Chapter 24
Gunnar
She puts her hands over her face.
She’s quiet for a long time. Then her shoulders start to shake.
“Come here.” I draw her into my arms.
At first, she holds herself away from me, like she doesn’t want me to see her like this, her body tight and resisting. But I keep my hand on her, steady, and after a moment she gives in, folding into me, her head dropping against my chest as the tension leaves her.
I press my mouth to her hair and hold her there.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Let it out.”
After a moment, she pulls back.
Her gaze drops to her hands.
There’s dried blood all over them, darkening her nails. I wonder if she can smell the metallic tang.
“I need to wash my hands.”
I nod and follow her out of the room.
She goes straight to the sink and turns the faucet on hard, like she needs the noise as much as the water. Then she starts scrubbing, working at her fingers, her palms, the spaces between them.
“He went there to die,” she says.
She doesn’t look at me.
“Yeah.”
She keeps scrubbing.
Water runs pink, then clearer, then pink again as she goes back over the same places.
“Why?”
I sigh. “He thought it would settle it.”
“Settle what?”
“The debt,” I say. “What he started.”
She drags her nails across her skin, like she can get underneath it.
“So, he just walks in and lets them kill him?”
“He thought it was on him.”
Her brow furrows. “Shifters are different, huh?”
My gut tightens. “For better and worse,” I say.
She turns off the water.
“Come to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something.”
She sighs. “I’m not hungry.”
“It’s just the shock. You will be later.”
When I put my arm around her shoulders, she leans into me and lets herself be led into the kitchen. She feels so small in my arms and my chest aches for her—for everything she’s been through today.
I pull out a chair for her. “Take a seat.”
I guide her into it, but she resists me. “Can’t I help?”
“Not tonight.” I ease her back into the chair, my hand still on her until I feel her body relax.
I peer into the fridge, pull out a big pot of leftover stew and put it on the stove. It’s nothing complicated, but I don’t want her sitting there with nothing to do but think.
I’m aware of her behind me anyway. I can feel it—the way she’s holding herself together, the effort it’s taking now the edge has worn off. And I don’t like it.
I dart back to her, scoop her up and deposit her gently on the counter beside me. “Better?”
“Yes.” She lets out a sigh and her hand goes to the claiming mark I gave her.
She feels it too—the soft, relentless buzz of our bond.
“What does this really mean?” she asks.
“It means you’re not in danger anymore. No one’s after you.” I hesitate, because I know what comes next, and I don’t want to say it. “It means you get your life back, Alexandria.”
She’s silent for a long time, watching me stir the pot.
When I look up, there’s confusion in her eyes.
She’s too quiet.
Too far away.
Mate, my beast presses.
I ignore it.
I could say it now. End this.
Tell her she’s mine. Tell her she’s staying. Tell her there’s no version of this where she walks away from me.
“I can go back to my apartment?” she asks.
I stop breathing.
“If that’s what you want,” I say.
Even if every part of me is already pushing the other way.
The stew starts to bubble. I turn back to it, grab two plates and ladle it out before I say anything else I can’t take back.
I bring her down from the counter and set her back at the table, right by my side.
“This is so good,” she mutters. Her eyelids are heavy, and I figure that eating is taking all her energy.
“Seconds?” I ask when she’s done.
“No, so full.” She pats her belly, in a soft, unguarded way. My heart swells with love for my sweet, brave girl. Then I have to look away, because the pull to keep her exactly where she is overwhelms me again.
She gets to her feet slowly. “I should shower.”
I go ahead of her, turn the water on, make sure it’s warm before she steps in.
While she’s showering, I go check on the others. Torin’s on his bed, lying where he fell, out for the count. Orson is deeply asleep. I touch my hand to his forehead. No fever.
He’s going to be fine.
He wouldn’t have made it without her.
He’ll have a lot of apologizing to do when he wakes up.
When I go back to the kitchen, I put the kettle on.
The bathroom door opens. I hear her steps in the hallway, then a pause.
When I hear my bedroom door creak open, my chest tightens.
Mate, my beast murmurs.
She still wants to be there. After everything that’s happened.
I don’t go straight in. I give her time.
I hear her move back and forth a couple of times, gathering her things.
When I push the door open, she’s already in my bed, settled under the covers like she belongs there, her hair spread across the pillow, her cheeks still flushed from the shower.
I shut the door and cross the room.
“You took your time,” she says.
“I was giving you some space.”
She watches me, then shifts back to make room.
I get in beside her and pull her in, fitting her against me.
She comes easily, her body settling into mine.
The bed is warm where she’s been lying.
I slide my hand to the back of her neck and keep it there.
“Everything’s different now,” she says.
“Yeah.”
She tilts her head to look up at me. “Are you going to tell me what that means?”
I meet her eyes.
“Tomorrow.”
She studies me for a second, then nods.
“Okay.”
She settles again, closer this time, her leg sliding over mine, her hand tightening in my shirt.
I keep her there, close.
After a while, her breathing slows, her weight growing heavier against me.
I stay awake a little longer, listening to it.
Making sure she’s asleep.
Then I close my eyes.