Chapter Three
In the bathroom, Newt stood at the door, his hand hovering.
He’d heard the entire conversation Vaughn had had with his pack members and was dying to go out there and be a part of whatever that was.
To have people he could call best friends and not wonder if they would run to his father about every little thing Newt did.
To have a family who actually cared about him instead of using him for their own selfish purposes just to climb the social ladder.
He wiped at a stray tear, feeling ridiculous for getting emotional over strangers who didn’t even know him. It was just… They sounded like they actually enjoyed each other's company. Like a real family.
After toweling his hair as dry as possible, Newt stared at his reflection in the mirror. The shower had done wonders for his mood but not much for his wardrobe situation. His shirt hung in tatters, more holes than fabric at this point. A clothing casualty of vampire chase night.
“At this rate, I’ll be naked by dawn,” he muttered, holding up the shredded remains. “Perfect first impression. 'Hello, I’m Newt. I destroy clothes and house fixtures with equal enthusiasm.'“
With a sigh, he tossed the ruined shirt onto the counter. No use trying to salvage it unless his magic decided to cooperate, which seemed about as likely as his father suddenly approving of his life choices. His pants had survived with only minor damage, so those would have to do.
Voices still filtered through the door, the pack’s easy banter making his chest ache with something like longing. They had what he’d always wanted—people who actually cared if you were okay, who teased without cruelty, who showed up when you needed them.
Taking a deep breath, Newt smoothed his damp hair and squared his shoulders. “Well, here goes nothing. Just act normal. Like you always walk around half-naked in a stranger’s house.”
When he opened the bathroom door, the doorway had cleared of everyone except Vaughn, who stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The weight of his eyes alone left Newt’s breath faltering, heavy with something unspoken but unmistakable.
The wolf shifter’s gaze snapped to him immediately then widened, dragging slowly down Newt’s exposed torso before jerking back up to his face.
“My shirt didn’t survive the forest,” Newt explained, gesturing vaguely at his bare chest. “Apparently trees are fashion critics.”
Vaughn’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I can get you something.”
The hunger in his eyes made Newt’s skin prickle with heat despite the cool air hitting his damp skin. It wasn’t predatory. Not like the vampires. This was different. Like Vaughn wanted to touch but was holding himself back.
“That would be...helpful,” Newt said, unable to look away from Vaughn’s face. “Unless half-naked is the dress code around here. In which case, I’m nailing it.”
A tiny smile flickered at the corner of Vaughn’s mouth before disappearing. “Wait here.”
While he disappeared into what must have been his closet, Newt leaned against the doorframe, trying not to think about how the guy’s eyes had darkened when they’d landed on him. Or how his own pulse had quickened in response.
Vaughn returned with a soft-looking T-shirt, holding it out. “It’ll be big.”
“Big is better than nothing,” Newt said then immediately wanted to kick himself. “I mean…clothes are good. Clothes are great. Big fan of not being naked in strange houses.”
Smooth, Twistboot. Real smooth.
When he reached for the shirt, their fingers brushed. Just a whisper of contact, but it sent a jolt through Newt that made him nearly drop the garment. Vaughn must’ve felt it too, because he inhaled sharply, his fingers lingering a half-second longer than necessary.
Newt pulled the shirt on quickly, the fabric swimming around his smaller frame. It smelled like Vaughn—pine and something earthy and warm—and it took considerable willpower not to bury his nose in the collar.
“I should probably get home,” he said, though he made no move toward the bedroom door. His wings stayed tucked safely away, not eager to take flight either.
Vaughn studied him for a long moment. “Your hair’s still wet.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Newt touched the damp strands. “It’ll dry eventually. Probably.”
“I could…brush it for you.” His offer came out hesitant. “If you want.”
Breath and laughter mingled briefly, uneven and fragile, before fading into quiet. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” Vaughn’s voice dropped lower. “But I’m offering.”
Something about the quiet sincerity in his voice made it impossible to refuse. “Okay.”
Newt perched on the edge of the bed, hyperaware of every movement as Vaughn retrieved a brush from his dresser. The mattress dipped as the wolf shifter sat behind him, close enough that Newt could feel his body heat.
“Tell me if I hurt you.” His voice carried the kind of weight that made even a murmur feel like a command.
