washed only because he didn’t have the strength to fight Mara and Idris both.
“Stop flinching,” Mara snapped as Idris dabbed carefully around the scar on his face.
“It *hurts,*” Bram snarled.
“You want it to fester?” she shot back. “Because I can arrange that. Might improve your personality.”
Idris’s jaw worked to contain a grin.
Bram glared at him. “Don’t you dare laugh. I’ll make you run drills until your paws fall off.”
“I’m just enjoying the role reversal,” Idris said, his tone mild. “Usually I’m the one whining when Mara scrubs my wounds.”
“You **whine,**” Mara said. “He **growls.** There’s a difference in pitch.”
“Same amount of complaining,” Idris said.
“You two done using me as entertainment?” Bram muttered.
“No,” Mara and Idris said in unison.
He scowled. His shoulders twinged. He bit back a hiss.
“You’re favoring your left,” Idris observed.
“Brilliant insight,” Bram said. “Maybe you should be beta.”
Idris snorted. “Garron would have an aneurysm.”
“Garron’s halfway to one already,” Mara said. “You two nearly gave it to him last night.”
Bram’s jaw tightened. “He worries too much.”
“He loves you,” Idris said quietly.
“Same thing,” Mara said.
Bram looked away. His gaze snagged on the narrow gap in the curtain. Through it, he could see a slice of the main infirmary—Lira moving between beds, handing Idris a jar, her braid swinging down her back.
He forced his eyes away.
“Tell me the truth,” he said abruptly. “If she hadn’t been here. What would have happened.”
Mara’s hands stilled on his side for a fraction of a second.
“Shift would have gone bad,” she said bluntly. “Either I’d have sedated you and hoped your body sorted itself while you were down, or you’d have torn something crucial. Maybe inside. Maybe out.”
“And my wolf?” he asked.
Her sigh was soft. “Might have retreated so far I couldn’t have reached him again.”
The world narrowed for a second. Just the sound of his own breathing.
He pictured a life with that… hollow. No wolf. No anchor. No hot rush of fur and freedom. Just… human. Only human. Weak.
He’d seen what that had done to the Thornfell survivors. The ones who came through Mara’s doors. Empty-eyed. Lost.
He swallowed. “So I owe her more than my pretty face,” he said, going for flippant and missing by a mile.
“You owe her your *pack,*” Mara said. “Because without you, this place frays twice as fast.”
He wanted to argue. Habit. Guilt.
He didn’t.
Instead, he said, “She did something to him.”
“Your wolf?” Mara asked.
“Yes,” he said. “He… remembers her.”
She made a thoughtful sound. “Good,” she said. “Maybe he’ll listen to her when he won’t listen to you.”
“He listens to me,” Bram growled.
“About as well as you listen to me,” Mara shot back. “Which is to say, not at all.”
He would have snapped something back, but the scent of herbs intensified. The curtain whispered.
Lira ducked through, carrying a small tray.
He went still.
She’d shed the mantle, left in a simple, dark-blue dress that skimmed her curves without clinging. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing slender forearms dusted with faint freckles. A smear of something green stained her knuckles.
His wolf—which he could suddenly *feel* again, like a heavy presence curled at the base of his skull—lifted its head.
She paused just inside the space, tray balanced easily on one hand. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“Yes,” Bram said.
“No,” Mara said.
Lira’s mouth did a twitch-thing that might have been the ghost of a smile. “I brought salve for the scar,” she said, tilting the tray. A small clay pot sat beside a folded cloth and a cup of something that steamed faintly.
“What’s in it?” Bram asked suspiciously.
“Comfrey. Calendula. A bit of goose fat,” she said. “Helps with tightness. It won’t make it go away. But it can… soften the edges.”
“Maybe I like my edges sharp,” he muttered.
Her gaze lingered on the jagged line that split his face. Something unreadable flickered there. “They are,” she said. “But there’s a difference between sharp and… unyielding. Scars that don’t move can pull other things out of alignment. Jaw. Eye. It’s… practical.”
He grunted. “Fine.”
Mara straightened, wiping her hands. “Idris, you’re with me. I need to make sure the old woman in bed three hasn’t decided to die before supper.”
“That would be inconvenient,” Idris said.
“For her, yes,” Mara said dryly. “Come on.” She shot Bram a pointed look. “Behave.”
“I’m not a pup,” he protested.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she said, and swept out with Idris in tow.
