By dawn, Mira hated the sound of her own name.
“Mira,” Yara mumbled, half-asleep in the second chair she’d dragged up near the table. “He’s… his breathing changed. Is that… normal?”
Mira pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes gritty. “There’s no such thing as normal about him.”
Rafe lay where he’d collapsed hours before, but his sleep had gone from heavy to restless. His brow flickered with frowns, lips twitching as if wrestling with words even in dreams. Once, around midnight, he’d tried instinctively to roll onto his injured side; Mira had lunged across him to stop it, palms flattening over his chest and thigh, breath stuttering at the heat of his skin under her hands.
“Don’t,” she’d hissed, voice ridiculous in its intimacy for a man she wanted to murder. “You rip those stitches, I will sew them shut without any numbing and spell ‘idiot’ across your ribs while I do it.”
He’d fallen still, some unconscious part of him obeying her tone.
Now, light seeped grey-blue around the edges of the shutters. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers; Yara had banked it at some point, more asleep than awake. The other table was empty—Toren had woken before dawn, groaned, complained mightily about the taste of Mira’s tonics, and been ordered back to the den with a stern warning not to lift anything heavier than his own ego for three days.
Mira’s thighs were numb from hours in the armchair, her spine a tangle of knots. She rolled her shoulders gingerly and stood, stretching until her joints popped.
“Check his bandages,” she murmured to Yara. “If they’re soaked through, we’ll swap them.”
Yara yawned wide enough to crack her jaw, then dragged herself upright and leaned over Rafe’s torso.
Mira busied herself at the hearth, feeding it small sticks, coaxing the coals back to flame. The warmth crept slowly into the chill room, chasing the damp from the corners.
She heard them before she smelled them.
Boots on her porch. Too many to be a casual visit. The old boards creaked in protest under their combined weight.
Her wolf bristled.
“Stay,” she snapped at Yara, who froze with her hands hovering over Rafe’s bandage. Mira loosened the knife at her hip more out of reassurance than intent; she doubted steel would be much use against what stood on her doorstep.
The knock was firm, measured. Not panicked. Not deferential either.
She tugged the door open.
Wren stood on the porch, shoulders squared, jaw set. Two warriors flanked her—Ede, massive as ever, and a younger male Mira didn’t know well, all sharp angles and watchful eyes. Beyond them, three more figures waited at the bottom of the steps.
Ironclaw.
Mira’s stomach dropped.
Two were standard warriors, scent unmistakable—smoke, steel, pine, a faint edge of rotgut. The third…
Reva.
She looked different by daylight. The sharpness Mira remembered from the council hollow was still there, but the sun picked out new details—fine lines at the corners of her eyes that suggested more laughter than her smirk implied, a faint scar at her throat barely hidden by the collar of her tunic.
She smiled when she saw Mira.
It wasn’t friendly.
“Healer Mira,” she called, inclining her head just enough to be technically polite. “An honor to finally meet you up close. You were very… busy… the night of the last raid.”
Mira’s fingers twitched around the doorframe.
“Reva,” Wren said warningly.
Reva’s mouth curved. “Alpha Wren. You must be tired of hosting Ironclaw at your door.”
“Tired,” Wren agreed, “but not surprised. Vermin always find their way back to the larder.”
A low growl rippled from the Ironclaw warriors. Reva’s eyes glittered.
“Careful,” she said. “That almost sounded like an insult. We wouldn’t want the council hearing Ashridge alphas speak so disrespectfully of their honored guests.”
“Is that what you are?” Wren asked. “Honored?”
“Today, yes.” Reva’s gaze flicked past Wren, landing on Mira. “I come under the banner of the treaty. To… inquire about the health of one of our own.”
Mira stepped fully into the doorway, blocking the view inside by reflex.
“He’s alive,” she said. “For now. That’s all you need to know.”
Reva clucked her tongue. “So territorial, healer. I’m only making sure you haven’t misplaced him. Joren is… very interested in his enforcer’s condition.”
“Interested enough to come himself?” Mira asked sweetly.
A muscle jumped in Reva’s jaw. “Our alpha does not leave our den lightly.”
“Of course not,” Wren murmured. “That would require spine.”
Ede coughed to cover a laugh. The younger warrior’s lips twitched.
Reva ignored them with visible effort. “Joren sends his regards,” she said instead. “And his gratitude for the care you’ve shown Rafe.”
