13. Fen
FEN
I ’ve been preparing the meal for the last hour, moving with the quiet efficiency that has become second nature to me. The fire crackles in the stone hearth, the low flame dancing between the logs, casting long shadows against the walls. The scent of roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the rich earthiness of the herbs I’ve gathered from around the cabin—juniper berries, wild garlic, rosemary—each sprig a small taste of the life we’ve created here amidst the rugged mountains.
I’m not sure why I’m doing this.
Eliana is finally up, finally out of that damn bed after days of nothing but weakness and sweat. I’ve been watching her, mostly from the doorway, letting her take her time to gather herself. She doesn’t need me, not like the others do. I can feel the hesitance radiating from her; she doesn’t want my help. She hasn’t wanted much of anything since she arrived here.
I can’t blame her.
My heart aches as I consider my role in all of this. I should be the one making her feel at ease, welcoming her into our home. Instead, I’ve kept my distance, retreating behind the barriers I’ve built.
I move into the kitchen, preparing the meal not because she asked for it—she didn’t—but because something in me tells me she needs it.
Maybe it’s just the silence that fills the cabin.
Or maybe it’s the quiet way her presence pulls at me, urging me to bridge the divide that both fascinates and terrifies me.
The fire crackles again, a soft pop breaking the stillness, and I glance over my shoulder. Eliana is sitting by the window, her body tense as she looks out at the mountain landscape, her gaze distant and lost. She hasn’t said much since waking up, and each quiet word she manages to utter is layered with wariness, as if every interaction is a negotiation rather than a conversation.
I drop the last bit of meat into the pan, the sizzle reverberating through the cozy space and drawing her attention, albeit briefly. Her eyes narrow, and I can see the sharp edge of her exhaustion still clinging to her like a shroud. But there’s something else there too—something softer, a glimpse of vulnerability that strikes a chord deep within my chest.
“Smells good,” she says quietly, her voice tentative, as if testing the waters of trust.
I don’t respond right away. I keep working, moving in a rhythm that’s become second nature to me. I’m not good with words, especially not with her. Especially not with anyone anymore. But cooking is something I know. It’s simple and clean, transforming raw ingredients into nourishment. It doesn’t require the kind of vulnerability I’ve been unlearning over the years.
She shifts again, her breath quickening as her body tenses further. My gaze snaps back to her, and I can sense an almost electric tension brewing between us, a recognition of the fragility of this moment.
“I’m making stew,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I intend but steady all the same. “Venison, wildroot, and garlic. Should be done in a few.”
She doesn’t say anything at first, but I hear her move, the soft sound echoing through the hushed cabin. It’s almost like a melody, the gentle rustle of her movements. When she stands, her legs seem unsure beneath her weight, and I watch as she catches herself against the table.
“You don’t have to—” I start, but she shakes her head, cutting me off before I can finish.
“I’m not going back to bed,” she says quietly, but there’s a firmness to her words, a defiance I hadn’t expected. “I’m not going to just lie here waiting for someone to hand me food.”
I don’t know what to make of that. Stubbornness beams through her every action, shining brightly. I can see it in the way she holds herself, even now, standing in front of me with her back straight, posture unwilling to concede despite the shadow of exhaustion still lingering around her.
I finish stirring the pot, adding a bit of salt and a few more herbs. The scent fills the small cabin with warmth and familiarity, the steam rising and curling into the air like a comforting embrace. There’s something soothing about the process—something that feels almost sacred in its simplicity—something I cling to in the face of uncertainty.
“Sit,” I say, my voice low, trying to soften the edges of my command. “You’ll need your strength.”
She hesitates, and I can feel the weight of her indecision. After a brief pause, she moves to the table anyway, sliding into one of the chairs by the window, her eyes never leaving me. I can’t help but feel a shift; I see the vulnerability in her posture and the slight tremor in her hands as she wraps them around the wooden table. It tugs at something deep inside me, a thread of protectiveness woven into the fabric of our situation.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, almost too quietly for me to hear. But I hear it, and it settles somewhere warm in my chest. I glance over at her.She looks better.The color is returning to her cheeks, and for a brief moment, the hollow look in her eyes seems to dissipate. Yet, that wariness is still there, a barrier between us that feels nearly insurmountable.
