JUST US

CHAPTER 45

He asked again that night, alone in his room, with firelight throwing shadows across the space between us.

"What were you thinking at dinner?"

This time, I didn't deflect.

"That I love you," I said. "That's what I was thinking."

Roman didn't move.

The fire popped once, filling the silence.

"Say that again," he said, very quietly.

"I love you."

"You're certain?"

"Roman." A breath of laughter escaped me. "I just worked up the nerve to say it twice. Don't make me conduct a third audit."

"I'm not auditing." His voice was rough. "I only needed to hear it twice to believe it once."

"Believe it."

"I'm trying."

"Try faster."

He let out a sound that was half a laugh and half something I couldn't name. Then he crossed the space between us.

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the pulse beating in his throat.

"You don't have to take it back," he said.

"I wasn't going to."

"You don't have to protect yourself from my answer."

"I'm not." I drew a breath. "I'm frightened, though. This started as a contract. I've spent months wondering what I'm allowed to hope for."

His expression changed.

"And now?"

"Now I'm tired of wondering. I'd rather tell you what I feel than keep pretending it doesn't matter."

He stared at me as if he were still trying to understand how four ordinary words could have unsettled him so completely.

"You're very quiet," I said.

"I'm composing myself."

"Is it going well?"

"Poorly." His mouth twitched. "I'm an Alpha. I've faced down councils. And you said four words, and I've forgotten how to stand."

"You're standing."

"Barely."

I smiled.

He reached for my hand and held it as though it might disappear if he loosened his grip.

"I love you," he said.

The words fell straight through me.

"Direct," I whispered.

"I thought you deserved direct." His thumb pressed gently against my palm. "I've been trying to say it for a week. I couldn't find words that didn't feel inadequate, so I'll use the plain ones."

"They're perfect."

"Don't be generous."

"I'm not. They're just right."

I swallowed, suddenly nervous again.

"When did you know?"

"That I loved you?"

"Yes."

He considered the question.

"Tonight, in the garden, when you stood beside me and didn't try to fix what I was feeling."

His thumb moved across my knuckles.

"But that's when I understood it. It started earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"The study."

"Which night?"

"The night we went through Lyra's file."

My breath caught.

"Before you ask, I don't mean I fell in love in a single moment."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I thought I was impressed." His eyes held mine. "You looked at something I'd stared at for two years and saw what I'd missed. I told myself it was gratitude."

"Was it?"

"Partly. But you challenged me when everyone else was afraid to. You looked me in the eye and said, This doesn't add up. And when you were right, you didn't use it to make me feel small."

"I wasn't trying to impress you."

"I know. That's why it mattered."

"I was trying to understand what happened to her."

"I know."

His voice softened.

"You treated my pain like it deserved to be taken seriously. Not managed. Not soothed. Looked at."

Something tightened in my throat.

"You mean you were already falling for me that night?"

"I didn't know it."

"You didn't know?"

"Mira, I'm excellent at recognizing threats. I'm terrible at recognizing what's happening inside my own head."

I laughed, and the sound came out wet.

"All of it," I murmured. "The way you watched me. Asking if I'd eaten. Standing too close."

"I was protecting you."

"You were hovering."

"Hovering is a form of protection."

"It's a form of obvious."

"I'm aware."

He winced.

"Kase."

"I didn't say it."

"You were about to."

"I was."

The humor faded from his expression.

"I wasn't fair to you," he said. "I'm not going to pretend I was."

"You weren't."

"Jealousy isn't proof of love. It's proof that I was frightened."

"I know."

"I'd rather prove my feelings another way."

"How?"

"By trusting you." He lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. "By not demanding to know where you've been every time you walk through a door. By listening when you tell me you can make your own decisions."

"I like the sound of that."

"I'm trying to like it, too."

"It's a work in progress."

"Aren't we all?"

He studied my face.

"You look different."

"Do I?"

"Lighter."

"I feel lighter."

I looked down at our joined hands.

"I've been bracing for months. I didn't realize how much until I stopped."

"Bracing for what?"

"The end."

He didn't flinch, but his fingers tightened around mine.

"The contract," I explained. "The arrangement that brought me here. I've spent so much time reminding myself that there was an end date that I never let myself think about what I might want afterward."

"And what do you want?"

The question was quiet.

There was no demand in it. No attempt to steer my answer toward something that would make him comfortable.

Just a question, and the patience to wait for the truth.

"You," I said. "But not because of the contract. Not because the bond says I should. I want you because you're the man I want beside me when there's no crisis to solve and no one to protect."

His eyes brightened.

"I want the ordinary things," I continued. "The ridiculous arguments. Your terrible habit of working through meals. The way you turn every small disagreement into a diplomatic negotiation."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I negotiate."