Mira barked a humorless laugh. “He does not.”
Reva’s smile thinned. “He sends his recognition, then. And his… expectation… that when his enforcer is fit to move, he will be returned to Ironclaw soil.”
Returned.
The word landed like a stone in Mira’s gut.
Of course. She hadn’t truly believed they would leave Rafe in Ashridge indefinitely—not when he was valuable, not when his loyalty mattered. But hearing it said aloud, crisp and inevitable, made the room behind her feel suddenly too small.
Her wolf snarled, pressing at her ribs.
No, it said. Ours.
Mira’s fingers tightened on the doorframe.
Beside her, Wren’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. The subtle widening of her stance. The tilt of her chin. She went from wary cousin to alpha in a heartbeat.
“When he is fit to move,” Wren said coolly, “we will discuss his… return. Your alpha knows as well as I that transporting a wounded wolf too soon can undo what’s been done. If he wants his enforcer alive, he’ll wait.”
Reva’s nostrils flared. “He will not wait forever.”
“Then it’s a good thing your enforcer is stubborn,” Mira cut in. “He’ll heal despite both of you.”
Reva’s eyes flicked to her, speculative. “May I see him?”
“No,” Mira and Wren said in unison.
Reva’s brows rose. “You deny me confirmation that he lives?”
“You have my word,” Wren said. “If that’s not enough, perhaps you shouldn’t have signed a treaty with ‘dishonorable savages.’”
Reva’s lips parted on a retort. Then her gaze slid past Wren again, landing on Mira’s shoulder.
Mira realized belatedly that in stepping forward, the edge of her apron had shifted, exposing the bruises around her wrist.
Reva’s eyes narrowed.
“How did you get those?” she asked softly.
Mira resisted the urge to duck her hand out of sight. Slowly, deliberately, she folded her arms, covering the marks.
“Occupational hazard,” she said. “Patients don’t always appreciate having their insides rearranged.”
Reva hummed. “Rafe grabbed you, didn’t he.”
Wren stiffened. “What my healer endures in service to her oath is none of your business.”
“On the contrary,” Reva said. “Everything involving Joren’s enforcer is my business. Especially now.” She studied Mira’s face, something like curiosity in her gaze. “You smell… different than I expected.”
Mira’s wolf reared, baring teeth. She felt the bond hum, a low, warning vibration.
“Back away from my door, Reva,” she said quietly. “Or this is going to turn into more than an exchange of pleasantries.”
Reva’s eyes gleamed. “Are you threatening envoys now, Ashridge?”
“I’m telling you,” Mira replied, “that my patience is thinner than your alpha’s excuses. Take your orders, tell Joren his dog still breathes, and leave.”
Tension crackled. The Ashridge warriors at Wren’s back shifted subtly, weight balanced, hands near weapons but not touching.
Reva held Mira’s gaze for a long, charged moment.
Then she smiled.
It wasn’t better the second time.
“As you wish,” she said lightly. “Tell your healer to take good care of him, Alpha Wren. Bonds formed in blood are so… delicate.”
Wren’s eyes sharpened. “What do you—”
But Reva was already turning, cloak swirling, boots crunching on the frost as she descended the steps. Her warriors fell in around her.
Mira watched until the trees swallowed their figures. Only then did she realize her nails had bitten half-moons into her palms.
Wren exhaled hard. “I hate her.”
“You and me both,” Mira muttered. “What did she mean, ‘bonds formed in blood’?”
Wren’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Reva is too clever for her own good. She smelled something. She doesn’t know what, but she knows there’s a thread to tug.”
Mira’s stomach knotted. “You think she… felt the bond?”
“Maybe not,” Wren said. “But she’ll suspect something. She’s not stupid. A rival alpha’s enforcer bleeding on an enemy healer’s table? Old stories cling to scenarios like that.” She shook her head sharply. “We need to be careful.”
Mira swallowed. “Careful how?”
“Careful what we show him,” Wren said. “What we tell him. Careful who sees you together.” Her gaze softened slightly. “Careful with yourself.”
Mira snorted. “That ship sailed when the Mother decided to tie my guts to his.”
Wren’s lips twitched despite herself. “How is he?”
