CHAPTER 7

Kira’s POV

The cold kissed my bare feet before the air did.

I didn't know I was moving.

Didn't know I'd left the warmth of the packhouse or the borrowed blanket tangled at the end of my bed.

All I knew was the hum—low, deep, ancient. It pulled at something buried in my chest. A string I hadn’t realized was there until it was tugged.

My legs moved on their own, quiet over the damp forest floor. Moonlight filtered through the trees in broken shards, silvered like old bone. I stepped over roots and rocks, eyes open but unseeing.

Somewhere inside, I knew I should’ve been afraid.

But instead… I felt strangely calm. As if something out there was waiting. As if I belonged more under these stars than inside four walls with whispers and stares.

The air was thick with pine and something else—something wilder. My pulse should’ve raced. But it didn’t.

My body, scarred and taut from a life of fighting, was now loose. Vulnerable. Exposed in only a thin shirt and sleep shorts. The wind slid beneath the fabric like a secret.

My lips moved. I wasn’t sure if I was whispering a name or a memory. But I walked on.

Toward something.

Or away from everything.

Branches rustled behind me.

Not the casual shift of a raccoon or owl.

It was heavier. Measured.

Predator-silent.

My body paused, uncertain—part of me waking up, while the rest still drifted in whatever dreamscape held me captive.

Then I felt it.

That pull.

But this one was different.

Not soft. Not patient.

It was heat and gravity and something that tasted like regret.

My bare toes curled into the earth.

Ronan.

I didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

It was like my body was held in place by an invisible thread—and the thread was tied to him.

I heard his breath before I saw him.

“Kira.”

His voice was low. Barely more than a growl. A warning? A plea?

And something about the way he said my name—raw, unfinished—made my knees weaken.

Still, I didn’t move. Not until a pair of warm, calloused hands gripped my arms and turned me around gently.

The world tilted. Or maybe I did.

Our eyes met.

I blinked. The fog shattered.

And suddenly I was aware of everything—the cold, the dark, the ache in my limbs. The way my shirt clung to me from the damp. The way he looked at me, as if he didn’t know whether to scold me or shatter.

“I—” I tried to speak. My throat was dry. “What… am I doing?”

“You were sleepwalking,” he said, voice rough. “Out here. Alone.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked over me. And when his gaze caught on my bare legs and the scratches I hadn’t felt, his entire body went taut.

Then, before I could protest or make a joke to lighten the weight, he did something I didn’t expect.

He scooped me into his arms.

Not roughly. Not with command. But with something more dangerous—care.

Real. Care.

His arms were strong around me, cradling me like I was something he didn’t want to break—but feared already was.

I could feel the way his chest rose beneath my cheek, slow and controlled, like he was trying to keep the beast inside on a leash. His scent—earth and fire and something storm-slick—wrapped around me like a drug.

I didn’t fight it.

Maybe I should have.

But the truth?

I felt safer there than I had in years.

Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath his boots and the wind sighing through the trees.

I peeked up at him.

His jaw was set, eyes straight ahead, but there was something bleeding through the cracks now. Worry. Anger. Guilt. Maybe even—

No. Not that.

Not want. Not for me.

Still, his arms tightened around me just a little more.

“You should’ve locked your door,” he muttered, not quite looking at me. “You could’ve walked into the river. Or worse.”

My voice was quiet. “I don’t remember getting up.”

“I know.”

He looked down at me then.

And I swear… for a heartbeat, everything inside him screamed something I couldn’t name.

“You called out in your sleep.”

My breath hitched.

“What did I say?”

He hesitated. “My name.”

The door creaked open as he nudged it with his shoulder. He stepped into my room like it might bite him. The lights were off. Moonlight painted the wooden floor in silver bands.

He lowered me onto the bed slowly, like setting down glass he wasn’t sure was already cracked.

My skin burned where his hands had touched me.

“You’re burning up,” he said, frowning. “Were you sick before this?”

I shook my head. “No. Maybe it’s the bond tension.”

His jaw tightened. I saw the muscle jump.

“I told you, this is temporary,” he said flatly.

I gave a hollow laugh. “Right. Trial mate. Political claim. No feelings. All strategy.”

I lay back, suddenly exhausted. The fog was returning. My body felt like it wasn’t entirely mine anymore.

But just before I closed my eyes, I said what I shouldn’t.

“I remember the first time you carried me.”

He stilled. Didn’t speak.

“You never came back.”

And this time, I was the one who turned away.

I woke with a shiver.

The room was quiet, dim. Light filtered through the curtains like a hesitant touch. The kind that asked for permission before it spilled across the bed.

For a moment, I didn’t know why my heart was pounding.

Then I sat up—and pain bloomed in my ankles.

I looked down.

Scratches. Tiny cuts on my feet and shins. A reddish bruise blooming along one ankle where I must’ve caught it on something. Dirt still clung to my skin.

So it wasn’t a dream.

The forest. The cold.

Ronan.

My throat tightened. I brushed a hand through my hair, wincing at the tangles. The memory of his arms came back in pieces. The way his scent lingered in my lungs like smoke. The heat of his chest beneath my cheek.

He’d carried me.

Stayed.

Almost touched me like I mattered.

But now he was gone. Again.

I curled my knees to my chest and let my forehead rest on them, breathing in slow. The bond between us pulsed faintly—distant, but alive. I could still feel the ghost of his presence like a fading ember.

Was it guilt that made him stay?

Or something else?

I didn’t know. And worse—I couldn’t decide which answer hurt more.

What I did know was this:

That ache in my chest wasn’t just from sleepwalking.

It was from remembering what it felt like to be held—and not wanting to let go.