I don’t acknowledge her halfhearted plea. I Just drop to my knees.
In any other situation, being in this position would have my wolf howling, the innate dominance that is woven into the fibersof who I am balking. But kneeling before Noa—my mate—isn’t an act of submission. It’s devotion.
Slowly, giving her every chance she needs to pull away, I keep my eyes locked with hers as I undo the button of her jeans. She doesn’t stop me. Not when I unzip them and not when I ease them past her hips.
Noa just watches me the whole time. Silently observing.
For the briefest moment, a sliver of my mind escapes my control and flashes back to this morning. To when I had my head between these creamy thighs and her sweet taste imprinted itself on my tongue. To the way my name caught in her throat on a breathless moan. But this isn’t about that. Not right now. This is about something deeper. It’s about the instinct etched into my bones that demands I see to my omega’s need, that I tend to what’s mine. That I offer her the care I should have been giving her all along.
“Hold on to me,” I instruct, guiding her palm to my shoulder, steadying her as I lift one of her feet at a time from the creaky wood floors and slide the jeans free.
Noa stands before me in nothing but a black cotton thong and a matching bra. My fingers itch to continue, to help her out of the rest of her garments, but I make no move to do so.
I rise back up to my full height before her.
“You can do the rest.” My tone is gentle. “I’ll get the shower going, then go warm up your towel in the dryer for when you’re done.”
I won’t be gone long, I promise myself when the anxiety of leaving her to her own devices in the shower while she still isn’t the most stable on her legs creeps in. The image of her slipping and hitting her head on the tile makes my pulse race. But again, I remind myself that we aren’t there yet.
Hesitating only a second to double-check that she’s not swaying on her feet still, I slip away to the back-and-white-themed bathroom. Inside the glassed-in stall, I turn the shower on, twisting the silver knob to a temperature far too hot for me, but I’ve heard how women are. They’re not satisfied unless the water matches the fires of hell.
Running an anxious hand through my hair, I step back into her bedroom.
“Okay, you’re all set. I’ll be close by if you need me or, like I said, I can hunt down Seren or Rhosyn.”
I shift my weight back and forth on the soles of my feet, delaying my inevitable exit and fighting the instincts rooting me in place. But giving her privacy now is the least I can do, even if I hate walking away. Even momentarily.
Forcing myself to move, I scoop up the pile of dirty clothes I’d tossed toward her door before turning to leave.
It’s her soft, sweet voice and the nickname only she uses that halts my exit.
“Ren?”
I look at her over my shoulder. She hasn’t moved from her place beside her bed, but her arms are now crossed tightly to her chest. She looks vulnerable, and everything in me screams to go back and fix it.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” It’s barely audible, just a note above a whisper.
I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything. It’s just a shower.”
“No,” she says, stronger this time. “Not for the shower. For coming back. For saving me.”
I exhale, as if trying to relieve some of the weight now pressing in on me.
“Noa,” I start, savoring the taste of her name on my tongue. “I was put on this earth to stand between you and anything that would dare harm you. That’s my purpose. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” She doesn’t say anything, but Isee the way her throat works around the emotion trying to rise. “It’ll take time,” I add. “I know that. But I won’t give up.”
With that, I step from the room and close the door quietly behind me.
Chapter 6
Noa
“One of them was a void. That’s how they got past Amara’s wards,” Eldrith, the unofficial leader of the Ashvale Coven’s crones, tells the people sitting around my living room.
Shoulders hunched beneath layers of grief and exhaustion, members of the Craddock Pack and Ashvale Coven fill the vintage mismatched furniture Mom and I spent years piecing together, one flea market or thrift store at a time. The space is packed. They even dragged the kitchen chairs in to make more seating for everyone who showed up while I was upstairs.
After drying off with the warm towel Rennick slipped through the cracked door and pulling on fresh clothes, he led me downstairs. For two flights his hand hovered at the small of my back—close, protective—but never quiet touching. And I was grateful for that small act of mercy. Because every brush of his skin, every quiet act of care, has chipped away at the walls I’ve been forced to put between us.