“Annoying,” Mira said automatically. Then, more seriously, “Holding. Fever’s flirting at the edges, but the wound’s clean. If he were Ashridge, I’d keep him abed another week before letting him walk more than a few steps. But he’s Ironclaw. He’ll probably try to spar by tomorrow out of sheer stubbornness.”
“I’ll post a guard,” Wren said. “Subtle. I don’t want him thinking he’s a prisoner.”
“He’s not?” Mira asked dryly.
“He’s a… guest whose departure date has yet to be agreed upon,” Wren said.
Mira snorted. “You’re getting good at this politics thing.”
“Don’t remind me,” Wren muttered. She reached out, then hesitated, hand hovering awkwardly near Mira’s shoulder before she let it drop. “You… all right?”
Mira considered lying.
Her mouth opened of its own accord. “No.”
Wren’s jaw flexed. “Me neither.”
They shared a wry, exhausted smile. Then Wren straightened.
“I have elders to pacify and warriors to keep from doing anything stupid,” she said. “Shout if you need me. For anything.”
“Short of murdering my patient,” Mira said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Wren’s eyes glinted. “I didn’t say that.”
She left, Ede and the young warrior flanking her as she strode back toward the heart of the den.
Mira closed the door slower this time. The latch clicked small and final.
She leaned her forehead against the wood for a moment, breathing.
Her wolf prowled, restless. The bond hummed, pulling her attention irresistibly back toward the table.
“Of course he’s awake,” she muttered, pushing off the door.
He wasn’t.
Rafe lay where she’d left him, lashes casting shadows, jaw slack. Yara had retreated to the far chair after checking his bandage, fiddling with a bit of twine.
“Did you hear all that?” Mira asked.
Yara shook her head. “Bits. It sounded like insults. And Reva.”
“That’s all you missed,” Mira said.
Yara studied her face. “You look like you swallowed a nettle.”
“I feel like it,” Mira said. “Reva wants him back as soon as he can limp. Wren wants to drag her toes. Joren’s probably chewing his own teeth over there, and the elders are going to start hissing about ‘fate’ the moment they catch a whiff of this.”
“This?” Yara echoed. “You mean…” She waggled her fingers vaguely between Mira and Rafe.
Mira glared. “Don’t you dare make hand gestures about my—ugh.”
“I’m just saying,” Yara said, grinning weakly, “you’re not exactly hiding the storm in here.”
Mira’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know how.”
Yara’s expression softened. “Do you want me to… cover for you for a bit? Take first watch while you… go punch a tree or something?”
The offer tugged at Mira. The idea of walking into the woods, finding a tree with bark rough enough to scrape her knuckles raw, snarling until her throat hurt—it appealed more than it should.
But when she looked at Rafe, something in her tightened.
He looked… fragile.
Not in the physical sense—his body was still solid muscle under the bandages, his scars proof of years of survival. But unconsciousness stripped him of his edges. Without the scowl, the tension, the deliberate set of his shoulders, he seemed younger. Less… Ironclaw. More just… wolf.
Her wolf whined.
“I can’t,” she said quietly. “If his fever spikes, he’ll need—”
“Your hands,” Yara finished. “Your… whatever.”
“Exactly,” Mira said. “Go sleep, Yara. Proper sleep. In a real bed.”
Yara hesitated. “I don’t like leaving you alone with him.”
Mira laughed once, bitter. “What, you think I’m going to jump his bones while he’s unconscious?”
Yara’s cheeks flushed. “That’s… not… I meant—he’s dangerous. Even wounded.”
“So am I,” Mira said.
They stared at each other for a beat. Then Yara sighed.
“I’ll be back at midday with food,” she said. “If you haven’t moved from that chair, I’m dragging you out of it by your hair.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Mira muttered.
Yara squeezed her shoulder in passing, then slipped out.
Silence settled.
The fire crackled. Rafe’s breath rasped, slightly rougher than it had during the night. Mira’s heart didn’t seem to understand that it could slow down now; it thudded, stubborn, too fast.
She dragged the armchair closer to the table and sank into it, elbows on her knees, fingers laced together.
“Go ahead,” she told the unconscious man on her table. “Wake up. Let’s have it out.”
He did not oblige.
For a few blessed minutes, she just… watched him.
The way his chest rose and fell. The flutter of his lashes when some dream snagged him. The stubble along his jaw, darkening now into a proper beard. The faint scar at the corner of his mouth she hadn’t noticed before.
