Ch. 35

The pack drifted to their chosen corners as the light faded, no curfew but a thousand years of evolutionary etiquette dictating it was time to cave inward, to lick wounds and plot dreams behind half-closed doors. By ten, the piano had gone quiet, and so had Briony, curled on a pile of coats like a satisfied cat. Even Cas and Marcus, who once would have prowled the length of the hall to keep vigil or stir up mischief, lay side by side in a nest of blankets under the ruined chandelier, sky-blue moonlight striping the floor around them.

Xander found her on the balcony. They were both too tired to speak, so he just folded her into his arms, pressing his jaw above her ear, his hands unsteady but certain as they crept under the hem of her shirt. Carolina didn’t resist. She tilted her head back and bit his shoulder hard enough to leave a crescent. He lifted her off her feet and staggered with her toward the nearest empty bedroom, not caring that it still smelled of smoke and dried blood. Inside, he slammed the door with his boot. The wall buckled a little, flakes of old paint tumbling down. They both laughed, low and hoarse and nearly delirious.

Clothes went first—her shirt inside out and wet with his mouth, his jeans ripped at the fly—then everything else, including the whole world outside the window. The curtains were gone; she caught her reflection in the midnight glass, Xander’s arms caging her from behind, his body already thick and hot against her ass. He dragged a claw down her torso, split the bandage on her ribs, and banished the sting with the flat of his tongue.

They fought for position in the dark, her back to the wall, his hands pawing her thighs apart until she nearly shrieked. He pulled her into his lap. When she slid down onto him, there was no pause, just the slick, animal fusion of want and proof, every bump and scar and new-won wound made precious by the friction. He fucked her rough, the way she asked, grinding her against the old radiator while she howled her pride and dominance into the cracked plaster. He pinched her nipple until she sobbed, then caught the sound in his mouth and bit down until she nearly drew blood. At the end he lost his rhythm, holding her so tight her pulse buzzed through him, and she felt the warmth as he filled her, the two of them fused at the root for a long, shuddering moment.

When she finally peeled off him, limp and senseless, she collapsed onto the mattressless box spring, not caring about the springs poking through. Xander fell beside her, crushing her under his weight, neither of them speaking for a long while. The city outside was a hush, for once, and every now and then she could hear the others, a laugh or a locked door settling, but it all seemed miles away.

At some point she woke again, on top of him, his hands still remembering her, working gently at her hips and nipples, as if trying to cement the boundaries between his and hers. She rolled him over, nailed him to the floor with her knees, and this time rode him slow, torturing herself and him with every inch, her hand at her own clit, squeezing and rolling the tension higher and higher until she saw nothing but a rush of color and the taste of metal at the back of her throat. She carved her nails down his chest, licking up the blood, and he watched her with a kind of devotional awe, repeating her name like a litany until they both stopped making sense and just rode the waves, bodies slick with sweat and their own scent.

After, she curled against him, tangled together, his chin resting in the snarl of her hair. He was still hard inside her, and she liked it, the way he wouldn’t let go. They drifted off like that, clutching at each other, the monsters of the city finally at peace for the night.

*

At some point morning came, pale and weak, dusting the room in anemic gold. She woke to Xander inside her, unmoved from the night, growing thick again where their hips met. He roused at her shifting, rolled onto her with a growl. It was different this time—a slow, deliberate shoving, all the violence swapped for something nearly reverent. He pinned her hands above her head, locked her in place with his weight, and ground into her until she bloomed under him, the ache building until it was all she could see. He pressed his nose to her cheek, nuzzled the line of her jaw, and she felt old wolf instincts resurface: mine, mine, mine.

His pace built. She arched to meet him, loving that he wanted her not just after battle, but after the ragged edge of sleep, wanting her first and always. He fucked her like it was his morning prayer, and when she broke around him—her cunt a fist squeezing mercy from his cock—he snarled, bucked, and spent himself inside her in long, terrifying shudders. She held on with everything she had, and when it subsided, she kissed the sweaty patch above his heart.

Neither moved for a while. The world was still. Beyond the boarded-up window, the porch was alive with footsteps. Someone was already raiding the city for breakfast, probably Briony, but for the moment Carolina didn’t have to be anyone’s Luna, anyone’s savior. She just held her lover in the ruined dark and let her body pulse with triumph.

Eventually Xander extricated himself, kissed up her ribs, and tied a sheet around his hips like a toga before heading for the hallway. She lazed, heavy with satisfaction, until footsteps signaled a visitor.

It was Lyra, arms filled with pilfered bakery bread, hair in wolfish disarray. She surveyed Carolina with the unerring gaze of someone raised on nothing but wounds and rumor.

“I heard you two. Whole floor did.” Lyra’s voice was three-quarters mockery, one quarter awe. “So. You gonna start taking titles now? Luna, Queen, Saint Carolina of the Restless Legs?”

Carolina grinned, tucking her knees to her chest. “Only if the crown fits.”

“You’re a menace,” Lyra said, dropping a loaf beside her on the bed. “And I am grateful for it.”

She left. Carolina tore at the bread, chewing, content for the first time in memory to simply exist. She thought about the world beyond: the work of rebuilding, the strings and grudges left to untangle. For the moment, she could almost believe that peace was possible, that her people might one day live like something other than an open wound.

She heard laughter in the stairwell, then a catscrabble of feet as Cas and Marcus started another mock brawl, upending a half-dozen pans in the process. Xander’s voice, low and dangerous, cut through the noise, and the house snapped to attention, a single organism, waiting for her to descend and remind them they’d survived what should have killed them.

She finished her bread, pulled on her jeans, and walked barefoot down the stairs, not caring she was still sticky with desire and sweat.

In the kitchen, all eyes landed on her—hungry, faithful, wild.

“Breakfast,” she said, as if it were a spell, “and then we run the city.”

They whooped, every last one of them, even Briony, who had already broken into the syrup and was licking it off her palms.

She chose the biggest mug, filled it with bitter coffee, and settled into the head of the old oak table, the others crowding in, not a seat left empty. It was a feast of mismatched plates and feral appetite, the air thick with plans, bets, and the kind of laughter that came only after you’d earned it.

Carolina looked at her people—their faces marked by the night, lips bitten and sleeping wounds cracked open again, but alive, alive, alive.

They had their home. They had their pack.

And for the first time—for the very first time—she looked at the future and smiled.