I set a bowl of the steaming stew down in front of her. She reaches for the spoon, her fingers trembling slightly as she stirs the contents, the enticing aroma wafting toward her. This is my offer of care, my attempt to show her she’s more than a fleeting moment in this pack’s life.
“This is good,” she says, lifting a spoonful to her mouth. Her eyes dart briefly to mine, and for the first time, I see a hint of surprise mixed with appreciation. “Better than what I expected.”
I don’t say anything, simply observing her as she takes another bite. I’m not sure what I expected either—to feel resentment or something else entirely. But all I feel now is an urge to dismantle the barriers between us, even if only just a little.
With each spoonful, her posture seems to relax, the tension in her shoulders easing slowly. A soft exhale escapes her—a sound I hadn’t realized I was holding onto. It settles within me, mingling with the comforting crackle of the fire.
“You cook like a pro,” she says, her voice growing steadier with the warmth of the meal. “I didn’t know this side of you.”
I chuckle softly, surprised at the compliment. “It’s the only thing I know how to do well anymore,” I reply, meeting her gaze for an elongated moment.
The conversation flows without urgency as if we’re both hanging onto the quiet breath of the cabin, allowing the moment to expand between us. I study her more closely now, noting the way she seems to absorb everything around her—the way the firelight glows in her hair, enveloping her in a halo of warmth, and how the shadows beneath her eyes start to soften. It’s as if she’s beginning to finally emerge from the storm inside herself, swayed by the simple act of nourishment, the sense of being cared for.
“I’m glad you’re finally up,” I say gently, shifting my weight on the seat across from her. “We were worried about you.”
She looks at me, her expression pensive. “Worried? I didn’t think anyone would care,” she admits, and there’s a vulnerability in her tone that strikes a chord within me.
I can’t let her feel like she’s just a burden. “Of course we care. You’re part of this pack now, whether you want to admit it or not. We look out for each other.”
She raises her brows, and there’s a spark of hope in her eyes. “Part of the pack. That’s quite the responsibility,” she replies, stirring the stew absentmindedly, her gaze dropping to the surface.
“Does it scare you?” I ask, feeling drawn to peel away the layers of uncertainty that surround her. “Being part of something? Being around Alphas?”
She looks up at me, and I can see her weighing my question carefully. “It’s not that I’m scared. It’s just different. I’ve always been alone, and now I’m trying to figure out where I stand.”
“How about you let us show you?”
I don’t want to push her, but there’s something driving me, something that urges me to reach out, to connect, to show her that this place, our cabin, can feel like home.
“What about you?” she asks, her curiosity piqued. “What’s your story?”
I hesitate, caught off guard by her interest. It seems almost foreign for someone to inquire about me, especially in this way, with genuine curiosity rather than suspicion. I take a moment to collect my thoughts, the warmth of the stew filling the space between us, creating an atmosphere where I feel safe enough to share.
"I grew up in a pack very much like any other," I begin, my voice steady but painted with a hint of nostalgia. "We had traditions, laws, and expectations, just like any family. When I was younger, I believed in those ideals wholeheartedly. I followed the rules, kept my head down, and did what was expected of me. But it wasn't long before I realized that loyalty didn’t mean safety, and the people I trusted the most had the power to hurt me the deepest."
I catch a flicker of understanding in Eliana's eyes as she listens, her head tilting slightly as if she’s peeling back layers of my history. “What happened?”
“During a council meeting, I was tasked with making sure everything went smoothly—keeping the peace. But there were factions within the pack, power struggles that had been simmering for years. One fateful night, it exploded. Friends turned into enemies in a heartbeat. It was chaos. I lost my brother that night—he was one of the few who fought against the dissent, and when the dust settled, I was left with nothing but regret and the ashes of what once was.”
