"Why would we trust a human with our fortunes?" Lena's voice rippled like linen. She was an elder with a soft tongue and a hard memory. "We protect each other. We're a pack, Ethan.Introducing a human who might not hold means additional risk."
"She's not asking to be family," I said. My wolf leaned forward at that. He wanted to claim. I wanted to tell myself I could live with wanting.
Nora's cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment so much as a focused, blunt steadiness. "I'm not asking to be claimed," she said. "I'm asking to be paid. I'm asking for a roof while we sort this out. If the county decides otherwise, I'll leave. I won't bring you anything you don't already have."
Plain and unpleading. That steadiness made something in me loosen. I wanted to protect her because she was vulnerable. I wanted to protect her because the idea of her being taken frightened me more than the pack's displeasure did.
The council voted. They asked for updates, copies of ID and the child's paperwork, a plan to handle any interference from the sheriff or the town, and assurances our secrecy would remain intact.
When it broke up, the den's chatter was low. Some came to me with practical questions; others stared at Nora like they were reading a future they didn't want to imagine. Rowan stayed while the rest drifted away.
"You break this," he said quietly, "and we'll have nothing but a target."
"I know." Honesty, at least. He'd been a blunt instrument for years; he deserved that. "If she brings trouble, I'll deal with it. I'll own it."
Outside, rain picked up. The trees shrugged it off. Later, on the farmhouse porch, Nora and I made tea. The kettle sang like a small bell. Inside, the fire kept the chill at bay.
We sat with steaming cups between our hands. Our breaths fogged the space. For the first time since she'd crossed mythreshold with Jamie's battered duffel, we were alone in a room without the pack listening.
"Tell me about the social worker," I said, keeping my voice low. I didn't say I was asking because county files meant someone's hand could pry Jamie away. I didn't say I was asking because I still carried a memory of a woman dying in a field and a rule I'd built to keep everything I loved at arm's length.
Nora looked at her hands—knuckles white from gripping the cup. "It's preliminary," she said. "A neighbor saw me in town. When my references are called it will probably go smoothly. But the county takes its time. And they love paperwork more than kids. Lydia, Jamie's mother, had no family who wanted the case. I took Jamie because I couldn't let him be shuffled from foster to foster. He needed a steady face. I didn't expect to end up at the Cole place."
She didn't say my name. She didn't need to. It hung between us like a bright thing.
I almost told her about the woman I'd lost, about firefights that shredded a pack and left a ledger of names and ghosts. About the rule: never let anything that mattered get close enough to be taken. I kept my mouth shut instead. The wolf wanted to say more—claiming would draw eyes. That had been the last hard lesson.
"I lost someone," I said. "This pack did, too." My voice scraped. "We—" I swallowed. My wolf wanted to say the rest: that bringing anyone in meant drawing attention I couldn't afford.
Nora didn't flinch. She wrapped her hands around the cup like a lifeline. "I know what loss looks like," she said. "It's why I'm careful. It's why I left."
"Left what?" I asked.
"Chaos. A house that wasn't a home. Men who made promises and forgot them like bills. I keep Jamie safe by keepingmy head down." She looked at me then. Hard. "I don't have room for someone deciding for me."
Her words were both shield and map. She wanted control. She needed safety. Those demands sat like opposing tides.
I set my cup down, the ring of heat left on the table. "You don't have to choose between safety and agency," I said. It came out more pleading than I'd meant. My wolf hummed at my throat, raw with wanting.
She studied me. The room held its breath. "Do you mean that?" she asked. "Because I can take a job where no one owns me. I will not be someone's possession."
I should have kept distance, kept to promises and paperwork. But being the man people looked to when storms came meant sometimes offering more than logistics. You offered a shape of protection someone could hold.
I reached across the table. My hand was big and callused; it covered hers. Her palm was warm, steady. The scent of her—hone and smoke, home and danger—rolled through me and pulled something loose.
"I'll keep you and Jamie here," I said. Simple. True. I didn't say buy, take, or claim. I said keep. "Mine to protect while we sort this out. No one touches you. No one takes him. Not on my watch."
She flinched at the possessive, the way a bell rings when struck. Her jaw tightened. She didn't pull away. That small staying said something louder than any agreement.
"It's not about ownership," I added quickly. "It's about shelter. My pack will respect your space. You will have choices. You will be paid. We will do this clean. But if anyone tries to bully you—" I left the sentence dangling like a closed door.
Nora closed her eyes for a long beat. "I don't want to owe people favors," she said. "I don't want to be in anyone's debt."
"You won't be," I promised. "You won't owe me anything you didn't agree to."
She opened her eyes. Fear there. A hunger I couldn't name. "I'll think about it," she said.
Fair. She needed to weigh the dangers of staying against the security I offered, with its own risks. I would give her space. I would not force the wolf into a corner.
