Mated To My Stepbrother
Anchor.
Dusk was painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges when Novah returned to the common room. Meredith was mending a tunic by the firelight, her needles clicking softly. Torin stood by the window, looking out at the darkening courtyard, his silhouette a stark cutout against the fading light. The room was warm, smelling of herbs, woodsmoke, and the simple stew Meredith had prepared.
Novah sank into a chair by the fire, the warmth seeping into her bones. The day’s efforts – the forge, Maren’s grief, the communion with her wolf – had left her feeling scraped thin, yet strangely settled.
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