*Sage*
The road home felt shorter.
Or maybe I was just too wrung out to notice the distance.
My brain hummed with leftover adrenaline from the town hall—faces, questions, the weight of my own promise looping like a bad song: *Give us a season. My word.*
Outside, darkness pressed against the truck windows. Headlights cut a narrow tunnel through it, snowbanks looming like sleeping animals on either side of the unplowed road.
Kieran drove this time.
I’d handed him the keys the moment we stepped out of the fluorescent glare into the freezing parking lot.
“My turn,” he’d said simply.
Now, his hands rested easy on the wheel, coat open over a dark henley that shouldn’t have been legal, jaw tight with the kind of focus that meant he was thinking too much.
I watched his profile.
The passing lights carved his face into angles—cheekbones, nose, the scar along his jaw I’d never asked about. His eyes stayed on the road, but I knew he saw more than headlights and lines.
“You’re staring,” he said softly, without looking over.
“You can feel that?” I asked.
“I can smell it,” he said. “Your attention.”
I snorted. “That’s not…how attention works.”
“In my world it is,” he said.
He turned then, just briefly, and I caught it—the faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
Warmth trickled into the cold space under my ribs.
“Are you…mad?” I asked. “About what I said in there.”
He shifted his grip, knuckles flexing. “Which part?”
“The ‘give us a season’ thing,” I said. “The part where I basically put a countdown timer on your life’s work without clearing it with you.”
“Ah,” he said. “That.”
I winced. “That was…impulsive. And probably stupid. Kim’s going to have an aneurysm.”
“You did what you felt you had to in the moment,” he said. “To keep them from reaching for their guns *right now.* I can’t fault you for buying us time. Even if you spent my blood to do it.”
“That’s the part I hate,” I said, throat tight. “That I keep…trading on you. Your pack. Your danger. To talk humans down.”
“You’re not trading on us,” he said. “You’re…speaking for us. Sometimes badly. Sometimes brilliantly. Tonight was…more the latter.”
I stared at him. “You think that was brilliant?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that you walked into a room that already wanted a villain and refused to give them one. That takes…guts. And more optimism than I’d credit most humans with.”
I huffed. “Optimism is just denial in a nicer outfit.”
“You really can’t take a compliment,” he said.
“I’m trying not to think too hard about the fact that I promised to stand up there in three months and tell them to start shooting you if things don’t get better,” I said. “It’s…easier to focus on my rhetorical flourishes.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“You won’t,” he said.
“Won’t what.”
“Tell them that,” he said. “You’ll find another way.”
“You sound very sure,” I said uneasily.
“I have to be,” he said simply. “If I let myself start believing there’s no path where we live and your people don’t turn this valley into a war zone, I’ll stop making rational decisions. And you’ve seen what happens when I lose control.”
My cheek itched.
I resisted the urge to touch it.
“I’m not sure we’re in rational territory anymore,” I said. “Bone trees. Prophecies. Near-death experiences at small-town civic events. This is all very…liminal.”
“Liminal,” he repeated, amused. “Big word, Doc.”
“Don’t mock my vocabulary,” I said. “It’s all I have. That and an overstimulated amygdala.”
He laughed under his breath.
Silence settled.
Not the tense, brittle kind.
The kind that made me acutely aware of everything else—the hum of the engine, the soft squeak of the wipers, the small rasp of his breath.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“For what?” he asked.
“Being there,” I said. “In the back of the room. Pretending to be Ryan. It helped. Knowing you were…watching.”
“I didn’t do much,” he said.
“You leaned on a wall,” I said. “That’s not nothing.”
He glanced at me, brows raised.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “You also talked me down outside. And you stopped me from punching Kurt in the face with a PowerPoint slide.”
“How would that even work,” he asked.
“Lots of clip art,” I said. “And righteous rage.”
His mouth curved. “I’d pay to see that.”
We turned off onto the smaller road that led toward the trailhead.
Snow thickened.
Stars pricked through the clouds overhead.
The mountains loomed, their black bulk comforting and terrifying all at once.
“We should talk about…what Cassian said,” I said, when the quiet started to press.
His jaw tightened. “Which part.”
“The bone tree,” I said. “The old one. The ‘last time’ you did this. Whatever…ritual he was itching to spill.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“I told you,” he said. “Not tonight.”
“You keep saying that,” I said. “But nights keep happening.”
