Lenora gives me space.
Not in a dramatic, storm-out-of-the-room kind of way. But in that subtle, careful way she does when she knows I’m unraveling.
This whole incident—getting nearly beaten to death by her charming cousin and somehow recovering in record time—has made everything feel too real. It’s one thing to see someone shift into a wolf. To hear people talk about magic and packs and bonds like it’s all normal. But it’s another thing entirely to feel bones realign under your skin. To wake up healed. Whole. Stronger than you have any right to be.
There’s no going back now.
No filing it away in the "weird shit" drawer and pretending it didn’t happen.
I rub my eyes, still seated at the small kitchen table. It’s quiet in here. The window above the sink lets in soft light filtered through the trees, and something about the creak of the floorboards and the ticking clock on the wall makes it feel almost domestic.
Because I’m sitting in a literal werewolf’s house. Recovering from a supernatural fistfight. With a woman who says she’s my mate.
And yet—somehow—I feel oddly... safe.
Unfortunately, Lenora is also right about something else.
The scent hits me first. Rich, seared meat and rosemary. I glance at the plate she left on the table—steak, roasted potatoes, some kind of garlic-butter green beans. My stomach lets out a traitorous growl.
I stare at the plate for a beat longer, like it might judge me for giving in.
The steak is perfect. Tender and flavorful and cooked just how I like it. I shouldn’t be surprised—she’s been quietly taking care of me for days, apparently. Still, there’s something intimate about it. This little act of feeding me. Like she knows me in ways I haven’t given her permission to.
The food settles something in me I didn’t realize was fraying. The edges dull a bit. My thoughts stop spinning so wildly.
I’m halfway through the plate when I hear her footsteps.
Lenora enters the kitchen slowly, barefoot, wearing one of those soft oversized shirts she seems to live in when she’s not out in the woods being terrifying. Her hair’s damp like she just showered. She looks at me like she’s trying to read the room—trying to decide whether I’m about to bolt again or flip a table or yell.
I swallow the bite in my mouth and meet her eyes.
"...Thanks," I say quietly, gesturing to the plate.
Her face lights up in a way that twists something in my chest. It’s not a big smile—just the hint of one, soft and careful. Like she didn’t expect me to say anything at all.
"You’re welcome," she replies, her voice just as soft.
She doesn’t move to sit. Just leans against the doorway, arms crossed like she’s keeping herself from getting too close.
We sit in that silence for a while. I eat. She watches, but not in a weird way. More like... she’s waiting for me to say something else.
"I don’t know how to feel about all this," I admit, setting my fork down.
"This place. You. Me apparently turning into Wolverine."
That gets the barest huff of a laugh out of her.
I blink, surprised. It’s soft—barely there—but unmistakably a laugh.
I glance up, and she catches my expression. Her mouth tilts upward in amusement.
"As if reading my mind," I mutter.
She shrugs one shoulder, casual but elegant. "Ronan made sure I was up to date with culture."
"Culture," I echo, arching a brow.
"Movies. Memes. The art of sarcasm," she says, leaning against the kitchen doorframe with a ghost of a smirk.
The silence returns—not awkward, not heavy. Just... present. The kind that exists when two people are figuring each other out from opposite sides of the same room. We stay like that for a beat. I finish the last bite of steak, setting my fork down carefully as if that’ll buy me more time.
"I’m sorry," I murmur, eyes on the table. "For the way I reacted."
There’s a pause—long enough that I almost regret saying anything.
"It’s okay," she says gently.
I finally look up. Her arms are crossed now, but her shoulders aren’t tense. She’s not closed off. Her gaze meets mine without flinching.
"It’s not okay," I say, because I mean it. "I was a dick. You were just trying to help me and I—"
"You were scared," she interrupts, not unkindly. "You had every right to be and that’s okay."
For the first I think, I don’t deserve her.