Chapter 11 #2
The condescending tone gives me a cold feeling in my stomach, but I’m too exhausted and confused to fight anymore.
“Let me get you settled,” he says, guiding me toward the inn’s entrance. “We can work out all the details later.”
Three days pass in a strange sort of limbo. Andrew visits every day, each time bringing up “the Luna situation,” as he calls it. Each time, I refuse to budge, and each time, his smile gets a little more strained.
“You’re being unreasonable about this,” he says on the third day, his voice taking on an edge I’ve never heard before. “It’s just a cat, Astra. There are more important things to worry about.”
“She’s not just a cat to me,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Fine.” He holds up his hands in surrender, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me uneasy. “We’ll figure something out.”
But I can tell he’s not happy about it. And with each passing day, Andrew seems less like the gentle, understanding man I remembered and more like someone I don’t recognize at all.
When he touches me, I feel nothing. No spark, no flutter of excitement that I used to imagine love would bring. Just emptiness where there should be warmth. But that will come, surely. Once we’re married, once we’ve had time to really be together.
It has to.
One evening, as I’m rummaging through my knapsack, my fingers brush against something smooth and cool. I pull out the small vial I found tossed in the woods the morning my leg finally started to heal.
The bottle is elegant, made of clear glass with intricate etchings around the rim.
I hold it up to the lamplight, and the liquid inside glows with a faint, silver sheen.
This is military-grade healing tonic, the kind used by royal armies and elite warriors—far more valuable than anything I could ever afford.
I knew immediately where it had come from, even though neither Lucian nor I ever even admitted we knew of its existence.
The craftsmanship, the complex scent of rare herbs when I uncorked it to examine the contents…
This was Lucian’s doing. He’d carelessly tossed the bottle away like it was nothing more than trash when he should have known it was worth more than most people see in a lifetime.
I said nothing about it at the time, and neither did he. We maintained the fiction that my sudden recovery was natural, that my body had finally started healing on its own. But I kept the bottle anyway, unable to throw away this tangible proof of...I don’t know what.
Now, sitting alone in this dingy room at the inn, I turn the vial over in my hands, my brow furrowed in confusion.
Why would he do that? Why would someone who said I was annoying, who called me the most irritating person he’d ever met, who told me I was nothing but a burden desperate for scraps of affection—why would that same person use something so expensive just to help me heal?
His words still echo in my mind, sharp and cutting: “You’re so desperate to be wanted that you’ll settle for the first person who shows you basic kindness. You think gratitude is the same thing as love.”
He was cruel. Deliberately, methodically cruel, listing all my faults like he was reading from a ledger. He made it clear that everything about me was irritating, that my very existence was a burden he’d grown tired of carrying.
So, why this? Why save my life and pretend it was nothing?
Luna pads over and settles in my lap, purring as I stroke her fur.
“I don’t understand him, Luna,” I whisper, my voice laden with exhaustion and hurt. “He said such terrible things to me. Made me feel like I was worthless, like I was deluding myself about everything. But he did this.”
The tears come without warning, hot and bitter. I clutch the vial carefully, afraid of breaking this one piece of evidence that maybe, despite his cruel words, I meant something to him.
“Lucian saved us,” I breathe, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. “He took care of us. Why would he do that if he thought I was nothing but a burden?”
Maybe it was just professional obligation. Maybe mercenaries have some code about protecting their charges, even the annoying ones. Maybe he would have done the same for anyone.
But the bottle is too expensive for mere professional duty. Too personal. Too carefully concealed in a way that let me save face while ensuring I received the help I desperately needed.
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I breathe, my voice barely a whisper. “About anything.”
Because when Andrew touches me, I feel nothing. When he talks to me like I’m a child who can’t make decisions, it makes my skin crawl. When he dismisses Luna like she’s garbage, I recoil.
Maybe the weeks in the forest changed me more than I realized. Maybe I’ve been ruined for simple, quiet love by the memory of electric awareness, of feeling truly seen by someone dangerous and complicated.
Or maybe Lucian was right—maybe I am so desperate to be wanted that I’ve convinced myself gratitude is the same thing as love.