“Impatient,” he muttered.
“Nosy,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He drummed his fingers on the wheel, thinking.
“You deserve to know,” he said finally. “But it’s not a story I…like. Or tell often.”
“We don’t have to do it all at once,” I said, softer. “Just…start. Before Cassian weaponizes whatever pieces he has.”
“He already has,” he said. “But you’re right. Better you hear it from me.”
He turned into the plowed pullout that passed for a parking area.
The truck rolled to a stop.
He cut the engine.
For a moment, we sat there, nothing but our breath fogging the windows.
“Now?” I asked.
He considered.
“Walk with me,” he said. “I need…trees. For this.”
“Always with the trees,” I muttered, but my heart kicked.
We left the truck, crunching through the crusted snow toward the shadowed line of forest.
The sky was clear enough now that I could see the stars—a scatter of ice chips across velvet. Our breath plumed white. The cold bit my exposed skin, burning my lungs.
He led us toward a small rise overlooking the valley, not quite to the bone tree but close enough that I could see its silhouette—a darker darkness against the sky.
We stopped.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
“For as long as anyone remembers,” he said, voice low, “we’ve had…places. Trees. Stones. Rivers. Spots where the line between what we are and…what everything else is goes thin. We mark them. Honor them. Avoid them. Depends on the place. Depends on the pack.”
“Like the treaty stone,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “And like…that tree.”
He nodded toward the new bone tree.
“When I was eight,” he went on, “my father took me to the old one. On this ridge. A different tree. Younger than this one, older than me. There were bones on it. Feathers. Bits of metal. Things left by our people, by humans, by…others.”
“Others?” I asked.
“Not our kind,” he said. “Old things. Spirits, if you like that word. The valley has…layers. My grandmother used to say we were only the latest skin.”
I shivered.
He continued.
“One winter,” he said, “there was a sickness. In the pack. Fever that burned from the inside out. Pups died. Old ones died. Strong hunters dropped in the snow with foam on their lips.”
My stomach tightened.
“Mara did what she could,” he said. “Herbal teas. Poultices. Songs. Some lived. Most…didn’t. My father grew…desperate.”
“Did he think…humans?” I asked. “Rancher poisons? Rabies?”
“Yes,” he said. “But this wasn’t…that. This was…deeper. Older. We felt it in our bones. Like the valley itself was…turning.”
He stared out over the snow.
“Grandmother said it was the old magic,” he said. “The cost of us hiding too long. Of us forgetting the oaths our ancestors made to the land. She told my father to take an offering to the tree. Blood and bone. Something…precious.”
My skin crawled.
“She meant game,” he said. “Elk. Deer. A great hunt. A feast for ravens and spirits. My father heard…something else.”
“What?” I whispered.
“Strength,” he said. “He heard that the valley wanted strength. Young blood. Promise. Future. So he took it.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
He didn’t look at me.
He was somewhere else.
Snow.
Bones.
A boy.
“My brother,” he said quietly. “Isandro. Two years younger. Loud. Reckless. Fastest runner in our age group. He…questioned everything. Laughed at rules. Reminded my father of himself, if he’d ever been free.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“He got sick?” I asked, already dreading the answer.
“No,” Kieran said. “That was the…problem. He was fine. While pups burned with fever, he ran circles around them, tried to make them laugh. My father decided that meant something.”
“That he was…chosen,” I said sickly.
“Yes,” he said. “Chosen to be…offered.”
I nearly doubled over.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“My mother tried to stop him,” he said. “Mara too. Grandmother screamed until her voice broke. He didn’t listen. He said an Alpha’s first duty was to the pack as a whole, not to his own blood. He said sacrifice was honorable if it kept the rest of us alive.”
“He…killed him,” I said, voice barely audible.
He finally looked at me.
Eyes hollow in the starlight.
“Yes,” he said. “On the hill. Under the old tree. With the whole pack watching. He slit his own son’s throat and hung his bones in the branches and called it…duty.”
My vision blurred.
“He made me stand beside him,” Kieran went on. “Made me hold the bowl. Made me…watch. Said it was important I understood what leadership required.”
A sound tore out of me.
Half sob, half curse.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “Kieran, I—”
He shook his head, jaw tight.
“Two days later,” he said, “the fever broke. Pups stopped dying. Old ones recovered. He declared it a sign that the valley had…accepted the offering. That Isandro’s death had meaning.”
