“I’m not a wolf.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re something stronger.”
The breeze shifts. Rosemary brushes my knees. Beau’s laughter drifts from the distance. Jason leans into me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
And the Braille under my fingertips hums with truth.
Pack’s Heart.
Mine.
His.
Ours.
For a moment, the entire world settles around us, soft, sunlit, breathless.
And for the first time I believe him.
My hand drifts over the wood again, slow, steady, each groove familiar, each ridge a reminder of him. Of us. Of the way he builds things with his whole heart even when he swears he doesn’t know how to be gentle.
I press my palm against the rail, grounding myself as the truth swells in my chest.
It’s our anniversary, but we don’t celebrate with fancy clothes and reservations. To us, it’s not a date you circle on a calendar with hearts and reminders.
It’s something quieter.
It’s something deeper.
One year since the day we became a pack, not officially, not magically, but truthfully.
One year since Jason almost died. The memory hits like a storm surge—cold, heavy, unavoidable.
The sound he made when he hit the ground. The bloodlust thick in the air.
The way I barreled into the clearing with no idea what I was going to do but knowing I would do whatever it takes.
My fingers curl against the railing. I can still feel the moment I realized what losing him would do to me.
Jason steps closer, not touching, not crowding, just… there.
He can hear my breathing shift. He can scent the memory on my skin.
He always can.
“Violet,” he murmurs, voice a low, careful rumble.
I swallow hard, my throat aching.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” I whisper. “Not that night.”
His breath catches, a soft, involuntary sound.
He rests his hand over mine on the rail, warm and solid, his thumb brushing once across my knuckles. “I know.”
“And I—” I blow out a breath. “I didn’t realize until then how much of my world you’d taken up. How much of me you held.”
His fingers tighten around mine, fierce, protective, aching.