I tuck the vial carefully back in my knapsack and try to go to sleep, hoping that tomorrow will bring clarity. That Andrew will seem more like the man I remember. That this hollow feeling in my chest will fade.
But deep down, I can’t escape the growing certainty that I’m trapped in a life that feels like settling for less, holding onto a healing potion from a man who saved me while telling me I wasn’t worth saving.
And I still don’t understand why.
The next morning, Andrew arrives at the inn with a bouquet of wildflowers and that bright smile I remember from our forest meetings. But I’m more tired than I expected, and everything feels slightly off-kilter.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek that feels warm and familiar. “I brought you these. Thought they might brighten up this dreary room.”
“They’re lovely,” I say, accepting the flowers gratefully. “Thank you.”
I arrange them in the water pitcher while he settles into the room’s single chair.
I perch on the edge of the bed, noticing that there’s something comforting about having him here, even if Turnville still feels strange to me.
I don’t like this town. Something about it feels wrong, though I can’t put my finger on what.
“I’ve been thinking about our future,” Andrew says, and his excitement seems genuine. “About the herb shop, about all the incredible things we can accomplish together.”
“I’d love to see the shop,” I say hopefully. “You’ve told me so much about it over the years. Can we go today?”
“Soon, darling. I’m still getting it ready for you. Making sure everything is perfect.” He leans forward with interest. “But tell me more about these new preparations you mentioned yesterday. The ones you developed yourself.”
I pull out my herb pouch, eager to share my work with someone who will appreciate it. “This combination helps with joint pain,” I explain, showing him the carefully dried herbs. “And this tincture can reduce fever and inflammation in humans. It’s much gentler than what most doctors prescribe.”
His eyes light up with genuine fascination. “Remarkable. These will help so many people. Where did you learn to adapt remedies specifically for human physiology?”
“Trial and error, mostly. Your people have different tolerances than shifters do.” I warm to the subject, pleased by his attention.
“This salve can heal cuts and bruises twice as fast as anything else available to humans. And I’ve developed a tonic that can boost immunity during cold and flu season. ”
“Incredible.” He examines the herbs with careful interest. “These could revolutionize medicine in human settlements. Think of all the people we could help.”
I nod enthusiastically. This is more like the Andrew I remember. And this is what I’ve always dreamed of: using my knowledge to help people who truly need it.
“What about your pack?” he muses thoughtfully. “They must be devastated to lose someone with such abilities.”
“Well, they never really saw me that way.” I shrug emotionlessly.
“That seems shortsighted of them.” He shakes his head. “Their loss is certainly my gain.”
The conversation flows more naturally after that, and I feel some of the strangeness I’ve been experiencing starting to fade. Maybe it is simply the adjustment—after years of dreaming about this life, perhaps the reality has taken time to feel right.
Then, Andrew says something that catches me completely off guard.
“There’s something else we should discuss,” he begins gently. “Children.”
I blink in confusion. “Children? Andrew, I already told you, I can’t have children. Remember? It’s one of the conditions of leaving the pack to marry a human.”
“Oh, right, of course.” He shakes his head, but there’s something odd about the gesture. “I just meant—I was wondering if you were absolutely certain about that. If maybe there were exceptions, or ways around it.”
“Ways around it?” I study his face, puzzled. “Andrew, it’s magical law. There’s no getting around it. When I chose to leave for a human life, that was one of the things I gave up.”
“Right, right.” He nods quickly, but his eyes have a strange intensity to them. “But what if you did have children, and they inherited some of your abilities? Even if they were technically human?”
“That’s not how it works.” I’m becoming more confused by the second. “Why are you asking about this again? You seemed to understand when I explained it before.”
“I do understand,” he says, but his smile appears forced now. “I just want to make sure we’ve explored every possibility. Maybe talk to someone who might know more about these laws than we do.”
A strange chill runs down my spine. “Andrew, the laws are absolute. There’s no negotiating with magical exile conditions. And even if there were, why would you want to? I thought you said you were fine with just the two of us.”
“I am, I am.” But he’s not meeting my eyes now, and I can see him struggling with it. “I just thought...maybe someday...”