Chapter Five

That night, I didn’t sleep.

Not from fear. Not really.

More like the kind of restless anticipation that curls up at the base of your spine and whispers everything might unravel tomorrow. My room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a spellstone in the corner. I lay on my side, eyes fixed on the shadows that danced across the ceiling as the moonlight slipped through the slats in the shutters.

The pack would come for him. That was the plan. Formal invitation. Proper introduction. Set him on the path he never asked to walk.

It made sense. It was the smart thing. The right thing.

So why did it feel like I’d just agreed to hand over a bird with wet wings and no clue how high he could fly?

I stared at the wall. What if the pack rejected him? What if they saw him as weak—feral—and chose punishment over patience? What if they didn’t explain the laws so much as beat them into him? He didn’t know the rituals. The expectations. The history. I didn't even know if he could hide his claws when angry.

And gods, what if he didn’t want to go? What if I broke the trust he shoved into my lap?

I groaned and flipped onto my back, flinging one arm over my eyes.

It wasn’t my job to worry. It wasn’t my place to hold onto every stray that wandered through the trees and laid themselves at my feet like some lost offering.

Except maybe it was.

Maybe that was the whole d@!xed problem.

—

By dawn, I gave up on pretending to rest. I tossed on the same leggings from yesterday, wrinkled and slightly damp with humidity, and a long cardigan that probably had dried herbs stuck in the sleeves. No bra. No regrets.

I shuffled into the kitchen, hoping the ritual of brewing coffee would trick my mind into some semblance of clarity. But as I passed the front window, I saw the porch was already occupied.

And there he was.

The werewolf—whose name I still hadn’t bothered to ask for—sat on the steps, his back to the rising sun, holding two mismatched mugs.

He turned when he heard the door open, and without saying a word, he held one of them out to me.

Steam rose in lazy curls. It smelled like the good kind—strong, bitter, possibly resurrected from the dead.

“You made coffee?” I asked suspiciously, taking the mug anyway.

“I paid attention yesterday,” he said, gaze flicking away like he didn’t want me to see him watching.

I took a tentative sip. It was shockingly good. D@!n him.

He shifted on the step to make space for me, and I sat beside him, tucking my legs up to my chest as I balanced the mug in both hands.

The porch was quiet except for the rustling of early birds in the brush and the faint tap-tap of Cleopatra pecking at something on the far side of the garden.

“You always up this early?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Same.”

We sat like that for a while. No rush. No questions. Just two people sharing the fragile hush of morning, like we were afraid talking too loud might shatter it.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “Thank you. For letting me stay.”

I didn’t look at him. “You didn’t give me much choice, remember? You were practically nesting on my porch.”

“That was before your goose tried to murder me.”

I smiled faintly. “It’s her love language.”

He chuckled—quiet and low, the kind of sound that lingered long after it passed.

“Still,” he added after a pause, “you could’ve turned me in. Or turned me into something. You didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.”

He looked down into his mug. “I’m not sure I want to go.”

That caught me off guard.

I looked over at him, but he wasn’t looking back. His expression was neutral, but his grip on the mug had tightened just slightly. The quiet kind of tension. Not desperate, just... honest. There's a past there.

But he didn’t follow it up with a question or a request. He didn’t try to argue his way into staying. He just let the words hang there, soft and vulnerable, like he was placing them gently into my hands without asking me to hold them.

"Thea."

"Dylan."

I didn’t know what else to say.

So I drank my coffee.

We stayed like that for a while, the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled.

The sun crept over the treetops, brushing the dew-covered leaves in gold. Cleopatra waddled through the garden like she was inspecting her crops for magical sabotage. Every so often, she gave a warning honk to a squirrel, just to remind everyone who ruled here.

“I’ve never seen a place like this,” he said eventually, voice low and thoughtful.

I glanced sideways. “Like what?”

“Quiet. Alive, but... still.” He gestured vaguely at the rows of herbs, the creeping vines, the tangled wildflowers that spilled over the garden edges like the plants refused to stay polite. “Feels like everything breathes here.”

I smiled a little. “It does. You just have to know how to listen.”

We sipped in silence again, the morning warm but forgiving. The air smelled like sage and early summer.

“You’re good with plants,” he said after a moment.

“Plants make more sense than people,” I said without thinking.

He nodded, like he understood that a little too well.

A crow cawed somewhere above us, sharp and clear. A message. Or maybe a reminder.

I sighed. “Time to go.”

His mug froze halfway to his mouth. “Already?”

“Afraid so.” I stood and stretched my arms over my head until my spine popped. “Alpha expects punctuality. Not to mention, I’d rather not explain to a wolf patrol why a rogue is hanging around my property again. Some of them are twitchy.”

He stood reluctantly, brushing his hand over his pants as if hoping to stall. “Right. Okay.”

I stepped inside first, careful not to spill my remaining coffee as I crossed into the living room. He followed, his movements slower, more measured now.

With one fluid motion, I set my mug down and cleared the rug at the center of the floor with a flick of my hand. Beneath it, the pentagram carved into the floor glowed faintly, the crystal points inlaid at each star tip pulsing like a heartbeat waiting to be summoned.

“You ready?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes traced the glowing sigils, the faint shimmer of old magic woven into every wooden board.

“Yeah,” he said, even though his voice didn’t match the word.

I stepped into the center and held out a hand.

He hesitated, then took it.

The moment our fingers touched, the magic recognized us.

The room tilted. The air thickened like honey. The glow beneath our feet flared blinding white, and the familiar tug of teleportation hit—less like falling and more like slipping sideways through the seam of reality.

We landed solidly a second later, boots on pine needles and soft dirt, in the heart of a clearing that reeked of wild magic and musk. Birds scattered overhead in protest. The trees around us stood taller, thicker, like sentinels guarding a border.

And just ahead, through the shadows of the woods, was a line of tall stones marking the edge of werewolf territory.

Thea dropped his hand and stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” I said without looking back. “Show your neck, not your pride. And whatever you do—don’t bare your teeth.”

“Right,” he murmured, straightening his shoulders even as the tension in his jaw ticked.

I finally glanced back and gave him a small, reassuring nod.

“Ready or not, it’s time to meet the alpha.”