Ch. 20

The morning pressed its way in through the window—a clear, pale slab of light slicing the room in half and falling directly across Carolina’s face. It was the shift in temperature, more than the brightness, that woke her: the air had that cool, dusty feeling that made her want to burrow in. Instead, she blinked against the glow, feeling the weight of the blankets, the heat of the body curled against her spine.

Xander had not, apparently, moved at all since last night. He was still bracing her in place, chin tucked between her shoulder and neck, arm a heavy bar around her middle. Sometime in the night, she’d shifted that arm higher, so her hand rested atop his. She let herself hold still, breathing in the scent of him—a little woodsmoke, a little sweat, all wolf and summer.

If she stayed like this, she could almost forget why sleep had been so necessary. That the world outside was already spinning up, waiting for her to step back into it. That the shrapnel of what had happened yesterday—what she’d done, who she’d chosen—would still be lying in the grass, waiting to catch her on her way out the door.

She shifted onto her back, turning carefully beneath his arm so she could look at him. Xander’s lashes were absurdly long, the way all boys’ were; his mouth, relaxed in sleep, looked far less likely to say something biting. She considered waking him gently—a soft brush of her thumb along his cheek, maybe a kiss to the forehead. She also considered rolling him off the bed.

She settled for the middle ground: “Hey,” she whispered, and, when that failed, “Wolfboy.”

He cracked an eyelid, groggy and unguarded. She saw, for a moment, a version of him ten years younger, before the world had tried its damnedest to break him.

“Morning,” he rasped.

“Is it?” Carolina craned to look at the sky outside—no clouds, just a bright, flat blue. She answered for both of them: “It’s morning.”

He let his head fall back. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

In the unspoken seconds that followed, she felt the old Carolina prickle up. The one that said, Fix it. Make it make sense. Let’s be practical, let’s be ruthless, let’s not let the world turn us into its chew toy.

“We have to go to him,” she said. Not brave or dramatic, just a statement of fact.

Xander grunted. “You want to die before breakfast, or—?”

“We can’t keep hiding out here.” She flung an arm toward the window, toward the long grass outside. “We’re not built for running away, you know.”

He was silent, but she could see the thought working its way through. He gripped the blanket tight around her, like he could hold them both in this liminal, perfect-not-perfect moment and block out the sun.

When he spoke, his voice was different—still rough, but wary: “You think Marcus’ll listen? That he’ll let this—” He gestured vaguely at the two of them, the aftermath, the tangle of arms and legs and old scars.

Carolina didn’t answer right away. She’d spent years watching Marcus—the way he made decisions, the way he wore power like a second skin, the way he let no one in but always seemed to know what everyone was thinking. She knew him better than he thought. Better, maybe, than he knew himself.

“It doesn’t matter if he listens,” she said finally. “We still have to speak.”

Xander laughed, but it was a tired, grateful sound. “You always did have a death wish.”

She grinned. “Don’t get dramatic. I just don’t like being afraid.”

He rolled away, stretched, and for a second she could have sworn she heard his shoulder pop back into place. He looked at her over one bare shoulder. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” she said, “but not for food.”

He made a face that was equal parts delighted and appalled. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“That’s why you like me.” She yanked the sheet off, found a clean T-shirt on the floor—hers, miraculously—and pulled it on without ceremony. Xander watched her, bemused, as if he couldn’t decide whether to be worried or impressed.

They dressed quickly: Xander in a shirt that used to be black, now washed thin to gray; Carolina in jeans that bit a little at her hips. She hesitated at the door, one hand on the handle. “Ready?”

He joined her, face setting into a mask—a soldier, a wolf, a man going to war. But his hand found her elbow, grounding her for a half-beat before they stepped out.

They took the long path to the main house. The day was already muggy, the air syrup-thick with the threat of rain. Carolina breathed it in, let it fill her lungs. If she was going to fight for this—whatever this was—she would not start the morning in fear.

It was late enough that the pack’s little kids were already at school, the adults out in the fields or nursing coffee in the mess. It was quiet, like the calm before a thunderstorm.

Inside the communal house, the smell of breakfast lingered. Dishes clattered in the kitchen. One or two of the older wolves nodded at them in the hallway, but none met her eyes for long.

They found Marcus in his office, standing by the window. He didn’t turn at their approach. He was younger than most Alphas, but he held himself with a gravity that made people forget. His hair was buzzed short, scars running like seams along the backs of his hands.

He waited a full thirty seconds before speaking. “You could’ve run, you know.”

Xander bristled, but Carolina stepped forward, planting herself between the Alpha and her lover. “We don’t run,” she said, forcing her voice steady.

Marcus glanced at her, expression unreadable. He looked tired, but not surprised. “No. You don’t.”

He considered both of them, his gaze flicking from Carolina’s bare knees to the slash on Xander’s cheek that hadn’t quite healed.

“This pack was never going to accept you two together.” He didn’t say it with malice; just a tired certainty, like he’d had this argument with himself a hundred times already.

Carolina nodded. “We know.”

“If you stay, you make yourselves targets.” Marcus finally faced them, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “And you make me choose between you and the rest.”

Carolina did not flinch. “You taught me to stand for what matters.” She matched his stare, letting him see the stubbornness that had gotten her punished, promoted, and nearly exiled in equal measure. “This matters.”

Marcus sighed, rubbing at the line between his eyebrows. “You’re going to get him killed,” he said quietly, to her, as if Xander wasn’t standing right there.

Xander didn’t blink. “We both know I’d die either way. I just want it to be for something.” There was less bravado in it than Carolina expected—just hard, tired truth.

The room was silent. A car passed on the gravel outside, the sound muffled and distant.

Finally, Marcus said, “You’ll have to prove it.” He didn’t say how. He didn’t need to.

Carolina nodded. “We will.”

She took Xander’s hand, warm and trembling in hers, and for once didn’t let go.

Outside, the sky broke open, rain pounding the leaves with the fury of a thousand small drums. But inside, for the first time in years, she felt something almost like hope.

Xander squeezed her fingers. “We just signed up for hell, you know.”

Carolina smiled, teeth bared. “No. We’re going to burn it down.”