The curtain fell back into place, muting the rest of the infirmary. The small room suddenly felt… smaller.
Lira set the tray down on the stool. “Can you sit forward a little?” she asked.
He shifted, jaw clenching as his ribs complained. “Don’t… fuss,” he muttered.
“I’m not,” she said. “If I were fussing, I’d bring you broth and fluff your pillows.”
“Please don’t,” he said. “I’d have to bite you.”
Her lips twitched again. “I don’t think you would.”
“You don’t know me,” he said.
“I know your wolf pressed his head into my hand,” she said quietly. “That doesn’t happen if you’re chomping at every kindness.”
Heat crawled up his neck. “He was… confused.”
“He was… grateful,” she said.
He didn’t know what to do with that, so he changed the subject. “You flinched at the howl,” he said. “Last night.”
Her hands stilled, just for a breath, as she opened the salve pot. “You heard that?”
“I smell it,” he said. “Fear. Shock. You covered it well. For everyone else.”
“But not from you,” she murmured.
“No,” he said. “Not from him.”
She dipped her fingers into the salve. The herbal scent—earthy, sharp, comforting—rose. “He… remembers,” she said softly.
“What?” Bram asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, tipping his chin gently toward the light. Her fingers were cool against his jaw.
“Relax your face if you can,” she said. “You’re clenching.”
He forced his muscles to loosen. Barely.
Her touch on the scar was gentle, working the salve into the puckered skin with slow, careful circles. It still hurt. But under the sting, something else bloomed—warmth, awareness.
“Your howls…” she said quietly. “When my wolf left… I couldn’t bear them. They sounded like… home. And loss. At the same time.”
He swallowed. “So you flinch.”
“Yes,” she said. “But it’s… less, here.”
“Because it’s not your pack,” he guessed.
“Because it’s not… my *ghost,*” she said.
Silence stretched.
His wolf nudged, unexpectedly. *Tell her,* came the sense. *Tell her we heard her.*
*Shut up,* Bram thought back. *You’re not helping.*
His wolf huffed.
He cleared his throat. “I had a dream,” he said abruptly.
Her fingers paused. “Oh?”
He almost backed out. It felt… too raw. Too private.
But he’d never been particularly good at holding back once his mouth opened.
“In the trees,” he said. “Under a… red moon.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Blood moon,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “You were there. Human. Your wolf was there too. Small. Brown. Curious. She… glared at me.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “That sounds right.”
“And something…” He groped for the right word. “Something… oozed. From a cracked stone. Red. Like what hit me last night. I… bit it.” He snorted softly. “Stupid.”
She’d gone very still.
“And you?” she asked. Her voice was barely audible.
“I burned,” he said simply. “And woke up.”
Her throat worked. “That’s… very close to a dream I had,” she said.
He stared at her. “You… dreamed it too.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Only… from my side.”
They looked at each other.
His wolf sat up fully now, keen. *Hers.* Not in the mate-sense, not yet. Not that blazing, possessive recognition his pack stories spoke of.
Something else. Something… uncanny.
“You think the surge is in our heads now too?” he joked, trying to cut the tension.
“It’s not funny,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I just don’t like… not understanding.”
“Me either,” she said. “I’ve had three years of that.”
He made a low noise. “I don’t… know how you survived it.”
“Some days, I didn’t,” she said. “Not really. I… went through motions. Fixed bodies. Avoided the woods.” Her fingers moved again, smoothing salve along his scar. “And then Cael said ‘Ashridge’ and I thought he was insane.”
“He might be,” Bram said. “Most alphas are.”
“Corin seems… very sane,” she said.
“He hides it better,” Bram said. “Trust me, inside he’s chewing on rocks.”
She snorted. “Colorful image.”
“Accurate,” he said.
Her thumb brushed dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. He sucked in a breath.
Her gaze flicked down. Held.
His heart kicked.
“Sorry,” she murmured, as if she’d committed some crime. She stepped back, setting the salve down. “That should help. If you let it.”
He licked his lips. The skin felt slick, tingling. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she replied.
She turned as if to go.
He blurted, “Stay.”
She froze.
His wolf snarled—*idiot*—but didn’t pull the word back.
She half-looked over her shoulder. “I have rounds,” she said.
“So do the others,” he said. “You’ve been on your feet since dawn. Sit for a minute. Unless Thornfell beat the need to breathe out of you.”
She hesitated. Then, slowly, she sank onto the stool, perching on the edge like she was ready to spring away at any second.