“And you?” I asked, throat raw. “Did you believe that?”
“I was eight,” he said. “I believed the man who fed me and taught me to hunt and told me monsters would eat me if I didn’t brush my teeth. I believed…because I needed to. The alternative—that my brother died for nothing—was…unbearable.”
He swallowed.
“Years later,” he said, “Mara told me the truth. The fever had already run its course. It was waning the night my father took Isandro to the tree. Sacrifice or not, it would have broken.”
Nausea rolled through me.
“So he…” I couldn’t finish.
“Yes,” Kieran said. “He killed his son for…faith. Pride. Fear. A need to feel like he was in control of something that was never his.”
I stepped closer.
“Why didn’t Mara tell him?” I asked.
“She did,” he said. “Before. During. After. He wouldn’t hear it. It would have meant admitting he’d done the unforgivable for…nothing.”
My heart ached.
“And you,” I said softly. “When you found out.”
“I broke,” he said simply. “For a long time. Not in ways anyone would see. I did my duty. I hunted. I trained. I took the Alpha mantle when he died. I led. But there was always…a rot. A question. If our entire system could produce a man who thought that was *okay,* what did that say about us?”
I wanted to reach for him so badly my hands shook.
“But you’re not him,” I said fiercely. “You didn’t make that choice.”
“No,” he said. “But I watched. I learned. I saw how easy it is to wrap horror in the language of sacrifice. Of destiny. Of prophecy.” His gaze found mine. “Why do you think I reacted the way I did when Mara started whispering her grandmother’s stories about a human with wolf eyes?”
“Oh,” I breathed.
“I won’t let you become…that,” he said. “An offering. A symbol. A…solution in someone else’s story. Not my father’s. Not Cassian’s. Not Mara’s. Not even your Kim’s.”
He took a breath.
“Building the bone tree,” he said, nodding toward the new structure, “terrified me. On a level I didn’t want to admit. It felt like stepping back onto that hill as a boy, bowl in hand. But the world is different now. The lines are different. This time, we’re not feeding the tree with blood. We’re feeding it with…stories. With…choice.”
“And you let me tie my scarf to it,” I said quietly. “Knowing all this.”
“Yes,” he said. “Because I trusted you to understand the weight. To not turn it into some…Instagram prop. To feel the old echoes and…still choose to stand there.”
I stepped into him then, closing the small distance between us.
The wind bit my cheeks.
My eyes burned.
I reached up.
Put my palm flat against his chest.
His heart thudded under my hand.
“You were a child,” I said. “You didn’t have a choice.”
“I have one now,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “And you’re choosing…differently. That matters, Kieran. It doesn’t erase what happened. But it…re-writes what it means.”
He covered my hand with his.
His palm was callused and warm.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. “Not of Cassian. Not of Kurt. Not even of your…government. I’m scared of becoming him. Of standing on that hill again, this time with you in the bowl.”
“You won’t,” I said fiercely. “You don’t have it in you.”
“You don’t know that,” he said.
“I do,” I insisted. “Because I’ve watched you for weeks now. You don’t make decisions lightly. You agonize over every risk. You put your people before your pride. You…” My throat closed. “You threw yourself under me at Kurt’s place instead of tearing his throat out. You let Mara stop you from killing Cassian today, even when every cell in your body was screaming for blood.”
He flinched.
“You honor pain,” I said. “You don’t…cover it with ‘duty.’ That’s the difference.”
His grip tightened on my hand.
“You’re very sure of me,” he said.
“Someone has to be,” I said.
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so broken.
The wind picked up, tugging at our hair, snapping through the branches overhead with a low, mournful sound.
For a moment, I imagined Isandro—young, laughing, eyes bright—running along this ridge.
His bones in a different tree.
His blood in the snow.
Grief I’d never known punched me in the gut.
Without thinking, I stepped closer.
Slid my free arm around Kieran’s waist.
Pressed my forehead to his chest.
He went rigid.
Then, slowly, he softened.
His arms came up.
Wrapped around me.
Held on.
The valley breathed around us.
Old pain.
New choices.
Cold air.
Warm skin.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his shirt. “For what he did. For what you had to see. For what it made you doubt about yourself.”
He exhaled shakily.
“It’s not your apology to give,” he said.
“I’m giving it anyway,” I said. “Because I want you to hear someone say you deserved better. That what happened to you—what he did—was wrong. Not…holy. Not necessary. Just…wrong.”