"You argue with a great deal of authority."

"An important distinction."

I smiled, but my voice trembled when I spoke again.

"I want a future with you, Roman. I don't know what it looks like yet. I don't know how we'll handle the contract or the things that will come after it. But I don't want to pretend I haven't started imagining it."

He was silent for a moment.

Then he drew a slow breath.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Please."

"I don't want you to stay because of the contract. Or the child. Or because the bond demands it."

"It doesn't."

"I know." His gaze searched mine. "But I need you to know that I won't use any of those things to keep you here."

My heart ached at the seriousness in his voice.

"I want you to stay because you want to."

"I do."

"You don't have to answer quickly."

"I'm not answering quickly. I've been thinking about this longer than I've been willing to admit."

He brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek.

"I can't promise you that our future will be simple. The council is divided. Other packs are already asking questions about you. We still don't know what Moonborn means for your life or what the people looking into your bloodline intend to do with what they learn."

"I know."

"And I won't pretend those things don't frighten me."

"That makes two of us."

A faint smile touched his mouth.

"But I don't want the uncertainty to decide everything for us. I want to make room for a future with you, even if we have to work out what that future looks like one difficult conversation at a time."

For a moment, I couldn't speak.

This was what I'd been afraid to ask for.

Not a grand promise made in the heat of a confession. Not an assurance that nothing would ever go wrong.

A willingness to face the unknown with me.

"I love that you listen when I disagree with you," I said softly. "That you're willing to be wrong. That you stood in a garden and said goodbye to someone you couldn't save without pretending it didn't hurt."

"Mira."

"I love that you're learning to make room for my choices, even when it terrifies you. I love that you're trying to become a man who can trust me instead of a man who has to control everything to feel safe."

I took a breath.

"I don't love you because you're an Alpha. Or because the bond says so. I love you because of who you are when no one's watching."

He didn't answer.

His eyes were bright, and for once, he made no attempt to hide it.

"That's a lot," he said hoarsely.

"I warned you."

"No." He swallowed. "I mean it's enough. More than enough."

"Don't cry."

"I'm not."

"You're about to."

"I'm an Alpha. I do not cry."

"You did in the garden."

"That was grief. This is..."

He shook his head, searching for a word.

"This is something else."

"What?"

"Joy, I think." His smile trembled. "I'm out of practice."

I laughed, and then I was in his arms, my face pressed against his chest and his hand cradling the back of my head.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

I listened to his heartbeat and let myself believe that the moment was real without immediately searching for the thing that might destroy it.

"I won't promise it'll be easy," he murmured into my hair.

"I'm not asking for easy."

"But I'll keep choosing honesty. Even when it hurts. Even when I'm frightened."

"Even when you want to put me in a tower?"

"Especially then."

"Good."

He leaned back enough to look at me.

"And I want you to tell me when I'm doing it. When I'm letting fear make decisions that belong to both of us."

"I can do that."

"I know you can."

His certainty settled something inside me.

I touched his cheek.

"I'm choosing you, Roman. No one is making me. Not the contract. Not the bond. Not the circumstances that brought me here."

My voice softened.

"I'm choosing you because I love you. And I want to keep choosing you, as long as you'll have me."

His breath shook.

"That's a long time."

"I'm patient."

"You're terrifying."

"You love it."

"Dreadfully."

He kissed me then, soft and slow, with none of the desperation of our earlier kisses. This one didn't ask a question or demand an answer.

It simply stayed.

When he drew back, he rested his forehead against mine.

"It's strange," he murmured. "Saying it out loud."

"Different from carrying it?"

"Entirely."

"I was afraid to say it," I admitted. "Once I said it, I'd have to admit how much I stood to lose."

"And now?"

"Now I've said it, and I'm still here."

"You are."

His gaze drifted briefly toward the door before returning to me.

"You're also in my room."

"So I am."

"At night."

"The fire's nice."

"Is that why you stayed?"

"It's a very good fire."

He laughed, low and helpless, and I felt the sound in my own chest.

For the first time in months, no one was waiting outside the door. No council summons. No messenger. No letter carrying another warning about my bloodline.

There was only the fire, the quiet room, and the steady rhythm of Roman's heartbeat beneath my ear.

"I love you," he said again, as if he couldn't stop now that he'd started. "And I don't want to spend another night pretending I don't."

He didn't ask me to stay.

He didn't need to.

Our hands remained joined between us, and neither of us moved toward the door.

For once, I didn't wonder how long the moment would last.

I let myself be in it.

Tomorrow, there would still be a contract to discuss, a council to face, and questions about my bloodline that neither of us could answer.

But tonight, we had told each other the truth.

And for the first time, the future felt less like an ending waiting to happen and more like something we might finally have the courage to begin.