The house, so full of violence and light a half-hour ago, was still, like the eye of a hurricane.
I sat there, holding my mate and my son, and let hope bloom again, if only for the night.
Chapter 22
Krystal
Bryce stayed asleep allthe way home, limp as a sack of wet laundry in Zaden’s arms. The wind had picked up by the time we got to the cottage, and somewhere out in the dark the wolves were running their moon circuits, maybe half the pack, howling and having a great time. I unlocked the front door and Zaden carried our son straight down the hall, his steps barely creaking even though the floorboards had been warped since before I bought the place.
Inside, the cottage was exactly as I’d left it. The kitchen counter was still cluttered with Bryce’s half-finished science project, a shoebox volcano, the living room sofa tangled with clean but unfolded laundry, and the air carrying that faint signature of furniture polish. The only light came from a dog-shaped lamp in the corner, and the string of dragonfly bulbs Bryce had begged me to leave up all year. Every surface of the house was peppered with evidence that a child lived here. Muddy sneakers by the back door, loose LEGO shrapnel on the rug, drawings tacked up on every flat spot that could hold a pushpin. Most of the drawings were wolves, but a recent crop included red-and-gold dragons, their wings eating up whole pages.
I took Bryce’s backpack off Zaden’s shoulder and watched as he carried him into the bedroom, careful to duck his head on the doorframe. I followed, hitting the hallway light so it wouldn’t wake him.
Zaden paused at the bed, the sheets half-pulled, a blanket cocoon on one side, and four stuffed animals in various states of wear. He set Bryce down as if lowering a fragile bomb onto a pillow. The boy rolled onto his back, snorted, and blinked up at me.
I crouched beside him and tried to run my hand through his hair, but it was too knotted. "Hey, bud," I whispered. "You made it."
He mumbled, "Is the witch gone?"
"Yep," I said. "We’re home. You’re safe."
He nodded and closed his eyes, but one hand shot out and caught my wrist before I could pull away. "Don’t let her come back," he said, slurring the words.
Zaden stepped in, crouched on the other side, and tapped Bryce’s knuckles. "We’re on it, little man. She won’t get past me, I promise."
Bryce managed a smile, then curled both arms around his favorite wolf plush and sank again. He looked so small in the bed. The magic had drained him dry.
I pulled the sheet up to his chin and brushed my thumb along his brow, checking for fever. His skin was warm but not burning, just the flush of a kid who’d done too much living for one night.
"Love you, B," I said.
He answered with a snore.
Zaden stood and waited by the door, watching the whole scene like he was memorizing it. The way he held himself, shoulders wide, chest braced, made the room feel smaller, but not in a bad way. I could feel the mate bond, finally unblocked, vibrating under my skin, a new but familiar hum. It was like living with a toothache for years and then having it vanish overnight, leaving only the ghost of the pain.
I waited for him in the hallway, letting the nightlight fill the gap behind me. Zaden shut the door with a click. For a minute, neither of us moved.
Then he reached for me, his hand finding the small of my back with practiced ease. He pulled me in to rest his forehead on mine.
"He’s tougher than I would've thought," Zaden whispered.
I closed my eyes and leaned on him. "He gets it from his dad."
He snorted, then kissed the tip of my nose. "Definitely from his mom."
We drifted back down the hall to the living room, both of us moving slowly, as if anything faster might wake Bryce and start the night over from zero. Zaden collapsed onto the sofa first, his body folding into the cushions in a way that made him look both huge and exhausted. I sat next to him, thigh-to-thigh, enjoying the heat radiating off his skin.
The silence was thick, but not uncomfortable.
"You okay?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No. But I think we will be."
He watched me. "You want to talk about it?"
I did, but I didn’t. I twisted the end of my braid and studied my hands.
"It’s my fault," I said. "The block, I mean. The one that almost killed him. If my mom hadn’t?—"
