Chapter Six

Ellie went to bed early. Not because she was tired, but because the pack house was starting to feel like a pressure cooker.

Downstairs, people were arguing over streamers like it was a matter of life or death. Someone’s laughter sounded too sharp; someone’s music was too loud. The whole building had that twitchy, electric hum that always preceded a major Shift.

And tomorrow—technically today, once the clock hit midnight—was hers. Her birthday. Her coming of age ceremony.

She lay on her back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, one hand pressed over the necklace hidden beneath her t-shirt. It was warm—hot, actually—pulsing with a steady, low rhythm that felt less like jewelry and more like a second heart.

A soft knock cut through the noise of her thoughts.

It wasn’t the heavy, authoritative rap of her father or the frantic tapping of her friends. It was hesitant. Careful.

Her heart did a stupid, hopeful little kick. “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and Roman stepped in.

He looked like he’d just come from the showers. His dark hair was damp and messy, and he wore a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants and a t-shirt that looked like he’d grabbed it off the floor in a hurry. He looked... human. Not the untouchable warrior he played for the pack, but just *Roman*.

He was holding a DVD case like it was a peace offering. “I brought *Dumb and Dumber*.”

Ellie sat up, pulling the duvet to her chest. “Seriously? A movie? Now?”

He shrugged, but his jaw was tight. He didn't look at her; he looked at the posters on her wall, the books on her desk—anywhere but the bed. “You looked like you were about to have a panic attack at dinner. I thought maybe you needed a distraction.”

“I’m fine, Roman.”

“You’re a terrible liar, El,” he said, finally meeting her eyes.

The air in the room suddenly felt twice as heavy. The space between them seemed to shrink, charged with a weird, static energy. Ellie shifted, her skin feeling too tight for her bones.

“So your solution is Jim Carrey?” she asked, her voice a little breathy.

“It worked when we were twelve,” he murmured, stepping further into the room. “Figured it might still work now.”

He didn't wait for an invite. He set the movie on her nightstand, and for a second, his hand brushed against her arm. It was like a live wire. Ellie jumped, and Roman flinched back, his eyes darkening. He looked at her arm as if he’d accidentally burned her, his nostrils flaring just slightly.

“I’m not great company tonight,” she whispered.

“Good. I’m not here for the conversation.” He looked at her bed, then at the uncomfortable wooden desk chair. “Scoot over. I’m not sitting on that stool; it’s a death trap.”

Ellie hesitated, then moved, making room on the mattress.

Roman sat down, and the bed dipped under his weight. He was so close she could smell him—not just the soap and the damp hair, but the *him* of it. It was woodsmoke and rain and something deep and musky that made her wolf pace in circles.

The movie started, but neither of them were watching.

Every time Roman shifted, his shoulder rubbed against hers. Every time he laughed—that low, vibration-heavy sound—it felt like it was humming right through her skin. The sexual tension was thick enough to choke on. She could see the corded muscle of his forearm resting just inches from her thigh, the dark hair against his tan skin, and all she could think about was what it would feel like if he just... reached out.

Halfway through, the humor died. The silence of the room felt loud.

“Why did you stop?” Ellie asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

Roman went still. “Stop what?”

“Being my friend. Being... *you*.” She turned her head to look at him. “You spent three years looking through me like I was a ghost. You were everywhere, Roman. You were with every girl in the pack, you were at every party, but you were never with me.”

Roman’s jaw flexed so hard she thought his teeth might crack. He stared at the TV screen, but his eyes were blown wide.

“I was a mess, Ellie,” he said, his voice dropping into a rough growl.

“That’s a cop-out.”

“No, it’s the truth.” He turned to her then, and the intensity in his gaze made her want to back away and move closer all at once. “I was angry. All the time. I was doing things... I was someone I didn't want you to know.”

“I heard you tonight,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “In your room. With some girl.”

Roman closed his eyes, a look of genuine physical pain crossing his face. “Ellie, don't.”

“Why do you do it? If it makes you look like that, why do you do it?”

“Because I had to put the fire somewhere!” he snapped, then immediately lowered his voice, sounding raw. “Because you were the only thing in this entire hellhole of a pack that felt clean. And I knew if I stayed close to you, I’d ruin it. I’d ruin *you*.”

“You don't get to decide that for me,” she said, her voice shaking.

Roman’s eyes flickered down to her lips, then back up. The hunger there was terrifying. It wasn't just "friendship" hunger. It was something predatory, something ancient. He reached out, his hand hovering near her face before his fingers finally grazed her cheek. His skin was scorching.

Roman’s breath hitched, a ragged sound that vibrated against her skin. He looked like he was fighting a war with himself, but as Ellie’s hand slid upward, the last of his control snapped.

He leaned in, his mouth crashing against hers with a desperate, starved intensity. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was an admission. Ellie gasped into his mouth, her fingers bunching in his shirt to pull him flush against her. His hands moved with a feverish urgency, sliding under the hem of her shirt and dragging the fabric up and over her head until it was tossed somewhere into the dark.

The contact of his bare palms against her skin made her vision swim. Roman’s hands roamed her back and sides before drifting lower, his fingers hooking firmly into the waistband of her pants. He began to push the fabric down, his touch possessive and heavy—but then, his entire body went rigid.

He stopped.

With a low, pained groan, he pulled his hand back and recoiled as if he’d been burned. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, his voice thick and broken. “Ellie, I’m sorry. I almost... I shouldn't have gone that far.”

Ellie sat up, her skin cooling in the room's air, her heart still hammering against her ribs. The rejection stung worse than the silence. “Why do you do that?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and hurt. “Why is it so easy for you to do whatever you want with other women, but with me, you act like I’m made of glass? Like it’s a crime to touch me?”

Roman didn't turn around, but she saw his shoulders drop. “Because they don't matter,” he whispered, the honesty in his voice cutting through the dark. “And you’re the only thing that does.”

The room went silent for a long, heavy beat. He didn't leave, but he didn't reach for her again. Eventually, he lay back down on top of the duvet, his body a stiff line of tension. Ellie hesitated, then crawled toward him, draping her leg over his hip. Through the fabric of his jeans, she felt the unmistakable, rigid hardness of him—a silent proof of the battle he was still fighting.

He didn't pull away. He hauled her against his side, his arm acting as a pillow for her head. Ellie curled into him, her face pressed against the crook of his neck. The heat coming off him was like a furnace, and slowly, the restless, buzzing anxiety in her chest went quiet.

She fell asleep to the sound of his heart—steady, fast, and loud.

———-

When she woke up, the room was bathed in the grey, watery light of dawn.

The bed was cold. Roman was gone.

Ellie sat up, rubbing her face. Her skin felt electric, her senses dialed up to an eleven. She could hear a bird chirping three trees away. She could smell the coffee brewing two floors down.

She looked at the clock. It was 6:00 AM.

The day of the ceremony had arrived. She was eighteen. And as she stood up, the necklace around her neck didn't just pulse—it burned.