20. Fiona
20
FIONA
F iona lounged on Caleb's plush leather couch, her legs tucked beneath a soft blanket. The late morning sunlight streamed through the windows next to her. Her bruises had faded to a dull yellow, and the scratches were nearly healed. She traced her fingers over the bandage on her shoulder, remembering how Caleb had changed it every morning with surprising gentleness.
"If you keep picking at that, it'll scar," Caleb said, setting a steaming mug of herbal tea on the coffee table.
"You're worse than my mother." She reached for the tea, inhaling the soothing aroma. "I never pegged you for a nurse."
"I prefer 'attentive caretaker.'" He settled into the armchair across from her. "Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't try to set the house on fire."
"That was only one time, and I was aiming for the curtains. They're hideous."
His laugh, deep and rich, sent warmth through her chest. Over the past week, she'd seen a different side of him – one that brought her soup in bed, read her terrible romance novels when her concussion made reading impossible, and always seemed to know exactly what she needed before she asked.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, catching her stare.
"Just wondering if you meant what you said that first morning." She picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "About caring about me."
"Fiona." The way he said her name made her look up. "I wouldn't have spent the last week watching terrible Hallmark movies if I didn't mean it."
"They're not terrible, they're classics."
"The baker fell in love with a secret prince. Three times."
"Different bakers, different princes." She grinned.
He threw a pillow at her, which she caught with a laugh. Their eyes met, and that familiar tension crackled between them.
"You know," she said softly, "I started caring about you too. Somewhere between you scowling at my management skills at your community center and bringing me chicken noodle soup in your bed."
The afternoon sun warmed Fiona's skin as she surveyed the community center's damaged walls. Paint cans and brushes littered the ground, along with lumber and tools. Her body still ached a little, but she refused to let that stop her from helping rebuild.
"You should be resting," Caleb said, appearing at her side with a ladder.
"I've rested enough." She grabbed a paintbrush. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't pick terrible colors again."
"There was nothing wrong with the olive green."
Pack members bustled around them, carrying supplies and chatting. Unlike before, they now greeted her with warm smiles and respectful nods. One of the younger wolves, Tessa, bounded up to her.
"Is it true you set Rachelle's fur on fire?" Tessa's eyes sparkled with admiration.
"Only singed it a little." Fiona winked. "Though her pride took the worst hit."
Caleb snorted. "That's not how Wade tells it. According to him, you lit up the whole street."
"A lady never reveals her secrets." Fiona dipped her brush in the cream-colored paint. "Now are you going to help, or just stand there looking pretty?"
Heat crept up her neck as the words left her mouth. The pack members within earshot tried to hide their grins, failing miserably.
"Looking pretty, huh?" Caleb picked up his own brush, a smile playing at his lips. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent painter."
"Prove it." She flicked paint at him, leaving a splash of cream on his black t-shirt.
His eyes narrowed playfully. "You're playing with fire, witch."
"That's kind of my thing."
They worked side by side for a while, trading barbs and stealing glances when they thought the other wasn't looking. The pack's acceptance warmed her heart more than any fire she could conjure. Even through the aches and paint stains, she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so at home.
Fiona wiped sweat from her brow, her muscles protesting as she reached up to paint another section of wall. The late afternoon sun streamed through the replacement windows, casting long shadows across the community center's restored floor. Her shoulder twinged, reminding her of the healing wound beneath her t-shirt.
"That ladder looks unstable," Caleb said from behind her.
"The ladder's fine." She didn't turn around, knowing she'd find that concerned furrow between his brows that made her want to smooth it away with her fingers. "You've checked it three times already."
"Four, actually." His warm presence drew closer. "And you're favoring your left side."
"I thought wolves were supposed to hunt, not mother their employees."
"I mother whoever I want." His hands settled on her waist, steadying her as the ladder wobbled slightly. The heat of his touch burned through her thin shirt, making her breath catch. "Especially stubborn ones who don't know their limits."
Fiona's heart hammered against her ribs. "I know my limits just fine."
"Really?" His breath tickled her ear. "Then why are you shaking?"
"Because someone keeps distracting me while I'm trying to work." She turned her head, finding his face inches from hers. Those blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Maybe you should take a break."
