Chapter Eight
Chosen Under the Moon
Daniel
I spend the rest of the day wanting to murder a man I have never met. Technically, two men.
Cole, because he walked into Holly’s bakery and tried to turn her pain into a leash. Rowan, because he denied her, broke her, and then had the audacity to send someone else to test whether the wound was still open enough to crawl through.
My wolf is very supportive of murder. Unfortunately, Holly is less supportive.
She makes that clear when I’m halfway through tightening the hinge on the bakery’s back door with enough force to strip the screw.
“If you break that, you’re paying for it,” she says behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. She stands in the kitchen with her arms crossed, hair piled messily on top of her head, apron still on, one eyebrow arched. There’s a smudge of flour on her cheek again.
Goddess, I love that flour. Not love.
No.
Maybe.
Fuck.
I turn back to the hinge because hinges don’t make my chest ache. “It was loose.”
“It was terrified. There’s a difference.”
“I’m fixing it.”
“You’re punishing it because you can’t punish Cole.” The screwdriver stills in my hand. Holly sighs and comes closer. “Daniel.”
“I’m fine.”
“That is my line, and I don’t appreciate theft.”
My mouth twitches despite myself. She stops beside me, close enough that her scent wraps around my ribs. Sugar, vanilla, woman, and wolf. Under it, the sharp trace of lingering hurt from this morning.
My jaw tightens, and Holly bumps her shoulder against mine. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Go all quiet and murdery.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Deny, deny, deny.
“You look like you’re mentally burying bodies.”
“I’m a handyman. I know how to dig.”
“See? Murdery.”
I set the screwdriver down before I snap it in half. “He hurt you.”
“Yes.” The simple answer hits hard. No minimizing. No softening. No pretending Cole’s words did not land exactly where he aimed them.
Holly leans against the counter and looks at me. Really looks. “But I handled it,” she says.
“You did.”
“And you let me handle it.”
“I did.”
“Thank you for that.”
I look down at my hands because I’m not sure what to do with the softness in her voice. These hands know how to work. Fix. Fight. Hold. They don’t always know how to receive.
Holly reaches for one anyway, her fingers slide between mine, and my wolf quiets instantly. Magic. Not the moon kind but the Holly kind.
“I wanted you to step in,” she says softly. “Part of me did. The scared part. The old part. The part that still thinks safety means someone bigger standing in front of me.” I swallow hard. “But I needed you beside me more.” Her grip tightens. “Thank you for knowing the difference.”
My chest cracks open. I turn my hand, lacing our fingers fully. “If we’re being honest, you should know I didn’t want to know the difference. I wanted to throw him through the window.”
Her smile is small. “I guessed.”
“Maybe into the cupcake case.”
“That would be wasteful. Those cupcakes were fresh.”
“Good point.”
“Also, blood is hard to clean from tile.” I stare at her, and she shrugs. “I own a bakery, Daniel. I think practically.”
Goddess help me, I laugh, and she smiles, and for one second, the ugliness of the morning loosens its grip around both of us before her smile fades.
“I still want to run tonight,” she says.
Everything inside me stills, and my wolf lifts his head. “Are you sure?”
“No.” At least she’s honest. Terrifyingly, brutally fucking honest.
Her gaze drops to our joined hands. “But I want to be sure with you. I want...” She exhales, frustrated. “I hate how many important conversations we have in this kitchen. It makes me want to disinfect my emotions.”
“That sounds painful.”
“I’ll probably end up smelling like a bleach factory.” She’s deflecting, and we both know it.
I squeeze her hand. “What do you want, Holly?”
She looks up at me. No jokes. No more deflections. Fear is there, yes. But so is desire, determination, and a softness she keeps trying to hide and keeps failing to bury.
“I want the run,” she says. “Then I want the claim.”
The world stops. The bond goes bright and silent inside me, a single held breath. My wolf does not surge this time, the little shit bows. Because this is not prey, or instinct, or fate dragging us by the throat. This is Holly choosing.
I step closer slowly. “Say that again.”
Her cheeks flush. “Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird. Fate gave me a mate who insults appliances and threatens old men with raisin buns.”
“Mr. Phelps deserved it.”
“I’m sure he did.” I cup her cheek, thumb brushing the flour from her skin. “Say it again anyway.”
Her breath catches before she leans into my touch. “I want you to claim me, Daniel. Tonight. Under the moon. After we run.”
My control shudders. “Holly.”
“I’m not saying it because of Cole. Or Rowan. Or because I’m scared they’ll take me back.” Her hands slide to my chest. “I’m saying it because last night I chose you. Today you stood beside me. And tonight, I want my wolf to choose yours too.”
