Chapter 69
SIXTY-NINE
T he afternoon passed in a blur of conversation, food, and easy companionship. Artair watched Thora gradually relax among his friends and family, her natural reserve giving way to occasional smiles and even a few jokes. Each laugh, each moment of connection with the others, settled something in his chest.
She belonged here. With them. With him.
As evening approached, Thora’s energy visibly flagged. She tried to hide it, but Artair caught the subtle signs—the tightness around her eyes, the careful way she shifted position to avoid aggravating her wounds.
Kalyna noticed too. “We should go. Patient needs rest.” She placed a small velvet pouch on the table. “Lavender and moonflower sachets for under your pillow. They’ll help with healing dreams.”
The others took their cue, gathering empty containers and making promises to return soon. Bryn hugged Thora gently, whispering something that made Thora’s eyes widen before she smiled.
When the door closed behind them, the cabin settled into peaceful quiet.
“I can’t get used to how nice they all are,” Thora said, surprising him. “And loud.”
“They can be overwhelming.” He carefully settled beside her on the couch.
“I like it.” She leaned against his shoulder, a gesture that seemed both calculated and spontaneous. “They care about you.”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed they care about you too,” he corrected gently. “That wasn’t just for my benefit.”
She didn’t respond, but her hand found his, fingers intertwining with quiet intent.
Later that evening, Artair helped her wash her hair, her arms still too weak for extended reach. Kneeling beside the bathtub, he worked shampoo through her dark locks with gentle fingers, mesmerized by how the water transformed the strands to liquid silk.
“Never figured you for a caretaker,” Thora murmured, eyes closed in contentment.
“Bears protect what’s theirs,” he replied without thinking.
Her eyes opened, locking with his. The challenge he expected didn’t materialize. Instead, something softer—more vulnerable—reflected in her amber gaze.
“I’ve never let anyone take care of me before,” she admitted.
Artair pressed a kiss to her temple, unable to voice how honored he felt that she trusted him enough for this. Words seemed inadequate for the enormity of the shift between them.
The pattern repeated through the week—small moments of domesticity charged with deeper meaning. Artair found joy in the simplest tasks: brushing her hair, supporting her on longer walks each day, preparing the tea Elder Willow had prescribed. The strength returning to Thora’s limbs, the color to her cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes—each improvement eased the knot of fear that had lodged in his chest since watching her collapse.
On the fifth day, Artair prepared dinner—a simple meal of sandwiches, nothing that required actual cooking despite his protests that he wasn’t that bad—while Thora dozed on the couch, swallowed by one of his sweaters. The sight struck him with unexpected force—how right it felt to have her here, how quickly she’d become essential to his sense of home.
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.
His bear instincts surged immediately, hackles raised at an unknown presence. He wiped his hands, crossing to the door with swift, silent steps.
When he opened it, the world tilted sideways.
Calan stood on the porch, scarred face illuminated by the porch light. The resemblance between them remained striking despite fifteen years and the jagged mark that bisected his brother’s left cheek. Same height, same powerful build, same dark hair—though Calan’s hung longer, wilder.
His twin clutched a familiar velvet pouch in one hand. “I believe this belongs to the family,” he said, voice so similar to Artair’s yet rougher.