Chapter Four

By the time the meeting finally ended, I was convinced we could’ve planned a small coup and finished faster. My brain felt like a scrambled potion—too many ingredients, not enough filtering, and just a hint of burning regret.

Dragging my boots along the forest path, I muttered curses to the breeze. Babysitter. Peacemaker. They might as well have branded my forehead with “Designated Adult.” I could already feel the future migraines brewing like one of Brenna’s overzealous vials.

When I reached the cottage, everything seemed...off. The herbs swayed unnaturally. The windows looked too clean. And there was a muffled sound—half-yell, half-whimper—coming from above.

I squinted.

And sure enough, there he was.

The rogue werewolf was dangling halfway up the old sycamore tree in my front yard, clinging for dear life to a branch that was never meant to support full-grown men. His eyes were wide with panic, his legs tucked up as if the ground was lava.

“What in the seven hells...?”

He spotted me and shouted, “You could’ve warned me!”

I blinked. “About what?”

He just pointed wildly downward.

I followed his trembling finger to the source of the chaos: Cleopatra.

My goose.

Large, white, and currently honking furiously while flapping her wings with the fury of a thousand banshees. She was circling the tree like a sentry—no, like a dragon guarding her hoard—with a look that promised violence and then some.

I put my hands on my hips. “Cleo! Heel!”

The goose paused, turned her head slowly toward me like a villain in a slow-burn horror film, then waddled over with a smug gurgle and nestled herself against my boot. Her beady eyes still locked onto the tree like she hadn’t given up her dream of drawing blood.

I gave her a pat. “Good girl. You kept the homestead safe from the big scary puppy, huh?”

A pained grunt came from the branches. “That thing is possessed.”

“First of all, don’t be rude. Cleopatra is a noble creature. Secondly...” I trailed off and leaned back, hands behind me innocently. “She only shows up during migration. How was I supposed to warn you?”

“You own a seasonal attack goose?!”

“She owns herself, actually,” I corrected. “She just honors me with her biannual chaos.”

“Get. Me. Down.”

“Oh, you got up there just fine,” I said with a grin. “What happened, exactly?”

He pointed at his shoulder. “I stepped outside to collect your stupid blue frog like you asked, and that feathered hellspawn charged me. I panicked. I climbed. I’ve been up here for an hour.”

“Did you get the frog?”

He groaned in response.

I gave Cleopatra another pat before making a casual flick of my fingers. A gentle pulse of magic shimmered through the air, and the branch lowered him down like a cranky elevator. He dropped the last foot with a thud and stumbled onto the grass. Immediately, Cleopatra honked again and took a threatening step forward.

He leapt back.

I stifled a laugh behind my hand. “You should probably bow. She likes respect.”

“I’m not bowing to a goose,” he snapped.

“She defeated you.”

“That was self-defense!”

“Against an eleven-pound bird.”

He glared at me but wisely didn’t argue further. I watched as Cleopatra turned her back to him in clear judgment, then waddled toward the garden like she’d finished cleansing the area of its intruders.

I stretched my arms overhead, yawned, and finally walked toward the door.

“Come on,” I called over my shoulder. “You survived a council meeting and Cleopatra in the same day. That practically makes you part of the family.”

“Lucky me.”

“Also, I got promoted,” I said smugly. “I’m your official babysitter now.”

“I changed my mind. The goose was the lesser evil.”

I grinned. “Too late. Welcome to the family.”

We made our way back inside the cottage, the door creaking open like it always did when the humidity got smug about its presence. The familiar scent of dried herbs and leftover spell smoke wrapped around us like a heavy blanket. I toed off my boots, watching him glance warily over his shoulder—as if Cleopatra might come charging through the wall like a feathered battering ram.

“You’re safe,” I said, raising an eyebrow as I padded barefoot across the floor. “Unless you’ve made eye contact with my broom. She’s temperamental.”

He shot me a look but didn’t comment. Instead, he followed me into the kitchen, ducking slightly through the doorway. It still surprised me how tall he was when he wasn’t all fur and teeth.

I reached for my mug—thankfully not the orange one that Darcy shattered earlier—and poured what was left of this morning’s lukewarm coffee into it. I didn't offer him any. He didn’t ask. A quiet hung in the room, thick but not uncomfortable.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “So… what happens next?”

I took a sip and let the question settle. I knew it was coming, and I knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Hell, I didn’t like it either.

I shrugged. “The rituals are in a few days. And this gathering—it’s political theater wrapped in a magical performance. Everyone’s watching. Everything matters.”

He didn’t respond.

I glanced at him, noting how his jaw tightened just slightly.

“You’re not staying here,” I said softly but plainly.

His head turned, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“You need to learn pack law. Protocol. Structure. You’re a werewolf, and the rituals... they’re sacred. Territorial. If you stay here, you’ll get chewed up by politics before the full moon rises.”

“I’ve made it this long on my own.”

I gave a short laugh. “You were hanging from a tree because of a goose.”

He looked away.

I leaned my hip against the counter. “You need to know their hierarchy, their expectations. Right now, you’re a rogue without ties. You’re vulnerable, and you don’t even know the rules you’re breaking.”

“And you’re just going to send me off?” His voice was quiet but sharp. “To a pack I’ve never met?”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

His expression was guarded, but his fists had clenched slightly at his sides. His stance was defensive, sure—but beneath it was something raw. Not anger. Not really.

I softened. “I don’t want to throw you to the wolves, metaphorically or otherwise. But I can’t protect you from a world you don’t understand. And I can’t keep you here when everything’s about to get... messy.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked around the room—his eyes trailing the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, the crooked bookshelf packed with leather-bound chaos, the long-since-dead potted plant I refused to get rid of out of spite.

Finally, he asked, “Do you trust them?”

“The pack?” I tilted my head. “Somewhat. Enough. They’ll recognize you for what you are—untethered, raw. They’ll teach you how to stand your ground.”

“And after the rituals?”

I hesitated, fingers tracing the chipped edge of my mug.

“That depends on you,” I said honestly. “On what you want. Where you belong.”

He nodded slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t argue again, but something in his posture shifted. Like he wanted to say more, but the words tangled somewhere between thought and throat.

Instead, he asked, “When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” I said.

He didn’t flinch, but I saw it land. Just a flicker. A silent, sinking moment.

He pushed off the counter. “I’ll sleep on the couch then.”

I almost stopped him. Almost. But something held me back.

So I just said, “You can take the quilt with the moons stitched into it. It’s warmer.”

He gave me a brief nod before walking toward the living room.

I didn’t look back until he was gone.