Chapter 18 - Raegan
The sound of someone rummaging through kitchen cabinets pulls me from my textbook at midnight.
I look up from the Llewelyn political theory I’ve been reading to distract myself from tomorrow’s strategy meeting. Wyn stands in the doorway, looking as exhausted as I feel. Dark circles ring his gray eyes, and his usually perfect posture sags with fatigue.
“Sorry,” he says when he notices me at the small table. “Didn’t know you were still awake.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I close the book and watch as he moves to the cabinets and starts pulling out ingredients. “What are you doing?”
“Making dinner. Late dinner.” He sets a jar of pasta sauce on the counter. “Realized neither of us has eaten since this morning.”
He’s right. The day became a marathon of intelligence briefings and tactical discussions that left no time for meals. My stomach growls in response to his observation.
“You don’t have to cook for me,” I tell him.
“I know.” He fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove. “But I’m making enough for two anyway.”
Something about the way he moves around the kitchen catches my attention.
He pulls ingredients from cabinets but pauses and then glances at the ones I’ve moved to the front of the rack and opts to use those instead.
Small adjustments I’ve made to his space over the past few weeks—things he’s noticed and accommodated without comment.
“Garlic bread?” he asks as he pulls out a box of them from the freezer.
“How did you know I like garlic bread?”
“You always order it when we get takeout from that Italian place.”
The observation surprises me. I didn’t realize he was watching my food preferences during the few awkward meals we’ve shared over the past few weeks.
“Sure,” I agree, setting my book aside. “Need help?”
“You can handle the salad if you want.”
We work side by side in comfortable silence. For the first time since our forced marriage, the atmosphere between us feels…almost calm. Normal, to some degree.
“This is nice,” I admit as I chop tomatoes.
“What is?”
“Cooking together. Feels almost…normal.”
Wyn pauses in stirring the sauce. “Normal’s not something I’ve had much experience with.”
“What do you mean?”
“Growing up on the outskirts after my parents died. Never really learned how families are supposed to work.” He adds herbs to the sauce and tastes it with a wooden spoon. “Maude took me in, but she had her hands full with pack business. Mostly fended for myself.”
I want to ask about his parents, about what happened to his family. I know the basics—Oren has told me some things—but I’ve always been curious about the details. But I don’t want to ruin the moment, so instead, I focus on the salad.
“What was it like?” he asks. “In Llewelyn territory?”
“Different. Good different, mostly.” I pour dressing over the greens. “The matriarchal structure takes some getting used to if you grow up here, but it has advantages.”
“Such as?”
“Education isn’t limited by gender or rank. Omegas can pursue whatever interests them without constantly being told they’re too fragile. Women make decisions about their own futures.”
“Unlike here,” he quietly notes.
“Unlike here,” I confirm.
The pasta timer goes off, saving us from dwelling on that particular reality. Wyn drains the noodles while I set the table, and soon, we’re sitting across from each other with actual plates of food instead of grabbed snacks between meetings.
“This is really good,” I tell him after the first bite.
“My mother’s recipe. One of the few things I remember about her cooking.”
“How old were you when they died?”
Wyn sets down his fork, and I immediately regret the question. But after a moment, he answers.
“Fifteen. Old enough to understand what happened, young enough for it to destroy everything I thought I knew about the world.”
“What happened?”
“Pack conflict when I was young,” he explains. “My father…he made choices that didn’t end well for our family.”
“What kind of choices?”
Wyn is quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. “He was respected once. Had standing in the pack. But when it mattered most, when he was challenged….” He trails off, shaking his head. “He failed. Both my parents died because of it, and I was left with nothing but a tainted bloodline.”
The shame he feels vibrates through our connection, but I don’t need my psychic abilities to sense it. I can hear it in his voice—the burden of carrying his father’s perceived cowardice, the loss of status and standing.
“That’s why you rejected me,” I realize. “Because you thought I deserved better than someone whose family fell from grace.”
Wyn’s hand stills halfway to his mouth. “Partly, but yes. An alpha’s sister shouldn’t be tied to someone like me.”
“What was the other part?”
“You were twenty, Raegan. Barely finished with your basic education, sheltered by your brother from most of the harsh realities of pack life.” He sets down his fork and adds, “I was carrying baggage you couldn’t even imagine.
And yes, you deserved better than someone whose family name was a stain on pack history. ”
“That wasn’t your choice to make.”
