Chapter 10

Ollie's POV

It’s nearly four in the morning when I hear the lock click softly at the front door.

I sit upright immediately.

The movement is instinctive, my body reacting before my brain fully catches up. The apartment is dim except for the lamp left on in the living room, casting warm light over the scene around me.

Anya is sprawled dramatically across one couch cushion with her phone still clutched in her hand. Eliana’s asleep against the opposite armrest with a blanket half-falling onto the floor, and Kylah is curled up beside Shane, both of them knocked out sometime around two after promising they were “just resting their eyes.”

I never fell asleep.

Couldn’t.

Not with every second stretching tighter wondering where she was.

So when the door finally opens, my chest practically stops working.

Please be her.

The door swings inward slowly.

And there she is.

Rain-soaked. Exhausted. Standing frozen in the doorway as her eyes slowly scan the apartment like she’s trying to process why everyone’s asleep waiting for her.

Then her gaze lands on me.

And everything else disappears.

I can tell instantly that she recognizes me. Her expression shifts, not fear, not exactly. Something softer. Something startled.

Before I can even think it through, I’m already moving toward her.

She’s even smaller up close than I remembered.

Tiny compared to me, standing there in soaked clothes with mascara faintly smudged beneath tired eyes. Her dark hair clings damply to her shoulders, and for a second all I can think is how wrong it felt not knowing where she was tonight.

I stop right in front of her, towering over her slight frame.

And somehow the only thing my body knows to do is hold her.

So I do.

I wrap my arms around her carefully, giving her every chance to pull away.

Instead, her fingers fist tightly into the front of my sweatshirt, tugging herself closer like she needs the contact as much as I do.

The feeling nearly wrecks me.

She fits against me so perfectly it’s terrifying.

Like she was made to stand here.

Against me.

And then I hear it.

Tiny sniffles against my chest.

My entire body tightens.

"Why is she crying?"

Guilt crashes into me immediately. She must be overwhelmed from tonight, from the bar, from me stepping in, from whatever made her run out into the rain alone.

I shouldn’t have grabbed her like that.

I shouldn’t have pushed.

Regret twists painfully in my chest as I lower my head slightly, trying to look at her face.

That’s when she tilts her head up toward me.

And for one impossible second

Her eyes glow gold.

I freeze.

My heart nearly stops.

"What?"

The thought slams into me so hard I almost physically recoil.

"She’s a wolf?"

My mind spirals instantly, pieces crashing together faster than I can process them. The pull toward her. The instinct. The possessiveness. The way my wolf reacted the second I saw her across that bar.

"She could be our mate." my wolf stirrs inside me.

The realization hits so hard it leaves me dizzy.

I must let some of the shock show because her expression shifts nervously, like she’s bracing herself for rejection or fear.

Immediately, I force myself to calm down.

I look down at her softly. “Meghan.”

Just saying her name feels different now.

Important.

Slowly, carefully, I lift my hand toward her face, giving her every opportunity to push me away if she wants to.

She doesn’t.

Not even a little.

If anything, she leans into my touch slightly.

My chest aches.

I should be the last person she trusts right now after scaring her tonight, but here she is standing in my arms like she already knows I’d never hurt her.

I cup her face gently in my hands, wiping away the tears slipping freely down her cheeks now.

She looks exhausted.

Completely drained.

And somehow I just know.

Know she’s reached her limit tonight.

So without even really thinking about it, I slide one arm beneath her knees and lift her effortlessly into my arms.

She lets out the tiniest surprised sound but immediately curls against me anyway.

“What room is yours?” I ask quietly.

She points weakly down the hallway.

I carry her there slowly, trying not to think too hard about how natural this feels.

Her room is the exact opposite of what I expected and somehow perfectly her at the same time.

It’s warm.

Lived in.

Full of personality.

Clothes are draped over the desk chair like she changed outfits six different times before going out tonight. Vinyl records line one wall beside painted canvases bursting with color and emotion, and I catch myself staring at the artwork longer than I mean to.

Everything about the room feels creative. Thoughtful.

Like every piece reveals something about the kind of mind she has.

I set her carefully down on the edge of the bed.

“You need dry clothes, Meg,” I tell her gently. “You’re freezing.”

It’s October in Boston. She’s been wandering around in the rain for hours.

Without arguing, she disappears quietly toward her closet with fresh clothes gathered in her arms.

And the second the door shuts behind her, my brain betrays me completely.

I imagine her without those wet clothes.

I shut my eyes hard.

"Jesus Christ. Stop thinking like that. You’ve known her less than five hours."

I drag a hand down my face, forcing myself to focus literally anywhere else.

So I study her room again instead.

The paintings catch my attention first. They’re detailed in a way that feels emotional rather than practiced, messy in certain places, careful in others. Honest.

It makes me want to know everything about her.

And that realization alone should probably concern me.

She’s barely spoken since walking through that apartment door.

A thousand questions keep circling my head. "Where did she go tonight? Did something happen after she left? Has she been alone this entire time?"

Before I can think too deeply about it, the bathroom door opens.

And every coherent thought immediately leaves my body.

She steps out wearing an oversized sweatshirt and tiny shorts that show off long bare legs, her damp hair falling around her shoulders in soft waves now.

"Does this girl even realize what she’s doing to me right now?"

I immediately force that thought away too.

Dangerous territory.

She walks over quietly and sits beside me on the bed, close enough that our legs almost touch.

Then, voice barely above a whisper, she finally asks,

“What’s your name?”

The fact that she trusts me enough to ask after everything tonight hits me harder than expected.

“Oliver,” I answer softly. “But most people call me Ollie.”

She repeats it silently to herself like she’s testing how it sounds.

Then a tiny smirk pulls at her lips.

“Cute name.”

The second the words leave her mouth, her eyes widen in horror.

And before I can even react, she flops face-first into the bed to hide herself, clearly embarrassed she said it out loud.

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.

Small. Genuine.

"God, she’s adorable."

But I don’t want to overwhelm her any more than tonight already has.

So instead of teasing her, I just stand slowly from the bed and murmur,

“Goodnight, Megs.”

I barely make it two steps toward the door before her voice stops me completely.

“Wait....”