Three days in the hospital felt like three years. The room had become a prison of beige walls and fluorescent lighting, the constant beep of the heart monitor a metronome counting down the seconds until I could escape. The sheets were scratchy against my skin, that particular blend of industrial cotton and bleach that seemed universal to every medical facility. The air tasted stale, recycled, tinged with antiseptic and the faint metallic undertone of medication.
The doctors had wanted to keep me longer, something about monitoring my heart rhythm and making sure the poison was fully out of my system, but by the third morning, I was ready to climb the walls. Every time a nurse came in to check my vitals, I had to resist the urge to beg them to let me go. The sterile white rooms, the parade of strangers poking and prodding, the way the hours stretched into eternities... it was all too much. Too confining. Too far from where I needed to be.
Too far from them.
The pack had barely left my side. They'd worked out some kind of rotation system, making sure at least one of them wasalways in my room, usually two. The uncomfortable visitor's chair had become Levi's second home, he'd dragged it right up to my bedside and refused to move, his warm hand always finding mine, his bright eyes watching me like I might disappear if he looked away. His usual sunshine scent had taken on an edge of worry, something sharp and anxious underneath the familiar warmth.
Oliver had practically had to drag him home to shower on the second day. I'd heard them arguing in the hallway, Levi's voice rising in protest, Oliver's calm but firm. When Levi came back two hours later, his golden hair was damp and he smelled like pine soap, but the dark circles under his eyes told me he hadn't slept.
Garrett had stationed himself by the door like a sentinel, his massive frame blocking the entrance, his dark eyes tracking every person who entered. He'd barely spoken, but his presence was a comfort—solid and unwavering, a wall between me and the world. His jaw was perpetually clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the scruff of his beard, and every time a nurse startled at the sight of him, I had to hide my smile.
Micah had interrogated every medical professional who came near me with the intensity of a prosecutor cross-examining a witness. He'd demanded explanations for every medication, every test, every procedure, his sharp mind cataloging information and asking follow-up questions that made the doctors pause and reconsider their answers. He'd taken notes in a small leather journal, his handwriting precise and neat, and I knew he was building a complete picture of my treatment so nothing would be overlooked.
And Oliver... Oliver had held my hand through the worst of it. When the antidote they'd given me had caused its own set of nasty side effects, nausea, tremors, a headache that felt like my skull was splitting—he'd been there. When I'd wokenup screaming from nightmares about hands around my throat, gasping for air that wouldn't come, he'd gathered me against his chest and murmured soft words until my heart stopped racing. His scent—cedar and bergamot, warm and grounding, had become my anchor, the thing I reached for when the memories threatened to pull me under.
They'd taken care of me. All of them. Just like they'd promised.
But now I was going home.
"Not to your cabin," Oliver said firmly as he helped me into the back seat of his car. His hand was warm on my elbow, steadying me as I lowered myself onto the leather seat. The interior smelled like him—that familiar cedar scent mixed with something richer, the leather conditioner he used. "Not yet. You're staying with us until you're fully recovered."
I didn't argue. The thought of going back to that cabin, of walking into that kitchen where Trinity had attacked me, where I'd almost died on the cold tile floor... it made my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat. I could still feel the phantom pressure of her hands around my neck, still see the wild gleam in her eyes. Eventually, I'd have to face it. But not today.
The autumn sun was bright through the windshield, making me squint after three days of hospital lighting. The world outside seemed almost aggressively colorful, the trees starting to get reds and orange coloring, the sky a sharp, clear blue that hurt to look at. I'd forgotten how beautiful it was out here, how alive everything felt.
"The sheriff called this morning," Micah said from the front seat. He was turned slightly, his dark eyes assessing me with that clinical precision I'd come to find oddly comforting. His black hair was neatly combed, his shirt pressed, but there was a tightness around his eyes that betrayed his exhaustion. "Trinity's been formally charged. Assault, poisoning, breakingand entering, attempted murder. The prosecutor is confident she won't make bail."
"Good." The word came out flat, emotionless. I should feel something—relief, vindication, closure—but mostly I just felt tired. Bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond physical, settling into my very soul.
"She's also been ordered to undergo a psychiatric evaluation," Micah continued, his voice carefully neutral. "Her behavior during the arrest was... erratic. The sheriff said she kept insisting she was the victim, that you had stolen her pack, that she was just trying to take back what was hers."
"She's delusional," Garrett growled from my other side. His hand found mine, engulfing it completely, his calloused palm rough against my skin. The heat of him seeped into me, chasing away some of the chill that had settled in my bones. "Completely fucking delusional."
"Yes," Micah agreed quietly. "She is." The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence. I leaned my head against Garrett's shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath his flannel shirt, breathing in his scent. Outside the window, the familiar landscape rolled by—winding country roads lined with ancient oaks, their leaves catching the sunlight like stained glass. Stone walls marking property lines, weathered by decades of New England winters. The occasional farmhouse, smoke curling from chimneys, pumpkins dotting front porches.
The autumn colors had deepened while I was in the hospital—reds and oranges and golds painting the hillsides like fire, nature's last brilliant display before winter's gray set in. A hawk circled lazily overhead, riding the thermal currents, and I watched it until it disappeared beyond the treeline.
When we pulled up to the pack house, Levi was waiting on the porch. The house looked different in the afternoon light than I remembered—warmer, somehow, more inviting.
Levi was practically vibrating with impatience, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo. He was wearing his favorite henley—the soft gray one that made his eyes look almost silver—and jeans that hugged his lean frame. He had the door open before Oliver even turned off the engine.
"Finally!" He reached for me, then hesitated, his hands hovering in the air like he was afraid I might break. Up close, I could see the strain around his eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers. His scent wrapped around me, but underneath it was that same anxious edge I'd noticed in the hospital. "Can I... is it okay if I..."
"Levi." I held out my arms, my chest aching at the vulnerability in his expression. "Come here."
He folded me into a hug so gentle it made tears prick at my eyes. His arms wrapped around me carefully, mindful of my bruises, his face buried in my hair. He was warm, so warm, his heart beating rabbit-fast against my chest. I breathed him in his scent now mixed with relief, the anxiety finally starting to fade.
"I'm okay," I murmured against his chest, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt against my cheek. "I promise."
"You almost died." His voice cracked, and I felt the words vibrate through him. "You almost died, and I wasn't there, and if we'd been even a few minutes later?—"
"But you weren't." I pulled back to look at him, cupping his face in my hands. His skin was smooth beneath my palms, faintly warm from the sun, and his eyes—God, his eyes were so bright, swimming with unshed tears. "You came. You found me. That's what matters."
He kissed me, soft and desperate and full of relief—and I melted into it. His lips were gentle against mine, tasting faintly of the coffee he must have been drinking while he waited. His hands came up to cradle my face, thumbs stroking mycheekbones, and for a moment, everything else faded away. There was just Levi, warm and alive and here, kissing me like I was precious, like I was everything.
"Alright, alright." Oliver's voice was warm with amusement, breaking the spell. "Let's get her inside before you two become a permanent fixture on the porch." The pack house felt different than I remembered. Warmer, somehow. More like home.
The front door opened into a spacious living room, and I stopped short, my breath catching. They'd prepared for my arrival, really prepared. Fresh flowers sat on the coffee table, a riot of autumn colors in a ceramic vase I didn't recognize: rust-colored chrysanthemums, golden sunflowers, sprigs of orange bittersweet. My favorite blanket, the soft green one I'd left here weeks ago—was draped over the couch, and throw pillows in warm earth tones had been arranged invitingly against the cushions.
