The beer was warm. She should’ve finished it earlier, but time had a way of unraveling around emotions she didn’t know how to name.
Mira sat on the windowsill of her borrowed room, one boot propped against the stone frame, the other foot dangling into the cool air. The Blackstone house was quiet, too quiet for a pack so large. Even the wolves here moved like soldiers. Everything about this place whispered order. Everything about her whispered danger. She took a long sip, staring out at the dark treetops glowing silver beneath the moonlight. She hadn’t wanted this. Not the Summit, not the bond, and especially not the twisting, unsteady ache in her chest that hadn’t stopped since she first locked eyes with Rhett Calder…or the one that bloomed deeper, slower, when Jace Rowan’s voice brushed against her spine like a memory that hadn’t happened yet. She didn’t trust either of them. She didn’t trust herself either. Why now? Why them? She let the bottle rest against her thigh, fingers drumming against the glass. She’d trained herself for isolation. It was safer. Cleaner. Emotions were liabilities in her world; tools for others to use against you. She’d been a ghost in her skin since she was twelve, surviving rogue territory, bouncing between enforcer contracts and Alpha-sponsored kill lists, keeping her head low and her knives sharp. Desire was manageable. Trust? Love? Those were fatal, but here she was, in an Alpha’s house, wrapped in an impossible bond that refused to break, and all she could think about was how part of her wanted to stop running, not because she was tired, but because she was lonely. She had never spoken that word aloud. She barely let herself think it, but sitting here, drinking half-stale beer under a stranger’s roof, with two soul-deep connections humming like electricity in her veins, she couldn’t shove it down anymore. I want something real. The thought hit her like a knife twist. Honest. Ugly. Dangerous but true. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it—the difference between the two of them. Rhett was gravity. He pulled everything toward him without asking. He didn’t flinch, fold, or even seem to doubt himself; like control was stitched into his bones. Gods help her. It lit something wild inside her every time he stepped into a room, but he was locked up so tight that she wasn’t sure he’d ever let her see what was real underneath. And something inside her needed real. She’d lived too long on lies and silence. Then there was Jace. The quiet one. He didn’t push. Didn’t demand. But there was a steadiness to him; a patience she didn’t trust because it made her feel seen, not watched, not assessed. Seen. He looked at her like she wasn’t a threat to be handled, but a person he wanted to understand. That scared her more than any Alpha ever had. She’d never had anyone want to understand her. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if he succeeded. Another sip of warm beer. Another long silence. She knew what this bond was doing. It wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t even just spiritual. It was pulling her open. Forcing her to see the parts of herself she’d kept locked behind scars, snide remarks, and well-earned distance. It was working, and she hated that. She also wasn’t sure she wanted it to stop. She set the bottle down and let her head rest against the window frame, the cold stone grounding her. Maybe the bond didn’t care what she was ready for. Perhaps it just knew what she needed. Rhett’s sharpness. Jace’s quiet. One gave her structure. The other offered softness. She was standing on the edge of both, still trying to decide whether to leap or run. Footsteps echoed faintly down the hall. Not approaching. Just existing. She didn’t need to guess who they belonged to. Rhett moved like a command waiting to be issued. Jace moved like a secret waiting to be told. And she? She moved like a woman who’d spent her entire life pretending she didn’t need anyone, but for the first time in her life, Mira wasn’t sure if pretending would be enough.