He hated that.
“You’re safe here,” he said.
Her mouth twisted. “Corin said the same thing.”
“Corin’s… not always right,” he admitted. “But on this?” He met her gaze. “I’d break every bone in anyone who tried to hurt you. Here.”
Her eyes widened. Color rose in her cheeks. “You barely know me,” she said.
“I know you walked into a surge for me,” he said. “That’s enough.”
“Because I did it for you,” she said. “Or because I did it for your *pack*?”
“Both,” he said honestly. “But if I pretend it’s only the pack, will that make you feel better?”
“Worse,” she said. “The pack doesn’t… owe me.”
“I do,” he said.
She flinched. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked.
“Owe me,” she said sharply. “You start… carrying that, I’ll drown you in it. I have enough of my own.”
He exhaled. “We’re a pair,” he said. “You don’t want me to owe you. I don’t want you to… fix me at your own expense. We’re going to drive Mara insane.”
“Mara’s already insane,” she said.
“True,” he said.
Her mouth quirked. For a second, they shared that small, private smile. It felt… intimate. Dangerous.
A voice outside the curtain broke it.
“Bram?” Garron. Tense. “You decent?”
“No,” Bram called. “Come in anyway.”
The curtain lifted. Garron’s gaze went first to Bram, scanning for obvious damage, then to Lira. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Good. You’re both… upright.”
“You sound surprised,” Bram said.
“I’m always surprised when you don’t manage to make things worse,” Garron said. To Lira, he added, “Corin wants you in council room three when your shift ends.”
Her stomach dipped. “Did he say why?”
“He says ‘meeting,’” Garron said. “I say ‘ambush.’” He shrugged. “Same thing.”
She grimaced. “When?”
“Two hours,” he said. “Pack lunch. Council sessions are long.”
Bram snorted. “Understatement.”
Garron’s gaze flicked between them. Something speculative lingered there. “You two… good?” he asked.
“Yes,” they said at the same time.
He grunted. “That’s… terrifying.” He jerked his head. “Lira. I’ll walk you when it’s time.”
“I don’t need a—” she began.
“Escort,” he finished. “I didn’t say ‘guard.’” His tone softened. “Corin wants you to have… someone. Until people stop looking at you like you’re carrying plague.”
“I *am* carrying plague,” she muttered. “Just for magic instead of lungs.”
“Don’t joke,” he said, face tightening. “They’ll take you literally.”
She pressed her lips together. “All right,” she said. “Two hours.”
When he left, Bram watched the curtain settle back, then looked at her. “Council,” he said. “You’re moving up in the world.”
“I’d rather not,” she said. “They’re… not fond of broken things.”
“You’re not broken,” he said.
She met his eyes. “I am,” she said. “So are you. That’s… not an insult.”
“Maybe,” he allowed. “But I like my broken things sharp.”
“And I’m… sharp,” she said.
His gaze slid to her collarbone, where her pulse beat visibly under pale skin. His wolf perked.
“Very,” he said before he could stop himself.
Color flooded her face. She stood abruptly. “I should go,” she said. “If I’m going to face a council, I need… tea. And maybe a vomit bucket.”
He half-sat up. “Don’t let them corner you,” he said. “They like to talk in circles. If they try to make you promise something that feels wrong—look at Corin. Not the old bastards. He’s the one whose word matters.”
Her throat bobbed. “All right,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Lira,” he said as she reached for the curtain.
She paused.
“If they push you too hard,” he said, “tell them your beta says to back off.”
Her eyes widened. “I… you… I’m not…”
“My healer,” he said, holding her gaze. “You’re my healer. Thornfell or not. That makes you mine. In this. For now.”
The words slammed into the space between them, heavy with pack meaning.
Belonging.
Her fingers flexed on the curtain.
Something like panic flared in her scent. Under it—something else. Warmth. Surprise. A thin, fragile thread of… want.
He froze.
She swallowed. “I… don’t know how to… belong… to anyone anymore,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He swallowed back the howl that wanted to answer.
“Then start small,” he said hoarsely. “Belong to yourself. And let me… stand beside that.”
Her lashes lowered. “You say that like it’s simple.”
“It’s not,” he said. “But we have time, don’t we?”
Her gaze flicked to his scar. To his chest. Back to his eyes.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “We do.”
Then she slipped out.
His wolf, curled tight inside him, pressed against his ribs.
*Mine,* it thought.
He didn’t argue.
Not yet.
---