“How did you get that one?” she murmured. “Bar fight? Knife? Girl with a better right hook than you?”
Her imagination supplied images. Rafe younger, mouth bloodied, grinning through it. Rafe standing between a younger packmate and a stranger, taking the hit meant for them. Rafe mouthing off to Joren and getting a backhand for it.
She hated that she wondered.
“You shouldn’t have been at that raid,” she said softly. “Any more than I should have. We were children playing with knives.”
His hand twitched. Her wolf pricked its ears.
He inhaled sharply and groaned.
Mira straightened.
His eyes opened, unfocused at first, then clearing. They found her face like a hawk finding a rabbit in snow.
“Morning,” she said, tone more brisk than she felt. “You missed all the fun. Your envoy came by to leer at my door and remind us you belong to Ironclaw.”
His mouth curved, a slow, painful thing. “Reva.”
“Yes,” Mira said. “She says hello. And by ‘hello,’ I mean ‘hurry up and heal so we can drag you back to our alpha.’”
His jaw tightened. “Of course she does.”
He tried to push up on his elbows.
“Don’t,” Mira snapped, shooting to her feet and planting a hand flat against his chest.
Heat.
The contact singed. Not literally, but close enough. The bond flared, a low growl of awareness.
His skin was hot under her palm. Too hot.
“Fever,” she muttered. “Idiot.”
His breath hitched—not from pain, but from the feel of her hand. His gaze dropped to where her fingers splayed over his sternum, then back up to her face.
“You keep calling me that,” he said hoarsely. “Idiot. Pup. Stupid.”
“If the fur fits,” she said.
“How am I supposed to prove I’m not if you don’t let me move?” he asked.
“By not dying,” she said. “That’s step one.”
His eyes flicked to the door. “You said Reva was here. Joren must know.”
“He does,” she said. “He ‘recognizes’ my efforts. That was the word Reva used.”
“That’s as close to ‘thank you’ as you’ll get,” Rafe said dryly.
“Good,” Mira said. “I’d choke on it anyway.”
He studied her for a long heartbeat.
“You stayed,” he said again.
“You keep saying that like it’s surprising,” she muttered. “I told you. You’re a walking war. I’m not leaving you alone in my house until I’m sure which way you’ll tip.”
His lips curved faintly. “And which way do you think I’ll tip?”
“Depends how big a fool you are,” she said.
He considered that. “If I say ‘very,’ will you go easier on me?”
“No,” she said. “But at least you wouldn’t be lying.”
He huffed a laugh that turned into a cough halfway. Pain contorted his face.
Mira’s hand shifted without conscious thought, sliding from the center of his chest to under his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle there to steady him as his body spasmed.
The motion brought her closer, her hip brushing the edge of the table, her torso angled over his.
He sucked in a breath, not entirely from pain this time. Up close, her scent flooded his senses—rosemary from the soap she’d used, faint ghost of smoke, the underlying note that was just… her.
His wolf leaned into it, practically purring.
“You smell… different,” he rasped before his brain could throttle his mouth.
Her brows shot up. “Different than what?”
“Than anyone,” he said simply.
Color rose in her cheeks. “That’s the bond talking. Not you.”
“It’s both,” he said. “I know my nose.”
“I know your spleen,” she shot back. “I’ve had my hand in it. We all have our specialties.”
He blinked. “You… touched my—”
“Relax,” she said. “I didn’t rearrange anything that wasn’t already falling apart.”
He stared at her. “You have a terrible bedside manner.”
“I’m not in bed,” she said. “And neither are you. And if you keep talking in that tone, you never will be again. Ever. With anyone.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Heat crept up his neck.
“Bossy,” he muttered.
“Alive,” she countered. “For now.”
Silence stretched, charged.
Her hand still rested under his shoulder. She became acutely aware of every inch of contact. The hard curve of his deltoid. The line of his collarbone, inches from her wrist. The rise and fall of his chest against her forearm.
He smelled like… him. Sweat, iron, the faint ghost of pine and cold water. Under it all, the thread that matched the one inside her chest, thrumming.
She dragged her hand back as if burned and took a step away.
His wolf snarled, unhappy. He smoothed it unconsciously, jaw clenching.
“How long,” he asked, to fill the sudden space, “until I can walk?”
“Depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“On how big a baby you are when I change your bandages,” she said. “If you whine, I keep you here another week out of spite.”
