“I chose countless lives over one love. And I told myself it was noble. That it was sacrifice, not cowardice. That a real alpha puts his people first.” I press my hand over hers. Hold it there. “I told myself that for about six hours. Then I knew it was a lie. Not the threat; the threat was real. But the answer. Because there were other answers. I could have fought. Could have called allies. Could have taken you and run, built something new, let Frostbourne find a different alpha. I had options I didn’t explore because Bern made the one option seem like the only one, and I was a kid and terrified. I took the easy path because it looked like the hard one.”
Brenna’s eyes are bright. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
“The easy path,” she repeats.
“Leaving you was the easiest hard thing I’ve ever done. Because all I had to do was walk away, and the problem disappeared. The war didn’t happen. The alliance dissolved. Frostbourne was safe. And all it cost was you and me and a son I didn’t know existed.” I let out a breath that’s been sitting in my chest for too damn long. “That’s not sacrifice. That’s surrender. And I’ve known the difference for a long time.”
She doesn’t speak for a while. Her hand is warm under mine. Without saying a word, I know what’s there: her grief, her anger, the old wound being reopened and examined in daylight for the first time.
“Bern orchestrated the whole thing,” she says finally.
“I didn’t see it then. I do now. The alliance, the timing, the late-night visit—he manufactured a crisis and handed me a solution that happened to be the one he wanted. Get rid of the magic-blooded mate. Keep the traditional order intact. Turn me into a pawn so he could manipulate one of the most powerful packs in the territory. And I played my part perfectly.”
“We both did. I played the abandoned woman perfectly, too. Ran home, raised our son in isolation, never once tried to reach you because my pride was bigger than my pain.” She closes her eyes. Opens them. “We were children, Merric. We were children, and a powerful man used us.”
“We’re not children now.”
“No. We’re not.”
I roll toward her. She rolls toward me. We meet in the middle of the bed, face to face, her breath warm on my mouth. Her hand moves from my jaw to my chest, palm flat, feeling my heartbeat.
“Don’t ever leave again,” she says. Soft. Without any of her armor. Just the raw request of a woman who’s been abandoned once and knows she won’t survive it twice.
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise you. On the bond, on our son, on every year I wasted. I’m not going anywhere.”
She kisses me. Slow. The morning version of last night. Tender where that was desperate, searching where that was consuming. Her mouth is soft and unhurried. My hand traces the curve of her waist, her hip, the dip of her lower back.
She presses against me, and I’m ready for her. Hard, throbbing. Have been since I woke up. She feels it and makes a low sound against my mouth that goes straight through me.
This time there’s no urgency. No dam breaking. This is the morning after, and the morning after is for learning each other again. For the slow discovery of what’s changed and what hasn’t.
I roll her onto her back. She lets me. Her hair fans across the pillow, and her eyes stay on mine. I lower myself over her with a care that’s the opposite of last night’s wall. I want to feel every inch of this. Want to memorize the way her breath changes when my weight settles between her thighs. The way her hands slide up my arms and grip my shoulders. The way her back arches when I enter her slowly, so slowly, and her lips part on a breath that’s almost a word but not quite.
I hold still inside her. She wraps her legs around me. We stay there, connected, breathing, looking at each other with the raw attention of people who’ve been given a second chance and know what it cost.
“Move,” she whispers. “Please.”
I slide into her. Slow, deep strokes that draw sounds from both of us. Every sensation is doubled, every touch echoing through the connection. I feel what she feels. She feels what I feel. The pleasure builds in both directions, a conversation without words.
Her nails trace lines down my back. Her hips rise to meet mine. The rhythm finds itself—unhurried, inevitable, two bodies speaking a language they once learned and never forgot. I lower my mouth to hers, and she kisses me while we move together. The kiss is its own act of love; slow, thorough, and full of things neither of us has the words for yet.
She comes first. Silent this time; a long, shuddering wave that runs through her body and vibrates into mine. She says my name against my mouth. Not loud. Not desperate. Just my name, spoken like she’s finally ready to accept that there could be something for us.
I follow her over. It builds from the base of my spine and rolls through me with a force that’s gentle and devastating at once, and I bury my face in her neck and breathe her in and let it take me.
We lie tangled together for a long time after. Her head on my chest, my arms around her, both of us watching the morning light move across the water-stained ceiling.
“What happens now?” she asks.
“Now I need to go home. To Frostbourne. I’ve been gone too long. Jonas is holding things together, but there are decisions that need an alpha, and the longer I’m absent, the more room Bern has to maneuver.”
“Oh,” she says, her voice subdued.
“I want you to come with me.” I tilt her chin up with my fingertip. “I want to introduce you as my mate. To my pack. Publicly.”
