A smile dances on his lips, and he lets me take his arm again.
Inside, I steer him to the couch and make him sit. Then, I go into the kitchen to make tea I’m not sure either of us wants because I need something to do with my hands.
I hear him changing positions on the cushions, getting comfortable, and the ordinariness of the sound hits me in a strange way.
I stand at the counter with the kettle in my hand and look at him. He’s here. In my apartment.
The lamp is on, and the light catches the line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he’s resting with his head tilted back and his eyes half-closed.
He is alive.
The full weight of the past two days lands on me all at once, and I have to close my eyes and lean against the counter.
Tears come without warning. I try to blink them back, but they spill down my cheeks anyway. I stand here holding the kettle and completely fail to stop them.
In the next room, Kain’s head pops up. I feel it through the bond: his awareness of me sharpens the second my first tear falls, his concern arriving in my consciousness before he has even turned to look at me.
The bond is a two-way window, and it is open. Neither of us can hide a thing from the other.
“Baby”—his voice is low, tender—“what’s wrong?”
I hear him start to get up, but he can’t hide the slight catch in his breath from the effort. I set the kettle down and hurry to meet him before he can start crossing the room toward me.
“Come here,” he says, lowering himself back onto the couch and opening his arms.
I go to him willingly and sit on his lap, my face against his throat. His arms encircle me, one hand coming up to the back of my head and holding me there.
“Tell me,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I was so scared,” I say. My voice comes out small and wrecked in a way I didn’t plan and don’t try to correct. “I really thought I’d never see you again.”
His embrace tightens around me. “I’m here,” he says, his voice quiet and certain. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You better not.” I pull back just enough to look at him, and I punch him lightly in the chest. “You don’t get to leave again. Do you understand me? Not ever.”
“I understand.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” His hand comes around to my face and brushes the tears from my cheek. His eyes are focused on mine. “I’m here for good, Anne. I promise you.”
I feel it through the bond as he says it—not just the words, but the full weight of his intent behind them, the absolute sincerity of them carrying through the connection between us in a way that no amount of spoken assurance could match. He means it. All the way down.
I exhale. “And no more lies.”
“No more lies.” Immediate. No wavering at all. “Never again.”
I search his face. The bond echoes back what I find there: he is open and certain and completely unguarded. I nod.
We sit quietly for a moment, his hand still cradling my face, my hands holding on to his shirt. The apartment is warm and tranquil around us, the city a low, distant murmur outside the windows.
“There is one thing I want,” Kain says.
“What?”
“A bonding ceremony.” His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone. “Something formal. In front of the pack. I want everyone to know you’re mine and I’m yours.”
Warmth floods me, a happiness that I once thought was never going to be mine. “Yes,” I tell him. “I want that, too.”