“I don’t whine,” he protested.
“Yet,” she said. “We’ll see what you sound like when I pull the stitches in three days.”
He grimaced. “You enjoy this.”
“Only when the patient is Ironclaw,” she said. “My own don’t complain as much. Or if they do, they know I’ll tell their mothers.”
He snorted. “You’re scary.”
“Good,” she said. “Maybe that will keep you from doing anything stupid.”
His gaze turned more serious. “Reva—Joren—they’ll push. They won’t like waiting. They’ll try to use… this.” He gestured vaguely between them, winced, and dropped his hand. “If they suspect.”
“They already suspect something,” Mira said. “Reva sniffed around my bruises like a dog at a butcher’s door. She said ‘bonds formed in blood’ like she knew it would get under my skin.”
He cursed under his breath. “Old stories.”
She tilted her head. “What stories?”
“In Ironclaw there’s a tale,” he said reluctantly. “From before my time. About an enforcer wounded in enemy territory, carried to their healer, bound to her by blood and… other things. They say the bond ended a war.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Or started a worse one, depending on who’s telling it.”
Mira’s mouth went dry. “Comforting.”
“It’s just a story,” he said quickly. “Mostly told by elders who like to hear themselves talk. But Reva grew up on those tales. Of course her mind would leap there.”
“And yours?” she asked, too sharp.
He met her gaze head-on. “Mine is here.”
The way he said it—simple, grounded—heated something low in her belly and scared the hell out of her.
She broke eye contact first, turning to the shelf behind her to fuss with a jar that didn’t need fussing.
“Wren wants to keep you,” she said, voice brisk. “For negotiation. For politics. For… ‘leverage.’” The word soured her tongue.
He cursed again. “Of course she does.”
“I told her I won’t use the bond as a noose,” Mira added. “That if you stay, it’s because your body would fall apart the second it crosses the border, not because we twist your head into choosing us.”
He watched the line of her spine, the way tension bunched along her shoulders.
“What if I wanted to stay?” he asked quietly.
She went very still.
“That’s not funny,” she said.
“I’m not joking,” he said.
Silence.
She turned slowly. Her eyes were wild around the edges.
“Your pack is there,” she said. “Your alpha. Your family. If you stay—if you even think about it—Joren will brand you traitor. You know that.”
“I know,” he said.
“Then why say it?” she demanded. “Why put… that… in my head when it’s the one thing I can’t let happen?”
He swallowed.
Because the moment he’d scented her, something in him had unclenched for the first time in his life. Because lying here, listening to her insult him and threaten to snap his fingers, felt more right than any night listening to Joren praise his kills. Because the idea of walking out of this cabin and never smelling her again made his wolf howl.
“Because it’s true,” he said.
Her breath hitched.
“You don’t know me,” she said. “You know my hands. My anger. The worst night of my life. That’s it.”
“I know your oath,” he said. “Your stubbornness. The way you stayed even when you wanted to flee. The way you talk about your dead like they’re still in the room.”
Her throat worked.
“I know you hate me,” he added softly. “And I know this bond didn’t ask either of us what we wanted before it settled in our bones. But it’s there. I can’t pretend it isn’t.”
“Neither can I,” she whispered. “But I can choose what to do with it.”
He nodded slowly. “So can I.”
She studied him for a long, long breath.
“If you choose wrong,” she said eventually, “we all bleed for it. Not just you. Not just me. Ashridge. Ironclaw. Pups who don’t even know our names.”
He’d thought those thoughts himself, in the dark, staring at the den ceiling.
“I know,” he said again. “But if we choose nothing—if we just… do what’s expected—do we avoid that? Or do we walk into some other kind of war instead?”
She flinched.
“Stop,” she said. “Please. I haven’t even had breakfast.”
His lips twitched. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” she snapped automatically. Then sighed. “Apologize. For existing. For breathing in a way that makes my wolf do stupid things.”
He huffed a laugh. “Likewise.”
Silence again, this time less brittle. Threads, tentative, weaving.
A soft clang from the hearth made Mira blink back to herself.
“Right,” she said briskly. “Enough… feelings. Time to poke you.”
He made a face. “You have a terrible way of phrasing things.”
She grabbed a bowl, poured steaming water into it from the kettle, and brought it to the table along with a clean cloth.
“I need to check your stitches,” she said. “Make sure nothing’s festering.”
