"There's a tradition among traumatized shifters," he'd said softly, his eyes fixed on the countertop rather than meeting mine. "Something that pre-dates the claiming bite. It's about... trust. The deepest kind."
He'd explained how shifters who had survived violence often couldn't bear the vulnerability of a claiming bite, at least not initially. So they'd developed another ritual—placing a potential mate's hand over their heart.
Hearts were difficult to protect, he'd said. They betrayed our true feelings, our fear, our hope. To allow someone to feel your heartbeat was to let them witness your most unguarded self.
"It's not something you offer lightly," Percy had warned. "But when words fail, sometimes it's the only way to say what matters."
Now, sitting beside Rooster in the garden, I understood what Percy had meant. Words—even written ones—couldn't fully express what I needed to say. The claiming bite was still too fraught with terrible memories, too associated with violence and ownership. But there were other ways to acknowledge what was growing between us.
My hand trembled as I reached for Rooster's much larger one. His fingers were thick and calloused from years of cooking, knife scars marking his skin like a roadmap of his life's work. He remained perfectly still as I lifted his hand, his breath catching when he realized what I intended.
With deliberate slowness, I placed his palm flat against my chest, directly over my heart. The heat of his hand seeped through my thin shirt, warming my skin as he felt the rapid, uneven rhythm beneath. My heartbeat spoke the truth my voice couldn't—that I was terrified, yet choosing this connection despite my fear.
Rooster's eyes widened in recognition. He'd spent enough time with Percy and other traumatized shifters to understand exactly what this gesture meant, how rare it was, how much trust it required.
"Liam," he whispered, my name soft and reverent in the quiet garden.
My heart raced beneath his palm, but I didn't pull away. This was my choice—perhaps the first real choice I'd made since being abandoned at seven years old. Not running to survive, not hiding to avoid pain, but deliberately stepping toward something I wanted, despite the risk.
His fingers spread slightly against my chest, gentle but solid, as if to cradle the fragile trust I was placing in his hands. Neitherof us moved for several heartbeats, the connection between us deepening in the stillness.
I reached for my notepad one more time, needing to make my intentions perfectly clear. The pencil moved with certainty now, no hesitation in my strokes.
"I choose you as my mate, but I need time for the rest."
I handed him the note, watching as he read it in the faint moonlight that had replaced the sunset. His expression softened, eyes crinkling at the corners as a smile spread across his bearded face.
"All the time you need," he promised, his deep voice barely above a whisper. "We have a lifetime, baby boy."
The nickname that had once made me nervous now felt like something precious between us—not diminishing, but acknowledging both my youthfulness and his protective nature. I found myself leaning slightly toward him, bridging the gap I'd maintained since sitting down.
Around us, the garden seemed to respond to our moment of connection. Leaves rustled in the still night air, branches bending subtly inward as if drawing closer to witness. The wildflowers that had closed for the night seemed to turn toward us despite the absence of sunlight. Even the grass beneath the bench felt different—softer, more yielding.
The plants were celebrating, I realized with wonder. They'd sensed my isolation for so long, had been my only companions through years of lonely hiding. Now they were acknowledging this new connection, this tentative bridge being built between myself and another living being.
The final inches between us closed as I shifted on the bench, moving closer to Rooster's solid warmth. Our shoulders touched, the contact sending a tremor through me—not fear, but something deeper, more primal. Recognition, perhaps. Thesense that something long broken was finding its matching piece.
Rooster's arm lifted slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away. When I didn't, he settled it gently around my shoulders, the weight both strange and somehow familiar. I stiffened momentarily before allowing myself to lean into the embrace, my head coming to rest cautiously against his chest.
The steady thump of his heart beat beneath my ear, strong and reassuring. Nothing like the frantic, terrified pounding of my own. His scent surrounded me—kitchen spices, pine, something uniquely him that called to my lynx nature.
For the first time since childhood, I felt truly safe. Not the temporary safety of a good hiding spot or a locked door, but something deeper—the safety of being seen completely, scars and all, and still accepted. Still wanted.
Rooster's hand moved in slow, gentle circles on my upper arm, careful to avoid any motion that might feel like restraint. His touch was light, easy to break if I needed to flee. But for once, I didn't want to run.
The garden enfolded us in its quiet embrace, branches and vines forming a loose canopy that seemed to shield us from the outside world. In this moment, in this space, there were no hunters with tracking devices, no traumatic memories clawing at the edges of my mind. Just Rooster and me, and the beginning of something neither of us had quite believed possible.
My eyes drifted closed as exhaustion from the emotional revelations washed over me. I couldn't remember the last time I'd allowed myself to relax in another person's presence, to lower my guard enough that sleep seemed possible. Yet here, with Rooster's heart beating steadily beneath my ear and his arm providing gentle protection, the impossible seemed within reach.
"Rest," he murmured, the word rumbling through his chest and into mine. "I'll keep watch."
And for the first time in fifteen years, I believed someone else when they promised to keep me safe. I let my breathing slow, my body growing heavier against his as the tension drained away.
The plants whispered their approval through subtle movements in the darkness, their ancient wisdom recognizing what my battered heart was just beginning to understand—that sometimes the bravest act of survival isn't running away, but allowing yourself to stay.
Chapter Twelve
~ Rooster ~