The weight of those memories threatens to press down on me, and I push it back down. I can see Eliana absorbing my story, her expression a mirror of empathy. “After that, I realized loyalty could lead to destruction. I wanted to protect myself, but in the end, it meant abandoning everything I knew. I chose to leave. I thought it'd be easier to run than to confront the pain.”
Eliana breaks it with a thoughtful gaze, deep-set and fierce. “That must have been hard for you,” she offers softly. “Leaving your family… your home and everything you grew up with. It echoes what I faced.”
She hesitates.“I don’t think any of us come from easy lives,” she continues, her voice gathering strength. “Being a part of a pack is meant to feel like coming home, but I felt trapped. I was never enough. And when I finally stood up for my right to express myself—to pursue my passion for writing—they turned their backs on me. Suddenly, I was just...gone.”
I hear the pain in her voice, the way it trembles as she recounts the struggle of her past. The parallels between our stories dawn on me with surprising clarity. Running from pain, seeking solace only to find it elusive, that sense of betrayal—we share more than just the scars of our pasts.
“Eliana,” I say, my tone earnest, “you’re not alone. We each carry our wounds, but here, they don’t define us. What binds us together is stronger—the chance to heal, to support one another. You can choose to let this be a place of safety, not just a temporary refuge.”
The fire crackles in the distance, and as the flames dance, there’s a growing warmth between us that stretches beyond the physical. I want to reach out, to bridge the gap that fear and self-doubt bridge between us. She doesn’t need to bear this burden alone, any more than I do.
“I was just trying to keep my distance,” she admits, her voice barely breaking above the sound of the crackling flames. “I didn’t want to be a burden to you, to the others. Now it seems like my presence could put you all in danger.”
Understanding blooms, and I shake my head slowly. “Your presence is not a danger; it’s a gift. Each of us chose to come together as a pack, to create a family bound not by blood but by shared experience. That means we support one another.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Her eyes search mine, and beneath the uncertainty, I see the glimmer of hope, a yearning to belong.
“I do,” I reaffirm, feeling the truth behind my words resonate in my chest. “Every pack has its trials, its shadows, but together, we hold the light. You don’t have to fight the darkness alone. Let us prove that to you.”
Eliana draws her breath in slowly. The tension that once swirled in the room has shifted. I can see her allowing the weight of her barriers to ease, the potential for genuine connection igniting something within her.
“Okay,” she whispers, vulnerability dripping from her like rainwater. I watch as she picks up her spoon again, stirring the stew with renewed purpose. “I want to try.”
A smile breaks across my face, and in that moment, I feel the tight knot of anxiety in my chest begin to unravel. We're standing on the precipice of something new, something fragile but filled with potential. It’s a promise—a promise to each other to explore uncharted territories of trust and connection.
As Eliana takes another spoonful of the stew, her movements infused with more confidence, I can’t help but admire her. There’s a strength simmering beneath her tentative exterior, and even though she’s been through hell, she’s still here, still fighting for her place. It makes me want to fight harder too.
The storm outside has exhausted itself, leaving a crisp silence in its wake. As the wind dies down, the world outside settles into a soft quiet, reflecting the growing peace in my heart. I feel the optimism breed between us, and the cabin, which once felt like a haven for misfits, begins to feel like home.
“I never thought I would end up in a place like this,” Eliana muses, casting her gaze out the window. “I thought I’d just keep running and that I would never find a place where I belonged, where I could be myself.”
“There’s beauty in the unexpected,” I reply, looking out with her at the snow-blanketed landscape. “It may not have been what you envisioned, but sometimes the best paths aren’t the ones we plan.”
“Maybe,” she murmurs, her eyes still trained outside, taking in the way the light shifts on the fresh layer of snow. “It’s just hard to shake the feeling of being unwanted. I’ve felt that too long, I think.”