His chest hitched.
For a long time, we stood there like that.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Not saying anything else.
When my toes started to go numb, he pulled back a fraction.
His hands slid up my arms, rubbing, trying to coax warmth back into my fingers.
“Inside,” he said gruffly. “Before you turn into a popsicle.”
“Only if you promise to keep trauma-dumping in warm rooms from now on,” I said unsteadily. “My emotional regulation skills are not snow-proof.”
He huffed.
“Deal,” he said.
***
Back in the cabin, he lit a fire while I sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of something hot Mara had insisted I take in a thermos.
The flames caught quickly, throwing dancing light over the rough walls.
As the warmth seeped into my bones, the numbness retreated, leaving behind a jittery, ragged sensation like I’d drunk three espressos and been hit by a truck.
Kieran straightened, rubbing his hands together.
His face was shadowed, eyes deep.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” I asked.
“For…listening,” he said. “For not…running.”
“Running where?” I asked. “Back to Bozeman? To a world where I pretend magic is just a metaphor? Hard pass.”
He studied me.
“You’re taking this…well,” he said.
“You’ve known me long enough to know that ‘well’ and ‘I’m compartmentalizing so hard I’m going to crash later’ look the same on me,” I said.
He huffed a breath.
“You want to…crash here?” he asked. “Emotionally.”
I blinked.
“Are you…inviting me to have a breakdown in your bed?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s the weirdest come-on I’ve ever heard,” I muttered.
“Is that a no?” he asked.
I swallowed.
The image that popped into my head—crying into his chest, then kissing him, then—
Heat flared low in my belly.
“We should…” I said. “Talk about…us. Before I get even more entangled in your generational trauma.”
He stiffened.
“Do you not want—” he began.
“No,” I said quickly. “I do. That’s…kind of the problem.”
He frowned. “Explain.”
I set the mug down carefully, tracing the chipped rim with a fingertip.
“I’m in,” I said. “Okay? I’m…here. With you. With the pack. With…this.” I gestured between us. “I’m not…one foot out the door anymore. That ship sailed when I watched you shift under my tower and didn’t immediately call for an evac.”
His breath caught.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not…scared,” I went on. “Of…you. Of me. Of what this—of *we*—does to my judgment. To my job. To…” I waved vaguely at the universe. “Everything.”
He nodded slowly.
“I feel like if we cross this line,” I said, “if we…sleep together, it’s…over.”
His brows shot up. “Over?”
“Not like…done,” I said quickly. “Like…no going back. No more telling myself this is just…trauma bonding or fieldwork proximity or a very elaborate case study in cross-species attachment. It’ll be *real.*”
“It’s real now,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “But I can still pretend it’s…contained. In that box labeled ‘slow burn tension that will resolve itself after the climax of the external plot.’” I winced. “That sounded less dirty in my head.”
He stared.
Then, to my utter shock, he laughed.
Really laughed.
The sound rolled out of him, warm and rough, loosening something in my chest.
“You’re adorable,” he said.
“I am not adorable,” I said. “I am a hardened field biologist with—”
“Notebook,” he said.
“And a hot alpha werewolf crush,” I muttered.
His laughter faded.
His gaze softened.
“It’s not a crush,” he said.
My heart thumped.
“What is it then?” I asked, voice small.
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
“The thing I think about when I wake up,” he said. “The scent I look for when I come back from patrol. The voice I listen for above the pack. The line I draw in the snow and say ‘no one crosses this while she’s here.’”
My lungs forgot how to function.
“Kieran,” I whispered.
He stopped an arm’s length away.
“I don’t know what word your people use,” he said. “Love. Attachment. Obsession. Bad idea. In my world, we call it…bond. Not *mate*—that’s…more. Deeper. Older. But this? This is…thread. Wrapped around my ribs. Around my teeth. Around my bed.”
There was a thickness in his tone that made my knees weak.
“I feel it,” he said. “When you’re near. When you’re not. When Cassian’s eyes land on you. When Kurt says your name. It’s…primitive. And…not.”
“Yes,” I croaked.
He swallowed.
“I’m not asking you to…name it,” he said. “Not yet. I just…need you to know that when I touch you, when I kiss you, when I…want you, it’s not casual. It’s not…experimental. It’s not…stress relief.”
“And you think that’s helping?” I asked, half-hysterical.