My throat tightens. There are a hundred filthy things my body wants. A hundred possessive things my wolf wants. But my heart, that inconvenient thing I thought I trained out of making demands, only wants to kneel.
I press my forehead to hers. “Then tonight is yours.”
Her eyes shine. “Ours.”
The word goes through me like a vow. Ours. Not mine or hers, but ours.
I kiss her once. Soft and careful, a promise, not a spark. Then I step back, because if I don’t, I will end up taking her on the bakery floor while Patricia judges us from the corner.
Holly clears her throat. “I should close up.”
“Probably.”
“And shower.”
“Okay.”
“And maybe panic a little.”
“That’s also okay.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re very agreeable.”
“I’m trying to keep my wolf from doing laps around the building.”
“That excited?”
I look at her. Really look. The flour, the tired eyes, and the stubborn tilt of her chin. The woman who built a life from ash and sugar and sheer refusal to stay down.
“That honored,” I say.
Her mouth trembles before she points at me. “Stop being emotionally devastating while I’m holding a cash drawer.”
“I’ll try.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
She shakes her head, but the smile she gives me is real, and I carry that smile with me while I help her close.
****
By the time night settles fully over town, the bakery is locked, the lights are off, and Holly stands beside me at the edge of the old mill trail wearing her robe and a pair of boots that look like they have personally survived three wars.
The moon hangs full and silver above the trees, the same moon that once gave her a mate who broke her. Tonight, she stands beneath it with me. Not broken or owned but ready.
I can smell her nerves, but I can also smell her desire. They twine together, sharp and sweet, and it takes every ounce of control I possess to keep still.
Holly looks at the woods. “This feels bigger than last time.”
“It is.”
“Helpful,” she murmurs with an eyeroll.
I smile faintly. “I can lie.”
“No, you can’t,” she accuses. “You’re terrible at it.”
“True, but for you I’m willing to try.”
She exhales slowly, then turns to me. “Before we shift...” I wait, watching her fingers tug at the knot of her robe, but she does not open it yet. “If I panic, we stop.”
“Of course.”
“If I say wait, we wait.”
“Naturally.”
“If I make a joke at a deeply inappropriate moment, you accept that as part of my charm.”
My mouth curves. “I already do.”
“If I cry, you don’t make it a thing.”
“I won’t.”
“If I bite too hard?”
My wolf growls with interest, and I clear my throat. “I’ll survive.”
Her lips twitch. “Good.” Then she gets serious again, and my humor fades with hers. “And if Rowan comes tomorrow, or Cole, or anyone from Ash Hollow...”
I step closer, but not close enough to crowd her. “Then we deal with it together.”
“Not you for me.”
“No,” I say. “Together.”
She nods and unties the robe and lets it fall. I force myself not to look away this time. She gave me permission before. Tonight, her shoulders square, chin lifting, body bared beneath the moon not as a question but as a decision.
She’s stunning. Soft curves, strong thighs, and scars so faint they are almost invisible unless you know how to look. Not all scars show on skin, but hers do in small places. In the way she holds her breath when she’s being seen. In the way she expects the look to become judgment.
It does not and it never will.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
Her lashes flutter. “I’m still not used to that,” she whispers.
“Then I’ll keep saying it until you are.”
“That could take years.”
“Good. I have a lot of years to give.”
She smiles before her wolf rises. The shift rolls over her like moonlight catching flame.
Skin becomes fur. Fingers become paws. Bones reshape with familiar pain and ancient grace.
A silver-brown wolf stands where Holly was, sleek and gorgeous, ears pricked, eyes bright with a mixture of nerves and defiance.
My wolf presses forward, reverent.
I strip out of my jeans and shift. Pain cracks through me, quick and sharp, then the world explodes into scent and sound. Fur ripples over my skin, muscles shifting, bones reforming. When my paws hit the earth, the night opens.
Holly’s scent fills everything. Not just woman but wolf. Our mate and future.
She watches me for one breath. Then she bolts, and I give chase.
The run is different tonight. Last time, there was play.
Testing. Joy rediscovered. Tonight there is all of that, but something deeper pulses beneath it.
Holly runs ahead, fast and agile, weaving through trees, leaping fallen branches, cutting sharply along the creek path.
She does not run from me. She runs knowing I will follow.
I keep pace behind her, close but not crowding, letting her lead.
Her paws strike the dirt in a rhythm my body learns instantly.
When she veers left, I’m already there. When she slows, I slow.
When she darts beneath a low branch and glances back with smug wolf-eyes, I snap at the air behind her tail and make her yip.