“Then let today mark a new beginning. This is your chance to carve out your own place in the world. We want you here, Eliana.” My words feel steady and sincere, a beacon fighting against the storm within her.
She finally looks back at me, a spark igniting in her eyes. “Thank you, Kael. For everything. I didn’t realize how much I needed… this.”
The silence stretches between us, comfortably filled with the crackling of the fire and the gentle aroma of the stew, enveloping us in a cocoon of warmth.
“Let’s see how you do with second helpings, then,” I encourage, a teasing tone edging my words. “Proof that you’re not just filling up space here.”
The corners of her lips turn up, and I feel that weight of warmth spread through me again as laughter bursts from her.
“Cut me some slack—I'm still recovering!”
“I figured I’d make a chef out of you yet,” I tease as she playfully glares. “But first, let’s see if you can handle this stew.”
As I watch her take another bite, a slow smile creeping onto her face, I know that we are forging something beautiful here amidst the remnants of our pasts. We are learning to trust, to share our burdens, to let go of the weight we’ve carried for so long.
“I wonder how the others are doing,” she says, momentarily drifting back into contemplation.
“They’re probably bickering about something stupid; it’s what they do best. That’s how you know we’re a family—everyone has their roles to play.”
We fill the silence with more lighthearted banter, exchanging stories about Fen’s killer tracking skills and Rhys’s almost-comical flirting techniques. With each shared laugh, she seems to let another layer fall, revealing more of the spirited woman beneath the guarded exterior.
As we finish the meal, I sense a shift in her posture; she leans back slightly, her body more relaxed than before. Our conversation flows like the gentle stream outside, allowing us each to exhale the past and welcome something new.
Afterwards, I lean back in my chair and watch her, a surge of warmth swelling inside me. “You know, I never would have suspected you to be the secret chef of lost talent.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile. “You know you’ll have to keep up the stew-making, right? I expect quality meals from here on out.”
“Challenge accepted,” I reply, returning her smile. We share a moment of understanding that transcends the tension from before, that understanding reaching out and bridging the gap between where we’ve been and where we might go.
The change in her feels palpable. The storms have passed, and with them comes clarity—a sense of purpose and belonging that I hadn’t realized I craved.
Later, as the fire wanes to glowing coals and Eliana grows sleepy, I can’t help but smile to myself, feeling a warmth that stretches beyond the comfort of the cabin. There’s something about her resilience, about the way she fights to reclaim her life that stirs something deep within me. It ignites remnants of hope I had nearly forgotten existed.
As the night settles into a tranquil silence, I gather the empty bowls and clean up the remnants of what felt like a feast and a long-awaited reconnection. The laughter and stories linger in the air, and I can’t shake the feeling that tonight marked a new chapter—not just for Eliana, but for all of us.
I turn back to her, noticing the way she gazes out the window, her expression softening as she watches snowflakes drift down from the now-darkened sky. “What are you thinking about?” I ask, curiosity lacing my tone.
She turns to me, her brow furrowing slightly, as if contemplating how much to share. “Just… everything. I never expected to find a place like this, or people like you.”
“There’s beauty in the unexpected,” I reply, echoing my earlier sentiment, feeling the truth in my own words. “You never know what you can find if you just take a step forward.”
Eliana bites her lip, a nervous habit, and I can see the weight of her past still holding her back. “I’ve always been the type to guard myself, to keep distance. Letting people in… it’s been difficult.”
“Trust isn’t built in a day,” I offer, careful with my words. “It takes time. We all have our scars and shadows, and we can help each other heal. You’re part of this pack now, for better or worse. We protect what’s ours.”
Her eyes widen slightly, a glimmer of surprise dancing within them. “Part of the pack,” she whispers as if she’s tasting the words for the first time, feeling their weight and warmth settle like a blanket around her shoulders.
I can see the shift in her body language—the way her shoulders ease, the way her posture begins to soften. I know she’s scared, but there’s also a resilience in her that reflects the strength of the mountains surrounding us.