He blinked. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” I said. “I mean—yes. Emotionally. It’s…incredibly validating. Also terrifying. Because now if we *don’t* cross that line—if we try to hold this here, in this…pre-sex limbo—every time I look at you I’m going to think about what we *aren’t* doing and—”
He cut me off by stepping in.
Closing the last of the distance.
Taking my face in his hands.
Very gently.
His thumbs avoided my cheek.
“You think too much,” he murmured.
“You love that about me,” I said breathlessly.
“Yes,” he said. “Infuriatingly.”
He leaned in.
Brushed his lips over mine.
Soft.
Testing.
Heat flared.
I made a small sound I did not authorize.
He deepened the kiss.
Not much.
Just enough to let his tongue flick against mine.
Lightning shot down my spine.
I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.
Pulled him closer.
He went, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
His hands slid down, one cupping the back of my neck, the other spanning my lower back, holding me flush against him.
There was no mistaking how hard he was.
Or how my body responded.
My brain fizzed.
Thoughts sparking and shorting out.
*This is bad, this is good, this is what you wanted, this is going to ruin you, do it, do it, don’t stop—*
He didn’t stop.
Not until my knees actually buckled.
He caught me easily, shifting our balance, walking me backward until the backs of my legs hit the edge of the pallet.
We toppled onto it together, a tangle of limbs and panting.
His weight was a shock.
Heavy.
Solid.
Right.
He braced most of it on his arms, careful not to crush me, hips hovering between my legs.
I arched up against him without thinking.
His breath hitched.
“Sage,” he rasped. “If we keep going, I’m not…pulling back.”
“Yes, you are,” I gasped. “That’s the whole point. We’re pulling back. We’re…edge-walking.”
He stared at me like I’d just spoken actual nonsense.
“Edge-walking,” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said. “We…push up to the line and then we—oh fuck, do that again.”
One of his hands had slid under the hem of my shirt, fingers splayed over my hip.
His thumb brushed the strip of skin just above my waistband.
I jolted.
Heat flooded between my legs.
He swallowed hard.
“Later,” he said, voice rough. “You said later.”
“I changed my mind,” I blurted. “I’m allowed to do that.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, they were…wolf-bright.
“If we do this now,” he said, “it’ll be because we’re both high on fear and story and the ghost of my brother. I don’t want that in our bed.”
Our bed.
The phrase did something unhinged to my heart.
He continued.
“I want you,” he said. “Because you want *me.* All of me. Not just the part that makes you forget how much the world is on fire.”
I swallowed hard.
“I do,” I whispered. “Want you. All of you. But you’re right. I’m…spun out right now. My therapist would have a field day.”
“You have a therapist?” he asked, startled.
“I *had* a therapist,” I said. “She told me to ‘seek connection outside my work.’ I don’t think this is what she meant.”
He huffed a laugh, breath ghosting over my lips.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay. We…slow down. We…don’t fuck on the trauma night.”
“‘Trauma night,’” he repeated, amused and pained.
“I’m going to coin that as a diagnostic,” I muttered. “Ten out of ten, do not recommend.”
He pressed his forehead to mine.
“Later,” he said again. “When you’re not bleeding from my enemy’s claws. When we haven’t just signed a deal with your town. When…we choose it. Quietly.”
My chest ached.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I whispered.
“You better,” he said.
He rolled off me then, landing on his back beside me, breath coming fast.
The loss of weight made me instantaneously cold.
I flopped onto my side, facing him, tugging the blanket up over both of us.
He turned his head.
Our faces were inches apart.
I reached over.
Laced my fingers with his.
“Sleep,” he said quietly.
“Not sure I can,” I admitted.
“Then we lie here until you do,” he said.
I smiled, small and shaky.
“Okay,” I said.
We lay there in the half-dark, hand in hand, hearts pounding, not moving.
Slowly, the jitters ebbed.
My eyelids grew heavy.
Just before sleep dragged me under, I heard him murmur, so quietly I wasn’t sure it was real:
“My father made a sacrifice to keep us alive,” he said. “I won’t make that mistake. I’d rather die with you than live without you on some altar.”
My throat closed.
I wanted to say *me too.*
My tongue was heavy.
Darkness took me.
In my dreams, there were no bone trees.
Just stars.
And the feel of his hand around mine, tethering me to a future I wasn’t sure I deserved but wanted anyway.
***