“Territory lines,” I lied. “The northern boundary needs reinforcing before the next full moon.”
Michael's mouth curved, but it wasn't quite a smile. More like disappointment wrapped in understanding. “You're full of shit, Daniel.”
“Yeah,” I said, letting my arms drop. “I am.”
He pushed off the doorframe, set his mug on the hallway table with careful deliberation. Moved toward me like he had all the time in the world, like the storm wasn't raging and my heart wasn't trying to claw its way out of my chest.
When he stopped, close enough that I could count the silver threads in his eyes, he didn't touch me. Just looked at me with those storm-gray eyes that saw too damn much.
His jaw tightened. “You disappeared on me.”
“I didn't disappear. I've been?—”
“Avoiding me.” The words came out flat. “Finding reasons to be somewhere else every time I walk into a room. Scheduling pack business at convenient times. Sending Evan to deliver messages you could have delivered yourself.”
Guilt twisted in my chest. “Michael?—”
“I thought we had something at that tree.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I thought you were finally letting me in. And then you slammed the door so hard I got whiplash.”
“I wasn't trying to?—”
“Then what were you trying to do?” He stepped closer, and there was fire in his eyes now. Real anger, the kind I'd never seen from him directed at me. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got scared and ran. Like everything you said about making room, about trying, was just words.”
“It wasn't just words.”
“Then prove it.” His hands came up, grabbed the front of my shirt. “Stop protecting me from yourself. Stop deciding what's best for me without asking what I want. Stop treating me like I'm going to break if you actually let yourself feel something.”
“I'm not?—”
“You are.” He was close enough now that I could feel his breath on my face, could see the hurt underneath the anger. “You're so busy protecting everyone else that you've forgotten how to let anyone protect you. And I'm standing here, Daniel, telling you I want to be that person, and you keep pushing me away.”
“Because I don't trust myself.” The confession scraped out of me before I could stop it. “Because I want you so much it scaresme, and every time I get close I remember all the ways I've failed. Claire. The pack. My own damn son. I have a track record, Michael. Of fucking up the things that matter most.”
“So do I.” His grip on my shirt tightened. “You think I don't know how to fail? I couldn't save Anna. Couldn't protect my son from a world that wanted to eat him alive. I've made mistakes that keep me up at night, choices I'd give anything to take back.”
“That's different?—”
“It's not different. It's human. It's being alive and caring about things and sometimes getting it wrong anyway.” His voice dropped, went rough with something that made my wolf sit up and pay attention. “But you don't get to use your failures as an excuse to not try. Not with me. Not after everything.”
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to rattle the windows.
“I don't know how to do this,” I admitted. “I don't know how to want you without fucking it up. Without letting all my fear poison something that could be good.”
“Then let me help you figure it out.” His hands slid up to my face, forcing me to look at him. “Stop trying to do everything alone. Stop carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders like that's the only way to prove you're strong.”
“Old habits.”
“Then make new ones.” His thumb brushed my cheekbone, and the tenderness in the gesture nearly broke me. “Start with this one: when you're scared, tell me. When you want to run, stay. When you don't know what to do, ask.”
“And if I still fuck it up?”
“Then we'll figure it out together. That's what this is, Daniel. That's what we could have, if you'd stop being so damn stubborn and let yourself have it.”
I was shaking. Realized it when I tried to speak and couldn't, when the words stuck in my throat and all I could do was standthere while Michael held my face and looked at me like I was worth wanting despite everything I'd done wrong.
“I'm sorry,” I managed. “For pulling away. For making you feel like I didn't want this.”
“Do you? Want this?”
