Griff rolled me gently onto my side to face him, one broad hand cupping my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone like he was in no hurry at all. He’d been patient his entire life. Patient through Skye, through Ireland, through every city and shore and burning building we’d walked out of together. He was patient now too, but there was a quiet, absolute certainty in his eyes that had nothing to do with waiting anymore.
“Hey,” he said softly. Just that.
“Hey,” I said back.
He kissed me slow and deep, one hand sliding to the curve of my hip, drawing me flush against him. When he finally pulled back his forehead came to rest against mine, both of us just breathing for a moment.
Then he tucked me beneath him, unhurried, his weight settling over me like something that had always been meant to be there. I arched up into him and he let out a low sound against my throat that I felt more than heard.
He was careful with me. Deliberately, stubbornly careful, in the way only Griff could be. He was tender and immovable all at once.
His knot was inevitable, a slow, deep swell that locked us together with a warmth so complete it felt like the last word in a sentence that had been a very long time coming. His arms wrapped around me fully, his face pressed into my hair, and neither of us moved or spoke.
We didn’t need to.
For one night, there was no London. No Accord. No papers or plans or people waiting for me to fix things.
There was only this one bed, this room, and these men who had chosen me and stayed and loved me even when I didn’t quite know what to do with it.
The rest blurred into warmth and hands and mouths and the way they reminded me that I wasn’t just their leader, or their weapon, or their symbol.
I was their mate.
And they were mine.
EPILOGUE
Tamsin
By the time the leaves started to turn, people had mostly stopped staring.
Not entirely. Not in the way I’d have liked. But the looks had morphed. Less outright fear, more calm assessment. More curiosity. The occasional nod.
It was an improvement.
I walked along one of the main thoroughfares with my coat flapping around my knees, the air damp and cool. Steam vented from grates in short, regular bursts. The lamps overhead burned steady amber, but the banners strung between them were new, blue cloth with a chalked small crescent symbol painted on in white, a token of Skye that meant ‘safe hunting.’
It was the banner of the Accord.
My Accord.
One of ours stood at the gate where the street narrowed toward the council quarter, a tall woman with dark hair braided tight and a battered rifle slung over her shoulder. She was a wolf, just like me. She met my eyes as I approached, then straightened and gave a short nod.
“Morning, Tamsin,” she said.
“Morning, Branwen,” I replied. “Anything interesting happen today?”
She snorted. “You mean besides the man who tried to argue I couldn’t search his bag because I ‘looked like I might bite him’?”
“And?”
“I told him that was exactly why he should let me,” she smirked. “He wisely reconsidered.”
I smiled. “Good.”
Past the gate, the crowd thinned a bit. A pair of wolves in human form walked side by side down the street, both wearing discreet Accord pins at the lapel. A year ago, this would have sparked a full panic. Now, people just gave them a wide berth and kept moving.
It was progress.