The first gentle stroke of the brush made Newt’s eyes flutter closed. Vaughn moved with careful precision, working from the ends up, each pass of the brush sending little tingles across Newt’s scalp.
Which was better than pine needles scraping it.
“So,” Vaughn said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, “why the rush to get home?”
Newt tensed slightly. The question seemed innocent enough, but answering truthfully meant admitting he was Unseelie, admitting to the arranged marriage waiting for him, admitting that staying here, with his mate, was impossible.
“No rush, really,” he lied, hating how easily the words came. “Just don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“You’re not.” The brush paused. “Overstaying.”
Newt swallowed hard. “Your friends seemed nice. The short ones. Preston and…?”
“Jalen,” Vaughn supplied, taking the conversational bait. “They’re mates to other pack members.”
“Like how you and I are—” Newt cut himself off, cursing his runaway mouth.
The brush stilled completely. “You feel it too.”
It wasn’t a question. Newt nodded, not trusting his voice.
Vaughn resumed brushing, each stroke more deliberate than before. “That complicates things.”
“Story of my life.” Newt gave a weak laugh. “I excel at complications. It’s my superpower, along with knocking into light fixtures and giving a spectacular light show.”
Vaughn’s free hand came to rest lightly on Newt’s shoulder, warm and steady. The touch felt like an anchor in a storm hopelessly raging inside him.
“Your magic,” Vaughn said. “Is that why you were glowing pink?”
Newt winced. “Yeah. Panic makes it go a bit haywire. Usually I’m much better at…
” He trailed off, realizing he was about to lie again.
Truth was his magic had always been unpredictable.
Another disappointment to add to his father’s list. Newt comforted himself by constantly making excuses, even to himself, whenever it didn’t go right, which was nearly every time.
“At?” Vaughn prompted.
“At not turning into a nightlight,” Newt finished lamely.
Strong fingers brushed against the nape of Newt’s neck as another section of hair was gathered. The casual touch had him fighting the urge to lean back into it.
“The pink looked beautiful on you,” Vaughn said.
“You might be the only one who thinks so.” Newt stared down at his hands. “Back home, unexpected magic isn’t exactly celebrated.”
It was mocked by those who’d been properly educated in magic. The upper class, which Newt was not. Because of his lowborn status, he’d been denied a proper education. Not just with magic, either. He was mostly self-taught, preferring life as his classroom instead of four walls.
But that left him lacking in so many ways, which his father never failed to remind him of. No matter how hard Newt tried, it was never good enough.
“What is celebrated back home?”
Following rules. Maintaining appearances. Making advantageous marriages for selfish gains. All the things Newt was spectacularly failing at by sitting here with his mate’s hands in his hair.
“Conformity,” he answered simply. Allowing other people to run my life.
Vaughn made a noncommittal sound, the brush moving in long, soothing strokes now that the tangles were gone. “Sounds stifling.”
“It is.”
Their eyes met in the dresser mirror across the room.
Something passed between them in that reflection—understanding, maybe.
Recognition of shared pain, though Newt couldn’t begin to guess what haunted Vaughn’s eyes or made his hands tremble.
He seemed like the type who didn’t put up with anyone’s bullpoop.
Like he could take on the world with one eye closed while wondering what was for dinner.
Newt wished he had that kind of attitude. His life was more like following the rules so his father wouldn’t disparage him for the gazzionth time.
“Your pack seems different.” Newt picked at his nails. “They seem like they actually care about each other.” Honestly, and with a wince to judging an entire species, Newt would’ve thought wolves were rough, aggressive, and just took what they wanted. Savages.
He’d never been so glad he was wrong.
“They do.” Vaughn set the brush down but didn’t move away. His hands rested lightly on Newt’s sides, their warmth seeping through the borrowed shirt. “It’s not perfect, but it’s pack. Something real you can hold on to.”
Real. Newt wouldn’t know about holding on to anything since his father hadn’t given him anything to hold on to.
The pull toward Vaughn intensified, a gentle but insistent tug that made Newt want to close the small distance between them. To turn around and press his face into Vaughn’s chest. To stay.
