“I’m sorry. I thought you heard me coming down the hall.”
“Well, I didn’t.” She sinks back into her chair and drags both hands down her face. When she looks at me again, some of the panic has faded, replaced by a weariness that seems to go bone-deep. “What do you want, Connor?”
“To check on you. See how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.”
The response is automatic, reflexive, and completely unconvincing. I step into the room and lean against the wall near the door, keeping plenty of distance between us.
“You seem jumpy,” I observe.
“You scared me. That’s what happens when someone materializes out of thin air.”
“I didn’t materialize. I walked down a hallway and knocked on your door like a normal person.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue, then seems to think better of it. Her shoulders sag, and for a moment, she looks impossibly tired. “I have PTSD. Loud noises, unexpected visitors, certain triggers… They set off a response I can’t always control. It’s something I manage. Most of the time.”
“PTSD from what?”
The question lands between us like a stone dropped into still water, and her gaze drops to the desk.
“That’s not something I want to discuss.”
“We’re supposed to be mates. Shouldn’t we know things about each other?”
“We’re supposed to be mates because an old woman pulled my name out of a hat. That doesn’t entitle you to my trauma history.”
“I’m not trying to pry—”
“Really? Because it sounds like you are.”
“You’re a therapist,” I point out. “Aren’t you supposed to advocate for talking about this stuff? Processing it instead of bottling it up?”
“Is this some kind of reverse psychology? Because if it is, it’s not going to work.”
“It’s not reverse psychology. It’s a genuine question.”
“Then here’s a genuine answer.” She rises from her chair and starts gathering the scattered papers on her desk. “Just because we’ve been lumped together by some ancient tradition doesn’t mean I owe you access to every painful thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re still a stranger, Connor. A stranger who turns into a wolf, whom I’m supposedly going to be bound to forever in a few weeks. So forgive me if I’m not ready to spill my guts just because you asked nicely.”
The words are pointed and meant to wound, meant to push me away. I recognize the tactic because I’ve used it myself more times than I can count.
“Okay,” I relent.
She pauses mid-shuffle with a crease forming between her brows. “Okay?”
“You’re not ready to talk. I can respect that.” I push off from the wall and take a step toward the door. “But Fern? Whatever you’re carrying, whatever happened that made you run all the way to Silvercreek… You don’t have to carry italone anymore. That’s what a pack is for. That’s what mates are supposed to be.”
She doesn’t respond. Just stands there behind her desk, clutching those papers like a shield, watching me.
I turn and walk out, leaving her alone with her secrets.
But as I step into the fading daylight, my wolf rumbles a single, certain thought.
She’s ours. And we’re not giving up that easily.
Chapter 9 - Fern
I can’t focus on a single word in front of me.