“Is that likely?” he asked, craning his neck as if he could see his own side.
“You rolled half into a river and then half across a muddy bank,” she said. “Your odds aren’t great. Lift your arm.”
He obeyed, slowly, muscles trembling with the effort. The motion tugged at his side. He hissed between his teeth.
Her fingers were gentle as she peeled back the edge of the bandage.
He tried not to watch. He failed.
Angry, puckered flesh curved in a ragged line from just under his ribs toward his back, a jagged smile of red-streaked skin and black thread. The sight made his stomach flip, but he’d seen worse. On others. On himself.
Her touch… did something it had never done when any healer—Ironclaw or otherwise—had tended him.
Heat flared under each fingertip, not just pain but awareness. His wolf paced, pressing against his skin wherever she pressed, like some eager pup shoving its nose under a palm.
She dabbed at the wound with the cloth, movements efficient.
He felt every drag. Every tiny withdrawal.
“You’re healing… decently,” she muttered. “No pus. Swelling’s not worse. You’re disgusting, but that’s not my fault.”
He snorted. “You flirt like an elder.”
She shot him a look. “If this is your idea of flirting, Ironclaw must be very lonely.”
He grinned, then winced when his side twinged.
“Breathe,” she ordered, softer.
He obeyed, more out of instinct than intention.
“In… good,” she murmured. “Out. Again.”
Her voice smoothed into a cadence he suspected she’d used on countless patients, human and wolf. Something in his chest loosened. His breaths fell into rhythm with her words despite himself.
Her thumb brushed a fraction too close to his lower ribs.
His hips jerked. “Shit. That—”
“Ticklish?” she asked, the faintest hint of wicked delight in her tone.
“No,” he lied.
She smirked. “Good to know.”
“Sadist,” he muttered.
She finished rewrapping the bandage, hands quick. When she leaned over to tie it, her braid slipped forward over her shoulder, the ends brushing his bare skin.
The contact was innocuous. Soft. It nearly undid him.
His wolf surged, pressing hard enough that for a heartbeat his bones felt too small.
He realized he’d stopped breathing.
So did she.
Their gazes collided over the knot she was tying.
Up this close, he could see the tiny gold flecks in her irises. Smell the faint pepper-and-citrus tang of her skin under the herbs.
His hand moved before he thought.
He didn’t grab her this time. Didn’t clamp down. He simply lifted it, fingers hovering in the air, then touched the loose end of her braid where it lay across his chest.
The world narrowed to that single, fragile connection.
Her eyes went wide.
Time stretched.
“Mira,” he said, voice roughened. He didn’t know what he intended to say after that. Don’t. Stay. Mine. All of them.
Whatever it was, it never left his tongue.
The door banged open.
“Mira, I brought—oh.”
Yara froze on the threshold, arms full of bread and a covered pot. Her eyes snapped from Mira—bent over, braid in Rafe’s hand—to Rafe, half-bare, flushed.
The pot slid. Mira lunged, snatching it out of the air with fingers that had let go of Rafe’s hair so fast they burned.
“Shit,” she said. “Yara. Knock next time.”
“I did,” Yara said weakly. “Twice. You didn’t… hear.”
“Because you were busy,” Rafe muttered under his breath.
Mira shot him a killing glare. Heat burned up her neck into her cheeks.
Yara’s gaze bounced between them, understanding dawning and then smacking her full in the face.
“Oh,” she said again, more eloquently. “I… see.”
“You see nothing,” Mira said. “You saw me changing a bandage while our idiot patient tried to help. Badly.”
“By braiding your braid with his—never mind,” Yara said hurriedly. “Food. I brought food. For you. And the idiot.”
“It’s too early for this,” Mira muttered, setting the pot on the table with more force than strictly necessary. “Rafe, try not to rip your stitches while I pretend my life isn’t absurd. Yara, come help me serve.”
She fled toward the hearth like a hunted deer. Yara scampered after, biting her lip so hard not to laugh she’d probably bruise it.
Rafe lay back against the thin cushion under his head.
Despite the interruption, despite the embarrassment. Some quiet part of him purred.
It had been nothing. A touch to her hair. A breath close.
It felt like a thread knotted tighter between them.
Outside, the wind gusted, rattling the shutters.
Inside, three wolves danced around a line in the dust, pretending they hadn’t already stepped over it.
* * *