“Merric—”
“I know it’s a lot. I know the timing is—”
“It’s not the timing.” She pushes up on her elbow. Looks down at me. “Your pack is traditional. Half of them grew up being told magic-blooded wolves are a threat. You want to walk in with a Ravenclaw witch on your arm and a son nobody knew about. Then announce that everything they believed was wrong?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s overdue.”
She searches my face. I feel her fear—not of the wolves, not of the politics. Of being rejected again. Of walking into Frostbourne and being told she’s not welcome in the life of the man she loves.
“This time is different,” I say. “I’m different. I’m not asking permission. I’m not negotiating. I’m telling them.”
“And if they don’t accept it?”
“Then they don’t. And I’ll deal with that. But I won’t hide you, Brenna. Not from my pack, not from the council, not from anyone. I did that once, and I lost everything. I’m done putting you last.”
She lies back down. Her hand finds mine on the mattress. Our fingers lace together.
“Cameron must come,” she says. “They need to see him. See what he is. Not a threat, not an anomaly. A boy.”
“Agreed.”
“And I need to talk to Willow. The ranch needs to be covered while we’re gone.”
“Sienna can help with that. And Dane. He’s not going to leave until that barn is finished anyway. I think a nuclear strike couldn’t move him from that project.”
She almost smiles. “The man does love his carpentry.”
We lie there for another minute. The morning is getting late. Through the floor, I can hear movement. Greta in the kitchen, wolves starting the day’s work. The ranch doesn’t stop for romance. It doesn’t stop for anything.
“Okay,” Brenna says. “We face Frostbourne.”
“We face Frostbourne.”
She squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. And we stay in the bed for five more minutes because five more minutes is what we can steal, and stealing time with her is something I plan to do for the rest of my life.
Then we get up, get dressed, and go downstairs to face whatever comes next.
Chapter 23
Brenna
We make it halfway down the stairs before Greta’s voice carries from the kitchen.
“I trust everyone slept well.” The tone is innocent. The delivery is not.
Merric’s hand tightens on mine for a fraction of a second, and I consider, briefly, whether it’s possible to kill an eighty-year-old woman with a look.
We round the corner into the kitchen. Greta is at the stove, back to us, flipping pancakes with the unhurried rhythm of a woman who’s been making breakfast for sixty years and intends to make it for sixty more. Willow is at the table with a coffee cup, and her reaction when she sees us—together, Merric’s hand still in mine, both of us wearing the dishevelment of people who showered together and are pretending they didn’t—is a picture of controlled amusement.
“Morning,” Willow says. Neutral. Almost.
“Morning,” I say. I let go of Merric’s hand to pour coffee. Casual. Unbothered. The performance of a woman who did not spend the night having the best sex of her life and is absolutely not walking differently because of it.
Greta turns from the stove. Looks at me. Looks at Merric. Her eyes sweep from our faces to our hands to our necks, where the mate marks have surfaced overnight; mirrored crescents, silver-white against our skin, visible above our collars. The mark of a sealed bond. Unmistakable.
