Ch 23

The return to the house was a wet blur. They let the darkness muffle their footfalls and pretended not to notice the twin beams of porchlights tracking them over the marshy lawn. Xander’s shoulders dripped, a fresh stripe of mud painting his cheek. Carolina caught the turn of his jaw, the way he kept glancing at her as if to confirm she was real, still tethered to his side. It made her feel less like a person and more like a crisis he’d learned to nurse.

The foyer was empty, except for a pair of discarded boots and the echo of a door closing somewhere above. They shed their coats in a heap, careful not to touch, but then Xander’s hand found her wrist and, as if remembering itself, held there.

It was nothing like the first time. That had been reckless, gritted-teeth and bruised lips, an animal need that didn’t apologize or linger. But now there was a hush to the world, a deliberate pause, like the space between lightning and thunder. Xander’s fingers traced the scar along her collarbone. He said, “You’re shaking,” as if explaining it to himself.

“Adrenaline,” Carolina lied. “It’ll pass.”

She half-expected him to push, to test her, but instead he kissed her slowly, lips dry and chalky from the wind. She tasted rain in his mouth. There was no battle for dominance this time, just the patient undoing of a lifetime of suspicion.

They moved to her bunkroom, which smelled faintly of antiseptic and the peppermint oil someone had spilled weeks ago. The bedsprings creaked in protest. Xander pulled her into his arms and it was—strange—how natural that felt. He ran a hand over her ribs, counting old fractures, always cataloging what damage was his to keep.

“So, what now?” she asked, against his throat.

He hesitated. “We try not to get killed. You said as much—keep them guessing.”

She dug her nails into his back, half for emphasis, half to anchor herself. “You ever want to just leave?”

He rolled onto his side, propped up on an elbow, studying her the way you’d study the cloud cover before a storm. “I want to see what happens if we stay.”

The rest was a blur of hands and breath, laughter gasped into the dark, an unexpected tenderness that bordered on terrifying. Carolina let herself lean into it, let herself want. When it was over, Xander lay beside her, eyes open to the ceiling, like he was waiting for something to crash through it.

She touched his cheek, let her thumb graze the stubble. “No more secrets,” she said. “Or at least, not between us.”

He nodded, solemn as a grave.

She didn’t sleep—hadn’t, really, in years—but she closed her eyes and listened to his heart knocking a steady rhythm against her shoulder, and for a long time, that was enough.

She woke to the sound of voices in the corridor. It was almost morning, pale and clammy, dew fogging the glass. Xander was gone, but his scent lingered on the pillow: wet leaves, sweat, the faint metallic whiff of blood and old panic.

She dressed and slipped into the hall. At the foot of the stairs, Lyra waited, arms folded, lips pressed into a knife-blade smile.

“You look…” Lyra considered, “well-fucked.”

Carolina grinned, a wolf baring teeth. “Jealous?”

“Not at all. I just wanted to see if you’d be here, or if you’d run.” Lyra’s eyes swept her up and down. “Marcus wants a word. Both of you.”

Carolina shrugged. “We’ll survive it.”

As she strode past, Lyra’s hand shot out, catching her by the wrist. “Don’t get soft, Ro.”

She wanted to snap back—something about Lyra being the last person alive to lecture her on hardness—but instead she said, “Don’t worry. I’m exactly as you left me.”

Lyra let her go with a twist of the mouth, not quite a smile, not quite regret.

Ten minutes later, she found Xander in Marcus’s office, already leaning against the battered desk, arms folded like an accusation. Marcus stood at the window, coffee in hand, gaze locked on the waterlogged yard below.

“I assume you know why you’re here,” Marcus said.

“Because you like the drama,” Xander replied.

Marcus ignored the jab. “The old man’s coming. Real soon. He wants to see how you two operate as a unit.”

Carolina felt a ripple of static through her. “You mean the trial?”

“The selection,” Marcus corrected. “Trial is after.” He turned to them, face gray with exhaustion. “So, don’t embarrass me. If you make a mess, clean it.”

They exchanged a glance. Xander’s jaw was set, but there was a wild light in his eyes, the kind that scared her because it matched her own.

After the meeting, they stood in the lot, watching the fog peel off the rooftops. A delivery truck rattled up the drive, loaded with crates of something labeled “Supplements.” Cas waved at them from the loading ramp, then immediately pretended not to have done so.

“You worried?” Xander asked, low.

“Not of them,” Carolina said, honest for the first time in days. “Only of myself.”

He nodded, then pulled her in for a tight, almost brotherly hug. She let it hold. She let it last.

After breakfast, they went back to the river. There was a patch of sand where the current eddied, and Carolina found a flat stone to sit on. Xander joined her, hands curled around a thermos of yesterday’s coffee.

For the first time ever, they just talked. About nothing—old TV shows, the best flavors of instant ramen, the time Carolina almost lost a toe to frostbite and how she’d lied to the medic about it. Xander told her about his sister, about the time he stole a car just to get her to a dentist’s appointment on time. They cackled so loudly a pair of crows fled the trees.

By the time the sun burned the fog to ribbons, they were still sitting there. She poked a finger at his shoulder.

“We could just go,” she said. “South. Get lost. Screw the rest of them.”

Xander sipped his coffee, made a face. “You’d last all of two hours before you started missing the pack.”

She thought about this and, to her surprise, couldn’t argue.

They walked back hand-in-hand, a new kind of camouflage. In a world where everyone expected them to fight, choosing each other was the most radical thing they could do.

At the door, Lyra waited, an envelope pinched between two fingers.

“You’re wanted in the conference room,” she said, voice syrupy with import. “Both of you.”

Carolina took the envelope, saw her own handwriting sketching a return address she hadn’t seen in years. It was from her mother. Wordlessly, she tucked it into her jacket, and together, they walked in.

Xander squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, hard enough to bruise.

Let them come, she thought. Let the wolves howl. This is what I choose, and I won’t let go.

And for the first time since she was a kid, she believed herself capable of it.