"Maybe you should help more instead of hovering."
He grinned, reaching past her to grab a paint roller, his chest pressing against her back. "I can do both."
They continued to work side by side for the next several hours, their arms brushing with each stroke. Every accidental touch sent sparks through her skin. She caught him watching her more than the wall, his gaze lingering on her lips when she spoke.
"You missed a spot," she teased, pointing to a section well above his head.
"Did I?" He stretched up, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of tanned skin and defined muscle. Fiona's mouth went dry.
"That was mean," she muttered.
"What was?"
"You know exactly what you're doing."
His laugh rumbled through her. "Payback for all those times you bent over to pick up paint cans."
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I had to get the paint somehow."
"Mhmm. And I had to stretch to reach that spot."
Their eyes locked, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. A drop of paint fell from his paint roller, landing on her collarbone. Without thinking, he reached out to wipe it away, his thumb lingering on her skin.
Wade's voice broke through their bubble.
The moment completely shattered as Wade approached them. Fiona's skin still tingled where Caleb's thumb had brushed her collarbone, and she busied herself with painting the wall to hide her flushed cheeks.
"Sorry to interrupt," Wade said, not looking sorry at all. His usual easy smile was replaced with tight lines around his mouth. "But we've got trouble."
Caleb's hand dropped to his side. "Victor?"
"My sources say he's gathering his people. All of them." Wade glanced between them. "Looks like he's done playing games."
The paint brush in Fiona's hand trembled slightly. She'd seen what just three Nightfang members could do - the healing scratches on her skin were proof enough. The thought of all of them descending on the pack made her stomach twist.
"How many?" she asked.
"At least fifty fighters," Wade said. "Maybe more."
"Fantastic. Just what we needed after finally fixing the place up."
"We could always paint the walls red," Fiona quipped, earning surprised looks from both men. "What? If we're going to have a dramatic showdown, we might as well coordinate the decor."
A ghost of a smile crossed Caleb's face. "Your interior design skills are showing."
"Better than your olive green phase."
Wade cleared his throat. "As entertaining as this is, we need a plan. A fight between packs this size..." He trailed off, but Fiona could fill in the blanks. Blood. Death. Destruction of everything they'd worked to build.
"There has to be another way," she said, setting down her brush. "Something that doesn't end with half the supernatural population of Saltwater Grove in the hospital."
Caleb's jaw clenched, that familiar protective fury rolling off him in waves. "Victor won't stop until he gets what he wants."
"Or until someone makes him stop," Wade added meaningfully.
The evening sun cast shadows through the windows, painting stripes across the newly finished walls. Fiona watched dust motes dance in the golden light, her mind racing through possibilities. She'd grown to love this pack, these people who'd accepted her despite her being an outsider. The thought of them torn apart by Victor's ambition made her blood boil - literally, if the steam rising from her skin was any indication.
"You're smoking," Caleb said softly.
"I'm aware." She took a deep breath, trying to cool her temper. "Just thinking about how much I'd like to turn Victor into a walking matchstick."
Fiona's heart clenched as Caleb straightened his shoulders, that familiar determined set to his jaw that usually meant he was about to do something noble and stupid.
"I'll initiate the one-on-one challenge with him," Caleb said.
"Oh, because that's so much better than a pack war?" Fiona crossed her arms, ignoring the twinge from her healing wounds. "Trading certain death for probable death isn't exactly an upgrade."
She stepped closer to Caleb. "There has to be another way."
"Like what? Challenge him to that baking competition you mentioned?" Caleb's lips twitched.
"Victor would probably cheat," Wade muttered. "Put wolfsbane in the flour or something."
Caleb's expression sobered. "This is the only way to keep everyone safe. One fight, one winner, no pack war."
Fiona's fingers sparked with suppressed fire magic, her concern manifesting in little dancing flames. "And what if you lose?"
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I'm serious, Caleb." She reached for his hand, surprised when he let her take it. "I just got used to your grumpy face. I'd hate to have to break in a new boss."
His thumb traced circles on her palm, sending shivers up her arm. "Is that all I am? Your boss?"
"Well, you're also the only person who knows how I like my coffee." She squeezed his hand. "And I've grown rather attached to that."