I think I’m getting the hang of it.
The shifting, the senses, the strength—yeah, I’m managing. But it’s a strange duality. I’m glad I’m adjusting, but also... kind of uncomfortable with how natural it’s starting to feel. It’s like the longer I’m here, the more Cameron Anderson—the version of me I built, fought for, branded into my DNA—slips through my fingers.
Like I’m turning into someone else.
I glance up from where I’m stacking firewood, and there she is. Lenora. Laughing at something Ronan’s saying, her hands on her hips, her face tilted toward the sun. Her shorts are criminal. Absolutely unfair. And the worst part? She knows it. She turns, like she felt me looking, and smirks with that wolfy, all-knowing expression.
Then she goes back to talking like nothing happened.
I blink. She can’t actually read my thoughts... right?
"Such humble accommodations, boss," a voice says behind me.
She’s in one of her usual flowy skirts, bangles clinking with every movement, something vaguely incense-y trailing behind her like a warning bell. Simone always looks like she just walked out of a poetry reading or a moon ritual. I should have known she would turn out to be a witch.
"It’s not that bad," I say, a little more defensive than I meant to sound.
Okay, maybe it’s small. And maybe the pipes groan when you take a shower longer than ten minutes.
"Anyway," she says, shifting gears. "I’ve got the intel you asked for."
I nod, motioning for her to continue. She gets into it—dropping facts I didn’t even know I needed. Apparently, most wolves don’t live in the little town hub. The cabin model is the norm—scattered homes tucked into the forest, mostly hidden from outsiders. The actual population is around 3,000, which is way more than I thought. For a place that looks like a sleepy commune from the outside, it’s surprisingly complex.
She talks about the structure, the quiet routines, the deeply rooted politics. Apparently, not everything is as serene as it looks. There’s tension. Pressure simmering beneath the soil. Two factions, slowly drawing lines in the dirt—one that stands with Eamon, and the other with his brother.
Apparently, bloodlines matter here more than I realized. And Eamon’s brother... is not someone they like to talk about.
Simone also updates me on her witchy lessons, whatever those entail. She says she’s making progress. Soon, we’ll need to "show our faces in person" again—back to the life we left behind. A reminder that the outside world still exists. That I still have obligations.
Eventually, Simone makes her exit. With Ronan.
That bastard gives Lenora a lingering hug. A deliberate, too-long, clearly-provocative, infuriating hug. And he grins when he catches me watching. I swear he’s doing it just to piss me off.
Lenora rolls her eyes as he walks away, like she’s used to this brand of testosterone-fueled nonsense. But she doesn’t push me away when I wrap an arm around her waist afterward. Doesn’t say anything when I nose into her neck and breathe her in like she’s oxygen.
She just leans into me, humming quietly.
I like the way Ronan always does this to Cameron. It’s hilarious, really.
He leans in for those long, smug hugs, always a second too long, always with that teasing little wink over Cameron’s shoulder like, "What are you going to do about it, city boy?"
Cameron doesn’t know it—doesn’t realize he’s being played like a fiddle—but if he were really angry, truly angry, Ronan wouldn’t have an arm anymore. That’s how I know.
This isn’t rage. It’s mild irritation. Which makes it even funnier.
Another flare of emotion slams through the bond, hot and sharp, and I freeze with my fingers halfway through braiding my hair.
It’s like a pulse of heat right beneath my skin, and I almost choke on my own breath.
Like wants me wants me.
Weeks. It’s been weeks since the last time we did anything. I’ve tried everything short of sitting in his lap naked and spelling it out. He dodges. Every time.
Every time I imply we get together again, he redirects. Subtle, soft, but firm.
And it’s not because he doesn’t want me. The bond makes that very clear. No one feels this much lust and tension and does nothing by accident.
Which means he’s doing it on purpose.
Now I think he’s just scared. Of himself. Of me. Of whatever this is.
Well, I won’t coerce him into something he doesn’t want to do. That’s not who I am.
But I am going to release this tension in my body before I either implode or mount him in the middle of the damn cabin.
"Care for a spar?" I say, stretching my arms overhead with a faux innocent smile. Definitely not because I want a legally sanctioned reason to beat the ever-loving hesitation out of my mate.
"A spar?" he echoes, blinking at me like I’ve suggested we bathe in lava.
"Yes." I grin, all sharp teeth and sweetness. "Just a light one."
He tilts his head. "Are you sure?"
Oh. Oh, he’s worried about me?
Someone’s been drinking too much of his own testosterone.
"I mean, I’m sure I can handle it," I say, not revealing that I am, in fact, one of the best fighters in the whole damn pack. I had to be. Because sometimes male wolves don’t understand the word No.
Sometimes I had to break bones to make the message clear: I don’t want you. I don’t belong to anyone. And I will gut you if you touch me again.
Cameron hesitates, sweet as always. "I don’t want to hurt you..." he says.
It means he’s still thinking of me as something fragile. A dainty thing he might accidentally bruise.
I almost laugh. You’re as strong as your mate, I want to tell him. That’s how the bond works. It’s why half the wolves in this region used to foam at the mouth imagining I might be theirs. Problem is? They were all too weak.
Let’s see if my mate can actually handle it.
"I’m sure you won’t," I say easily. Then I grin, sharp and toothy. "Come. Let’s go."
He exhales like he’s indulging me.