The panic ebbs. I shake—ears, fur, the whole of me—then look down at my legs like a toddler discovering knees. Red fur gleams in the new light, the color of foxglove and fallen leaves. My tail flicks and I startle myself, then huff, transfixed by the appendage. Reid chuffs—wolf for laughter—and if wolves could smile, he would be.
Okay. Fine. I am ridiculous. And a little bit glorious.
I try a step. Two. It feels like learning to walk again. He shadows me patiently. When my paw catches a root, he nudges me steady.When my head swings toward the not-right scent again, he stations himself between me and the dark until my hackles lie flat.
We move like that until the edge of the sky lifts from ink to slate to pearl. The cabin’s wards hum to us from the clearing, a low thrumming welcome.
He doesn’t force me back. He lets me decide, then lets me decide again when I hesitate on the threshold. When I lift my nose to the crack of the open door, he goes first—if there’s danger, I face it first—then waits so I can choose to follow.
I do.
Warmth hits like a blanket fresh from the line. The hearth purrs. The bowl on the table smells faintly of walnuts—crow tax. I huff, amused and human for a second, and then my wolf recedes so quickly that the world swims.
The world lurches sideways as skin replaces fur. Joints realign with a crackling shudder. The shift back steals my knees before I even know I’m falling. I collapse onto the rug, breath stuttering as my body narrows back into its old dimensions—too thin, too bright, toobare.
“Easy.”
Reid’s voice reaches me through the blur, rough from his shift back to human.
I register two things at once: we’re both naked, and he’s not looking at me. His jaw flexes, but his eyes stay averted as he drapes a blanket around my shoulders and pulls me gently into his arms. His hands are warm. His touch is careful and respectful.
And just like that, the fear I’ve carried—silent and crouched behind my ribs ever since he bit me—finally exhales.
“You won’t hurt me.” It’s not a question.
“I won’t,” he says, quiet but unshakable.
It’s not a new promise, but a truth he’s been living since that first night.
Trust lands with a soft, irrevocable click.
The bond surges—hot and honest. It hums, yes, but under it is something stubbornly mine: want blooming wide open. Fate may have delivered him, butIam the one reaching for him.
“You never left,” I whisper. My voice is ragged but sure. “You saw me through the shift. You came after me into the forest.” I tilt my head and meet his eyes. “You stayed.”
His amber eyes kindle. “Of course I did.”
“Not because you had to,” I murmur. “Because you chose to.”
His throat works as he swallows. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to mine, and it’sraw. Tender. A little tormented. His desire is barely leashed. But his restraint is louder.
“Reid,” I whisper. “I-I need you.”
“Scarlett…” My name breaks on his tongue. “You’re weak. You just shifted. I won’t take advantage. Not again. Notever.”
Heat licks up my throat, equal parts frustration and need. I catch his wrist, then his jaw, make him see me. “I’m not asking for fate. I’m asking foryou.For now.” The fire inside me snaps and coalesces into a bright, precise hunger. “Please.”
He swallows. I feel it under my palm. He is a wall built to keep storms out, and right now, the door in that wall swings inward on its hinges.
“I won’t take you,” he says, voice low and sure, like a vow. “Not tonight. But I can… ease you. If you want.”
“I want.” No hesitation. The words feel like stepping into warm, soothing water. “I wantyou.”
Something like relief breaks his face open. “Wait here.”
He’s back before I can miss him, stripping the bed and remaking it with fresh sheets. Something about that thoughtfulness causes a lump to form in my throat. He’s made my comfort a priority from the beginning.
Returning, he scoops me up, his arms a cradle that feels like choice and safety, and carries me the few steps to the bed. The sheets are crisp and cool against my skin.