He snorts and asks, “You think Oren would have welcomed me as a brother-in-law under any other circumstances than the ones we’re in? The son of traitors claiming his precious sister as a mate?”
I press my lips together as I realize he’s not entirely wrong. Oren’s protective instincts, combined with the politics of pack leadership, would have made our relationship incredibly difficult.
Still, he should’ve let me decide if I thought we would be worth it.
“So instead you decided to make the choice for me,” I continue. “Told me I was wrong about the mate bond, let me think there was something defective about my instincts.”
“I never said you were defective.”
“You didn’t have to. When someone tells you that what you feel most strongly isn’t real, it makes you question everything else.”
Wyn reaches across the table and covers my hand with his.
“I’ve regretted it every single day for three years.
Every morning, I wake up knowing I hurt the most important person in my world to protect her from a future she might not have wanted.
That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.
But the truth is, I hurt you because I was a coward who convinced himself he was being noble. ”
Tears start building in my eyes, but I blink them back.
“I missed you,” he continues. “Every single day you were gone. I kept track of your progress in school, your achievements, whether you were safe. Told myself it was enough to know you were happy.”
“I wasn’t happy,” I tell him. “I was surviving.”
“I know that now.”
“Do you? Because part of me has been waiting for three years for you to come after me. To show up and say you made a mistake, that you wanted to try again.” I turn my hand palm up so our fingers can intertwine. “Instead, you kidnapped me.”
“I did.”
“Why? Why that way instead of just asking?”
Wyn stares at our joined hands as he responds, “Because asking would have meant facing the possibility that you’d learned to live without me. That you might say no. And I hate myself for it.”
The confession settles between us like a bridge we’ve been afraid to cross. Not forgiveness, not yet, but understanding. A glimpse of the fears and shame that drove him to such drastic measures.
“The kidnapping was unforgivable,” I tell him. “But I think I’m beginning to understand why you did it.”
“Does that help?”
“Maybe. A little.” I squeeze his fingers. “It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps me see you as someone who made terrible choices out of fear rather than someone who never cared about my feelings.”
“I’ve always cared about your feelings. Too much, probably.”
When the plates are empty, Wyn starts to clear the table, but I catch his wrist.
“Leave them,” I suggest. “They’ll still be waiting for us in the morning.”
“You sure?”
Instead of answering, I lead him to the living room, where an old couch sits facing the unused fireplace. We take our seats beside each other, not quite touching but close enough to share warmth.
“What were you studying?” he asks, nodding toward the book I abandoned.
“Comparative government structures. Research for a paper I’ll probably never finish now that we’re at war.”
“What was your thesis?”
“That traditional pack hierarchies create more problems than they solve, but they persist because changing them requires admitting that generations of leaders were wrong about fundamental assumptions.”
“Sounds like something that would get you in trouble here.”
“Probably. Good thing I was planning to stay in Llewelyn territory after graduation.”
“Were you?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Before all this? Yes. I was going to apply for advanced degrees, maybe work in their diplomatic corps. Seemed like a better option than coming home to fight for scraps of respect.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know. Everything’s changed.”
Wyn turns to face me. “What if we survive this war? What if we figure out how to work as actual partners instead of adversaries? Would you consider staying?”
The question I’ve been avoiding since our night together is finally there, right in my face. Would I consider staying married to Wyn, building a life with him, if he could prove we’re more than just political convenience?
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Ask me again when we’re not facing extinction.”
“Fair enough.”
We talk for another hour about smaller things—books we’ve read, places we’ve traveled, memories from before everything became about survival and strategy. Gradually, exhaustion wins over conversation, and I find my eyelids growing heavy.
“We should get some sleep,” Wyn suggests, but he makes no move to get up.
“Probably,” I agree without moving either.
Instead, I let my head fall against his shoulder. He goes stiff for a moment, then relaxes before he wraps an arm around me to hold me closer.
“Raegan?”
“Mmm?”
“Thank you for giving me a chance to explain. I know I don’t deserve it.”
“Maybe not,” I concede against his shirt, “but maybe understanding each other is more important than deserving anything.”
He strokes my hair, gentle and soothing, and I feel myself drifting toward sleep. For the first time since he kidnapped me, I’m not angry about being here. Not happy, exactly, but not angry, either.
Something that might be contentment settles over me as sleep pulls me under. Tomorrow we’ll go back to war planning and survival strategies, but tonight feels like the beginning of something that could eventually become a real partnership.
Maybe even something that could become love, if we’re both brave enough to let it.