When I wake briefly a few hours later, I find an extra blanket tucked carefully around me and Ryder still awake, tending the fire and watching over our small community of animals and humanoids with the kind of patience that makes me ache. Like he was made for steady nights like this, the kind that demand patience more than bravado.
I drift back to sleep almost immediately, exhausted but content, knowing that with him here, we’re all safe.
Chapter Eight
Laney
Hours later, I wake to the soft sound of purring and a quiet hum that feels almost like a lullaby.
The cabin is dim, the oil lamps long since burned out, with only the dying embers of the fire casting orange light.
It takes me a moment to orient myself—the shared mattress beneath me, the storm still howling outside, and the events of the night filtering back through the haze of sleep.
The kittens. Duchess. The long hours of labor that ended with four perfect, tiny lives.
I turn my head toward where we’d set up the kitten nursery, expecting to see the whole family huddled together in their boxnear the hearth. Instead, I see something that makes my breath catch and my heart do a slow flip in my chest.
Ryder is lying on his back on his side of the mattress, head pillowed on his folded arm. The fire’s glow turns his green skin to molten bronze, catching on the inked tattoos that curl up his forearm like ancient runes. Even relaxed, every line of him radiates strength barely held in check.
Duchess is stretched along his side, black fur stark against the blankets, purring so loudly I can hear it from where I’m lying. And on his broad flat belly, like tiny islands on a sea of plaid fabric, all four kittens are curled up in perfect contentment.
But that’s not what steals my breath.
It’s the way his free hand rests protectively over them, one enormous finger moving in the smallest possible circles, stroking their impossibly soft fur. And he’s humming—so quietly I almost miss it over Duchess’s purring—a melody that sounds ancient and soothing, the notes rising and falling like a lullaby sung in a language I don’t recognize but somehow understand. Beneath that melody, a faint, instinctive purr vibrates, as if he’s answering the kittens in their own language.
The sight steals every bit of air from my lungs. This massive male—who could probably bench-press my truck without breaking a sweat—cradles four tiny lives as though they’re the most precious things in the world. That low, unearthly hum vibrates through the air, through the floor, throughme. I can feel it thrumming in my sternum, sliding beneath my skin. My fingersache to trace the source, to feel the warmth and rumble of that sound beneath my palm.
When his gaze flicks toward me, caught in the firelight, it’s all over. The narrow space between us on the mattress snaps tight, magnetic. I don’t think—I move. One heartbeat, two—and then my hand is on his chest, right over the steady thrum of that impossible purr. His breath catches. So does mine. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his free hand moves from behind his head, fingertips grazing the curve of my jaw, a whisper-light touch that feels like a promise.
He leans in, just enough for the warmth of his breath to brush my lips. The kiss starts soft—sweet at first, reverent, barely more than a whisper of contact. His mouth is warmer than I expected, gentle in a way that makes my breath hitch. It’s nothing like I imagined. There’s no rush, no demand. Just the steady, patient exploration of a male who knows how to wait, who understands that some things are worth savoring.
His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone with devastating tenderness. The calluses on his palm are rough against my skin, a reminder of his strength, but his touch is impossibly gentle. That contrast sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
The kiss deepens by slow degrees, his lips parting slightly, and I follow his lead without thinking. He tastes like the peppermint tea we shared earlier and something else—something uniquely him that I know I’ll never be able to forget. The thought should terrify me, but right now, with the warmth of his mouth on mine and his hand cradling my face like I’m something precious, I can’t bring myself to care.
My hand presses more firmly against his chest, and I can feel that rumbling purr intensify beneath my palm, vibrating through his sternum and into my bones. The sensation travels up my arm, settling somewhere deep in my core. A helpless sound escapes me—one that purr earns a deeper, answering purr.
The kiss shifts—no longer tentative but sure, certain. His fingers slide into my hair, gentle but possessive, and suddenly I’m consumed by the need to get closer, to feel more of that vibration against my skin. I shift carefully, mindful of the kittens still sleeping peacefully on his stomach, and press myself closer.
His arm wraps around me, pulling me in until there’s no space left between us except for the tiny lives nestled safely between our bodies. The intimacy of it—kissing him while he cradles these fragile creatures, while Duchess purrs her approval, while the storm rages outside our little bubble of warmth and safety—threatens to undo me completely.
The world narrows to nothing but firelight and the taste of him, the rumble of his purr, the careful strength of his arms, the way he holds me like I’m something worth protecting. When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.
My eyes flutter open to find him watching me with an expression that makes my heart stutter—wonder and heat and something that looks dangerously like tenderness. The air between us crackles, alive and new.
“Laney,” he murmurs, and his voice is rough, wrecked in a way that sends another shiver through me.
Heat blooms low in my chest, winding through me until all I can feel is the echo of his breath against my lips and that low, impossible purr beneath my palm.
For the first time, I see him unguarded—strength wrapped in gentleness, every breath an act of care. It’s beautiful and dangerous, because men like this don’t usually stay.
Still, I can’t move. Not yet. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth between us—it feels too sacred to break.
His gaze holds mine, the same reluctance mirrored there. Slowly, carefully, he draws back—but his fingers linger at my jaw for one more heartbeat before slipping away.
The moment doesn’t break—it fades to a hum, tender and raw, filled with everything we’re not ready to say.
One of the kittens—little, gray Pip—stretches and mews softly, and Ryder’s finger resumes its slow, circular stroking. The sound grounds us, but the tension doesn’t fade—it coils tighter, pulsing beneath the quiet. The humming begins again, soft and hypnotic, a lullaby that pretends nothing happened—even though everything has.
