Chapter 7

Elara's POV

Before I can respond, he kisses me. It’s soft and sweet and full of promise, and something inside my chest unfurls like a flower blooming in sunlight. When he pulls back, his smile is radiant.

“I have to go to Millbrook next week for some business. That gives you time to think about it. But Elara, I’ll wait for your answer. However long it takes.”

He gives me one more quick kiss before helping me down from the car.

“I meant what I said. About everything.”

As he drives away, I stand there in the fading light, my fingers pressed to my lips. The knapsack, which is now empty, still feels impossibly heavy on my shoulders as I make my way back toward the settlement, my mind spinning.

Marriage. Love. A life outside the pack.

I’ve never been loved before, not really. My mother died when I was too young to remember her affection clearly, and the pack has made it clear I’m unwanted. But Andrew looks at me like I’m something precious, something worth protecting.

Is this what love feels like? This warmth in my chest, this feeling like I could float away? Or is it just the relief of finally being wanted by someone?

By the time I reach my cottage, Luna is waiting by the door, and I’m no closer to having answers. But for the first time in years, I have a choice to make.

I count the coins Andrew gave me, laying them out on my kitchen table in neat little piles. He always pays me generously for the herbs—more than fair market value. The silver gleams in the lamplight, and for a moment, I allow myself to feel wealthy.

But as I separate the money into different purposes—healing supplies, food, winter preparations—the piles shrink rapidly. By the time I’m done, there’s barely enough left for a week’s worth of basic provisions.

“Alright, Luna,” I say, scooping up the food money. “I’m going shopping before the market closes. Guard the house.”

Luna rolls over on her back, paws in the air, and my lips crack into a grin.

“You’re going to scare off all the intruders with that pose. Good girl.”

She purrs.

The walk into town aggravates my leg, even though it has been two days since the shadow bear attack. The healing paste has helped, but I’m still favoring my left side. I didn’t want Andrew to know about the injury, so I had to be careful how I moved around him.

As soon as I enter the main settlement area, the familiar weight of hostile stares lands on my back. A group of women chatting near the fountain fall silent as I pass, their eyes tracking my movements with undisguised disgust. One of them whispers something to her companion, and they both laugh—the kind of cruel laughter that makes my skin crawl.

“Mama, why is Elara walking funny?” a young voice pipes up.

I glance over to see a little boy pointing at me, his innocent eyes curious rather than malicious. His name is Ethan. His mother Diedre’s face flushes red as she grabs his hand.

“Don’t point,” she hisses. Then louder, clearly meant for me to hear: “Some people just aren’t made right.”

She hurries her son away, shooting me a look over her shoulder like I might contaminate them just by existing in the same space.

I keep walking, my jaw clenched. A few steps later, another mother spots me approaching and quickly scoops up her toddler, crossing to the other side of the street. The child protests, reaching back toward me with chubby fingers, but his mother’s grip is firm.

“No, darling. We don’t go near... people like that.”

The words hurt more than I expect. People like that. As if I’m some kind of diseased animal instead of someone who risks her life every week for their treasured healing herbs.

I’m almost to the bakery when I hear soft sniffling. A little girl, maybe six years old, sits on the ground beside the post office, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. Her knee is scraped and bleeding, and she clutches a torn doll to her chest.

I recognize her as Mary, one of the warrior’s daughters. She is no more than six years old. I look around, wondering why she’s alone.

Common sense tells me to stay away from her, but she’s crying, and nobody else seems to care. Reluctantly, I approach her.

“Mary, is everything okay? Where’s your mother?”

She looks up at me with wide, watery eyes.

“Elara! I fell, and I can’t find Mommy! My dolly’s broken, too.”

“Let me see.”

I kneel beside her, ignoring the protest from my own injured leg.

“Oh, that’s not too bad. Just a little scrape.”

From my pocket, I pull a clean handkerchief—one of the few nice things I own—and gently dab at the blood on her knee.

“There. All clean. It’ll stop hurting soon, I promise.”

The little girl sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“What about Rosie?”

She holds up the doll, whose arm has come loose from its body.

“Well,” I say, examining the toy carefully, “it looks like Rosie just needs her arm put back in place. See this little loop here? It goes right back on this button.”

I carefully reattach the doll’s arm and test its movement.

“Good as new.”

The girl’s face lights up like sunshine breaking through clouds.

“You fixed her!”

“Yep. Now, come on. Get up,” I tell her, helping her to her feet.

She bounces on her toes, trying out her scraped knee, then plucks a small wildflower from a crack in the stone path.

“This is for you,” she says, pressing the purple bloom into my palm. “For helping Rosie.”

Warmth spreads through my chest at the first genuine kindness I’ve experienced from a pack member in weeks.

“Thank you.”

“Mary!”

The sharp voice stops our moment short. Mary’s mother, Helen, storms toward us, her face twisted with rage and disgust.