Romans de Sammy

SEBASTIAN’S POV She thinks she hides it well my little love. The way her pulse jumps when I step too close.The way her chin lifts half a fraction higher.Morgan has never retreated from anything in her life.Including me.I watched her walk back inside after she told me to eat my lunch. Shoulders squared. Steps measured. Entirely composed again. I straightened up, brushed back my hair & did the same. If someone hadn’t been paying attention, they would’ve missed the slight tension in her spine, the heat radiating off her skin.I smirk softly. I notice everything. Winnie shoves a bowl in my hands the moment I walk in & gives me a look that could only mean, sit before I make you sit. I nod my head in thanks & settle in to lunch. The packhouse carried on around us in its usual rhythm, loud and warm and deceptively ordinary. Pups weaving between benches, Winnie issuing corrections like scripture, the low rumble of conversation layered over clinking cutlery and shifting chairs. It wou

MORGAN’S POVThe garden listens to me. It doesn’t argue. It doesn’t push. It doesn’t stand behind me like a predator deciding how far he can take something before I snap. Sebastian does. I crouched at the base of a tomato vine, pressing my fingers into the soil, checking moisture levels. Sun warming my shoulders. Dirt streaking my pants where I’d wiped my hands. I felt him before I heard him. “You’re staring,” I said not looking up. “I’m assessing.” Of course he is. “You’ve assessed that fence post three times.” “And you’ve been on your knees for five minutes.” I stilled. Slowly rose to my feet. I stepped closer — because I refuse to be the one who retreats. The space between us closed to inches. Close enough that I could see the subtle shift in his breathing. “You look like you’re calculating something,” I murmured. “I am.” “Should I be concerned?” His hand moved before I could anticipate it. He caught my wrist. Firm. Unyielding. Not painful. Claiming. His thumb dr

SEBASTIAN’S POV I fell into step beside Morgan as she led us toward the loading area. James and Seth, one of the inventory wolves, flanked us, both competent in their own right. Today wasn’t about drills — it was about movement, making sure the supplies leaving for the other packs actually got there intact. Morgan walked with that same calm precision that always drew attention. Warriors scattered across the yard turned their heads as she passed, posture straightening instinctively, even the younger wolves pausing mid-chase to glance at her. She didn’t command with shouts — she commanded with presence, with the way she carried herself. I allowed myself a quiet smile. Even after all this time, seeing her in action, fully in control, still warmed me. She’d built this pack, guiding others, protecting the vulnerable, keeping order in a world that had nearly forgotten the meaning of the word. And she did it all without losing herself to the role. A few of the elders were already

MORGAN'S POV Once our meeting had concluded, I went back upstairs to get myself sorted for the day. Walking around the pack house in fluffy socks was fine but god forbid my pack witnessed that. A girl has a reputation to uphold. "decisions decisions" I joke to myself looking at my wardrobe that practically had nothing but black. I hadnt needed the fancy gowns, the "day trip" outfits into the local town for 6 years now. Occasionally the business attire was useful but for the most part, something tactical did the job. And there was a LOT of it. Had to be when you ripped everything you owned shifting. I pull on some black leggings & a tank top. I reach for my belt, a knife strapped in like an extra limb, & my boots. In the bathroom I tie back my wavy mess & ready myself for the day ahead. "love?" Seb calls a few moments later. I pop my head out of the bathroom door. He's standing there shirtless. My brain short circuits for a moment, like it does every time this 6 foot ta

MORGAN'S POV Meetings are overrated. Especially here. A bunch of twenty-something old wolves arguing over whether we should be strategic, or break things until someone apologises and backs off. I call them meetings to sound fancy. I’m at the head of the table, because tradition right? Comfy trackpants and a t-shirt, fluffy socks to match the tough Alpha energy. James slides into the chair across from me like he belongs there. Calm, measured, the one who turns chaos into spreadsheets like its fun. Evelyn strolls in, curls bouncing, laptop perched on her hip, food in the other hand. My Cypher. “Babe,” she chirps, flashing me a grin, “humans and rogues are sharing comms. Coordinated. Threatening, but cute.” “Cute?” I ask. “Terrifying, but cute,” she amends, perfectly satisfied. Ah. Brilliant. Apparently surviving the apocalypse isn’t enough — now they need teamwork. Lou bursts in like the world owes him a fight. Head of Enforcers. Broad, trigger-happy, permanently ready to t

MORGAN’S POV I hate mornings. Not the sunrise-over-ruins kind of mornings we’ve been dealing with lately — this is the kind where your body wakes before your brain, demanding the one thing that keeps living things tolerable: coffee. Black. Strong enough to make a wolf think she’s a God. I roll out of bed stretching my neck. I definitely slept funny on it. I twist ever so gently &... *crack* “ah sweet release” I mumble to myself. I pull on some track pants & stumble down the pack house stairs. The kitchen is quiet. Too quiet. A good sign for once. Enforcers of my pack are probably still curled up somewhere, recovering from last night’s patrols. I pour water into the French press, grind the beans, inhale the earthy aroma, and feel the first flicker of life return to my limbs. I sip. And sip again. And then I swear I hear my veins applaud. I lean against the counter, mug warm in my hands, and let my eyes wander over the room. The pack house isn’t much — a little wo