But staying meant lying. Staying meant breaking laws that carried a weight most refused to pay. Staying meant betraying his family, no matter how suffocating they could be.
“I should go,” he whispered, even as he leaned back slightly, his shoulders brushing against Vaughn’s chest.
“Should you?” Vaughn’s breath warmed the crown of Newt’s head.
No , his heart answered. But his mouth said, “Yes.”
Neither of them moved.
“At least stay until morning,” Vaughn ran his fingers through Newt’s hair. “The vampires might still be out there.”
It was a reasonable suggestion. Practical. Safe. And completely at odds with the tension crackling between them.
“Just until morning,” Newt agreed, knowing he was making promises he shouldn’t keep. Promises that might get his freedom yanked away. But every fiber of his being begged for him to spend more time with Vaughn, to bask in his presence like a wilted flower that needed the sun.
He couldn’t understand his father. While Newt was happy with his simple life, Hershel Twistboot was always talking about how much better off their family would be with wealth, with prestige. How amazing it would be to learn more advanced magic.
Honestly, Newt had no idea how his father had arranged a marriage with an upper-class family.
Rich people looked at lower-class citizens as if they were filth.
Dung on the bottom of their shoes. While they lived in gorgeous homes surrounding the castle, the lower class were scattered around the vast countryside in small villages.
Couldn’t let them have large ones or they might rebel.
But Newt loved bargaining at the farmer’s stands, loved the smell of sizzling fat from meat on a grill. The joy of laughter as the children ran around and the smell of the countryside.
Not Hershel. He constantly complained of the smell, the poor quality of food, of anything that reminded him how simple they lives were.
Newt’s mom always stayed quiet, as if she knew pointing out the good things about their lives would fall on deaf ears, but he knew his mother loved their way of living as much as Newt did.
Vaughn’s fingers lightly traced the damp strands. “Your hair’s almost dry.”
“Your brush has magical properties,” Newt joked weakly.
“Or maybe it’s just the company.”
The simple statement knocked the air from Newt’s lungs. He turned slightly, just enough to see Vaughn’s face, to check if he was joking.
He wasn’t.
His eyes held the same mix of longing and hesitation that Newt felt twisting in his own chest. This close, he could see the tiny flecks of amber in Vaughn’s brown eyes, could count each individual eyelash.
“I don’t normally break into people’s houses.” Laughter faltered, catching on itself, as though it wasn’t sure it was allowed. “Just so you know.”
“I don’t normally invite home intruders to stay the night,” Vaughn countered, his thumb grazing the side of Newt’s neck.
The touch was featherlight but electric, sending a current through Newt that made his toes curl against the carpet. He should pull away. Should thank Vaughn for the shirt and the hair brushing and the sanctuary from vampires, then find his way back to the forest and figure out how to get home.
Instead, he leaned into the touch, just slightly.
Vaughn’s hand stilled. “Newt.”
Just his name, but it held a world of questions.
“I know,” Newt said, answering all of them at once. “I know.”
He pulled back reluctantly, creating space between them that felt necessary but wrong. “I should let you sleep. It’s late.”
Vaughn nodded, though reluctance shadowed his features. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I can’t kick you out of your own bed,” Newt protested. He’d already been a huge inconvenience bringing vampires to their home and breaking things. Now Vaughn wanted to sacrifice his bed?
“You’re not kicking. I’m offering.” Vaughn stood, putting more distance between them. “Besides, I don’t…sleep much anyway.”
There went that haunted look again, the one that made Newt want to curl his arms around his mate and simply hold him until whatever he was afraid of faded away to nothing.
“Why are your hands shaking?” Newt asked again, softer this time.
A pause, long enough that Newt thought Vaughn might not answer. Then, “Bad things happened. My body remembers.”
The simple admission, stripped of details but heavy with meaning, made Newt’s heart clench. He understood that kind of remembering. The way trauma lived in muscle and bone long after the mind tried to move on.
“Mine too,” Newt whispered, offering his own truth in exchange. “Different bad things, probably. But still.”
Vaughn’s hands squeezed his shoulder then slid down to rest just above Newt’s elbow. The touch was light, barely there, yet Newt felt it like a brand.
“Stay,” Vaughn said, the word barely audible. “Please.”
Newt found himself nodding slowly.