38. Threaded Promises Unravel

Hannah tasted iron and cold when she woke, a small, private panic that had nothing to do with the morning stew and everything to do with an absence. Marcus wasn't in the bed beside her; his scent - cedar, smoke, wolf-sweat - had faded from the blanket. She pushed aside the damp wool and walked through the longhouse like someone scanning a map for a missing landmark.

She found the yard lit by a thin sun. Men sharpened spears. Women braided hair and talked of linens. Cora sat on the low bench near the drying racks, hands cupping the curve of her belly as if teaching it the shape of the world. Marcus was there now, close enough that his shoulder brushed Cora's, his laugh soft and private. The sight thudded into Hannah the way a silver blade had once cut - sharp, sudden, alive with danger.

"Hannah." Marcus's voice when he saw her was careful, the way a man pulls back a curtain for fear of what the light will show. He moved to her with a measured pace, palm finding hers. The gesture should have steadied her; instead it felt performative, a touch for presence rather than partnership.

"You promised you'd be visible," she said, the words precise as a charge. "Where have you been? I can't find you at night."

He glanced at Cora, then back at her. The pause widened into the small, plain truth that had begun to hollow her. "I've been here," Marcus said. "With Cora. The midwife likes someone near. The pup needs to feel a father's steadiness. It's important."

"It feels like you're moving in with her," Hannah said. The accusation landed without heat - too exhausted for theatrics - but it dug at him. Around them, the yard continued: a barter, a child's shout, the ordinary sounds of a pack living as if nothing were fraying.

Marcus squeezed her fingers, as if he could tether her with pressure. "Hannah, you said you wanted me to be seen. I am. I'm being what this pack needs right now."

"I'm asking to be seen as more than what they need," she answered. "You told me you wouldn't let rumor be our map. You told me you'd choose us."

He looked inside himself like someone hunting for an answer he hadn't wanted to confront. "This is temporary," he said finally. "You have to be patient. The pup - it will be better if the father is present. I swore to protect the pack and the future. You know I don't mean to wound you."

The admission softened him but didn't change the hollow growing in her. Patience had been a promise once; now it read like a leash. Hannah felt the old scar on her wrist throb where his thumb rested over it, a tiny, living memory of the silver blade and the night everything shifted. She could name the cost the pack's stability demanded; she could count every quiet compromise.

"Patience isn't the same as waiting to be chosen," she said. "If you want me to hold that, show me how I'm being chosen."

He swallowed, and when he spoke again there was more hunger than defense in his voice. "I will show you. I promise - "

Hannah let the promise hang like a lantern between them. It was the vulnerable truth she needed, but promises without consequence had hollowed before. She drew back a breath that smelled of pine and resignation and met his gaze with steady eyes.

"Then prove it tonight," she said. "Not words. Not gestures in public. Be where I can find you when the longhouse sleeps."

He nodded, and the nod carried an intention she couldn't yet measure. Around them, life moved on - linens, midwives, the low hum of a pack arranging its future - and Hannah kept her hands uncurling, waiting to see whether his claim would be warmth or shadow.