The last thing I remember is walking home with Amara. And Rennick finding me—the look in his eyes when he reached me. Fear first. Then guilt. And me, standing there with my heart cracking open and that terrible buzz building behind my ribs until it became everything.
The full memory slams into me so suddenly it knocks the air from my lungs. What I’d done, what I’d let myself become. The way my power rose up like a lightning storm I couldn’t contain. Anger lit the match and hurt kept feeding the flame. But what I made Rennick see—what I forced him to live through—that wasn’t what I wanted. I’d never wish that for him.
I couldn’t stop it. I was nothing but a passenger in my own body, watching as I reached for the dark thread that unraveled from him. The magic that poured through me wasn’t mine. It was hers—my mother’s power, meant to protect me in moments of need. It surged like a flood, draining what little strength I had left to feed it.I must have fallen where I stood, into the same mud that Rennick had already collapsed into, both of us consumed by a power too great for us to hold.
And now, waking in this bed, I know it took everything I had left to give.
The sun spilling across the windows tells me it’s mid-morning. I’ve slept longer than I should have. Longer than a healthy body should need to.
I shift carefully, body protesting after too long lying still. The sheets move with me, but something about them feels wrong. Too heavy, too solid. I glance down, and the sight stops me cold.
I’m buried in fabric. Blankets. Clothes.
Not mine.His.
I am tucked into a cocoon made of him. Flannel and cotton, soft knits and worn denim, every layer draped and tucked as if someone stood here and built me a nest out of his wardrobe.I blink, heart stuttering, unsure whether to laugh or cry. But then his scent fights through my weakened senses and I inhale deep. Leather. Vetiver. Mint. The very particular, impossible-to-fake comfort of my scent match.
I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing away the fog that clings to my mind, and push myself upright. My muscles tense like I’m bracing for a blow, but it isn’t as bad as I expected.Usually, waking without him leaves me hollow, every nerve pulled taut from the strain of the bond’s decay. But today, the expected ache is dull, as if someone has taken the edge off.
It doesn’t make sense.
My eyes drift over the pile of clothes again. I reach for one that looks softer than the rest. It’s a dark Henley I recognize, one that’s seen better days. There’s a little tear in the cuff, probably from where he’s always pushing the sleeves up his forearms. For a long moment, I just hold the shirt, my fingers tracing a frayed seam.
I shouldn’t. After everything that’s happened, after what he’s done, I should push down the impulse biting at my ankles. But the pull is too strong to fight. I lift the fabric to my noseand breathe in. Heat pricks behind my eyes, and I close them, bracing for the blade of heartbreak that should follow. I expect the fury, the tearing open of yesterday’s wound, the ache that can drop me to my knees. It doesn’t come. Not to the degree it usually does. What lingers is softer. A dull, steady ache.Manageable.
I can tell myself the ease in my muscles comes from rest, even if it feels like a lie, but that doesn’t explain why the sting of his lie feels muted now, the jagged corners worn smooth. And while his scent has always had a steadying effect on me, I find it hard to believe that sleeping wrapped in his laundry could easily wash away the storm that swallowed me whole yesterday.
Yearning wins out for a second time when I inhale again, deep and desperate, breathing him in the way an addict chases one last hit after they vow they’re quitting.
My wolf makes a small sound inside her glass cell, something that gives voice to her relief. I’m still lost in it, still trying to make sense of the way my chest expands a little easier than it should, when the door opens.
I yank the shirt away from my face.
Seren steps in with a mug that steams in her hand. She looks put together enough to fool anyone who does not know her. Fresh clothes. Hair pulled into two little knots at the nape of her neck that are already starting to unravel. It’s her eyes that give her away. The glacial color is dull and rimmed in red, like she cried until she wrung herself dry and then put her face back on.
“Good, you’re awake.” Her chipper enthusiasm sounds like something she’s fighting to offer as she moves to stand at my side. “You look better than you did when Rennick brought you home. How are you feeling, though? How’s your pain?”
The words“Rennick brought you home”lodge themselves somewhere behind my ribs, but I ignore the pang and continue to examine her now that she’s closer and I can better see throughthe cracks in the poor attempt of a mask she’s wearing. Her jaw is tense. Her eyes won’t settle long on mine, like she’s afraid if I look too close, I’ll see whatever it is she’s trying to hide from me.
This is wrong.
Seren doesn’t bother pretending. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about her. She’s honest and blunt to a fault, wears every emotion like an open wound for the world to see. Outside the quiet grief of her broken bond,she’s never bothered to hide what she feels. Why would she? When it’s her curse as an empath to feel everyone else’s emotions, whether she wants to or not, concealing her own has always seemed both impossible and hypocritical.
So why is she working so hard to hide them now?
My lips part to answer her, but all that comes out is an ugly, raspy noise. My throat feels like sandpaper, dry from too much sleep and not enough water.
Without saying anything, she offers me the mug full of herbal lemon tea. The liquid is hot enough to singe my tongue, but the burn soothes the ache in my throat as it goes down. I take another small sip before setting the mug in my lap, my fingers still curled around the warmth.
“I feel better than I expected to feel,” I admit, my voice still a burnt-sounding rasp.
“Perfect,” she offers, the brightness in her tone too deliberate to sound natural. She reaches down and flips the blankets and clothes off my lap in one sweep.“How’re we feeling about a shower?No offense, babe, but you’re looking a little feral around the edges. We did our best with the washcloth routine, but you could use a proper dunk.”
We. I don’t need clarification on who the other half of that duo was. Rennick. The name should land like a bruise, should trigger the usual guilt that always comes when I admit to myself how much I crave his tender care. But it doesn’t come,not like it should, anyway. The automatic reflex that keeps me from accepting it blindly is still there, just quiet, as if someone dimmed the light on it until it barely flickers.
I slide my fingers into Seren’s and let her haul me out from the nest of fabrics. “Thank you for helping me.”
“There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you, Noa Alderwood,” she fires back, taking the steaming mug and hovering close while I stand and stretch out sleep-stiff muscles.
