Chapter 12 Felix
Felix
Ishould’ve known it wouldn’t last forever.
The quiet mornings. The sleepy café routines. The way Ben pulls me into his arms at night like he needs me there. Like I’m home.
I knew the outside world would catch up eventually.
But I didn’t think it’d be this fast.
It starts with a rumor.
Mrs. Garber from the bookstore tells me someone spotted a "huge brown dog" running near the lake trail the night before last.
“Must’ve been a wolf,” she says, not really joking. “You should be careful, sweetheart.”
I laugh, but it’s tight. I wasn’t near the lake that night.
But I know who was.
Rowan.
Sometimes she likes to run where the trees break wide. Sometimes she forgets not everyone in this town is like us.
And all it takes is one wrong moment, one blurry photo, one sniff in the wrong direction...
They’ll come.
***
Two days later, a stranger walks into the café.
Black coat. Neutral expression. Expensive shoes with no snow on them.
And eyes that pin me to the floor before I even open my mouth.
Ben sees it too.
He moves closer. Not obviously, but enough. He stands behind the counter—taller, broader, older—and says in that low, calm voice that somehow ends conversations before they start:
“Can I help you?”
The man’s eyes flick to Ben. “Just passing through.”
“Great,” Ben says, not blinking. “Then keep passing.”
It’s the most aggressive customer service I’ve ever heard, and I think I fall in love a little more.
The man leaves without ordering anything, but I know he’s not gone.
Later that night, Rowan texts:
“Someone from Regional Enforcement just checked our perimeter. You need to be careful or you’ll get us all in trouble.”
I sit on the couch staring at the message until my chest feels too tight.
Ben walks in from the kitchen holding two mugs. One look at me and he knows something’s off.
“Tell me.”
I swallow. “You remember the guy in the black coat? The one who looked like he pays for ad-free streaming?”
“Yeah… I remember him.”
I take a breath. “He’s not a tourist. He’s a supernatural investigator. Quiet one. High-level. Doesn’t wear a badge because he doesn’t need one.”
Ben doesn’t flinch. Probably because he doesn't understand what it means. He just sets the mugs down and sits beside me, thigh pressed against mine.
“And he’s looking into you?” Ben asks.
“Maybe. Us. The pack. It’s hard to tell.” I rake a hand through my hair. “But if he figures out I’m with a human, especially an unmarked one, he’ll act. He has to. That’s literally his job.”
Ben raises an eyebrow. “His job is breaking up relationships?”
“His job is protecting humans from shifters,” I say. “From being manipulated. From being claimed without consent. From getting in too deep with something they don’t understand.”
He snorts. “And he thinks I’m the victim?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because legally, you are.”
That gets his attention.
He straightens a little, eyes narrowing. “Explain.”
I sigh. “Unclaimed humans aren’t supposed to live with shifters long-term.
Not without signing off on risk disclosures, bond agreements, all the red tape.
You’re not marked. You’re not registered.
And to them, that means you might be under some kind of influence you didn’t agree to.
Even if you’re not. Even if you're my mate…”
Ben hums, unimpressed. “So what? You’re the big bad wolf, and I’m some helpless villager being seduced into the woods?”
“Basically, yeah,” I mutter.
He grunts. “Well, that’s condescending as hell.”
“I know.”
A long pause stretches between us.
I force myself to keep my voice calm when I say it. “If I marked you, the problem would go away.”
Ben looks at me sharply, so I take a breath and continue.
"Because a mark is a binding declaration.
It only sticks when the bond is mutual and conscious.
It protects the human… legally, magically, socially.
Once you're marked, no one can claim you’re unaware or unwilling.
It tells the pack—and the investigators—that you're not being coerced, you're not unstable, and you're not a wildcard liability.” I keep going, lower now.
“A mark settles it. You're recognized. Accounted for. Safe. Under pack protection. Off-limits to intervention.”
He studies me like he’s trying to figure out what I’m not saying. And to his credit, he finds it.
“But you haven’t."
“Because I don’t want to pressure you,” I say quickly. “Because it’s your life, and your choice, and I didn’t get into this to force something on you.”
Ben’s quiet for a second. Then: “Okay, but what is marking, exactly? What does that mean?”
I swallow, suddenly very aware of the space between us. “It’s… a claim. Not like ownership,” I add quickly. “But… Once I mark you, you’re bonded to me. Recognized by the pack. Recognized by the Council, if it comes to that.”
“And that makes the investigator back off," he says.
“Yeah. Makes it official. You’d be mine, and they’d have to leave you alone.”
Ben’s jaw shifts. He crosses his arms. “And this bond thing… it’s permanent?”
The question slices deeper than it should.
My wolf stills inside me, ears flattening, the way it does when it’s hurt but trying not to show it. It doesn’t like the hesitation in his voice. The doubt. The implication that permanence might be a problem.
I keep my face neutral, but my chest goes tight.
“For shifters, yeah.” I watch his face carefully. “It’s for life. We don’t undo it. Not without pain. Not without damage.”
He doesn’t flinch, but he does go still, like he’s filing that away somewhere deep.
I keep talking before the silence can turn into rejection. “I wasn’t hiding it. I just… I didn’t want to make you feel cornered. I didn’t want this to feel like an ultimatum.”
Ben’s quiet again. Long enough that my pulse starts to tick a little faster.
Then he nods. Slow. “Alright.”
My breath catches. “Alright?”
“I’ll consider it,” he says. “You’re not wrong… this thing with the investigator feels off. But I’m not jumping into a lifelong pact over paperwork.”
Fair.
My wolf whines low inside me, disappointed but not surprised. It doesn’t understand hesitation when it comes to a mate. For us, there’s no considering—there’s only yes, mine, now.
But I nod anyway.
“Still,” he adds, voice dry, “those investigators can piss off.”
I huff out a shaky laugh.
“Ben—”
“I’m not leaving either,” he says. Firm. Final. “If I have to learn how to throw punches or fake a werewolf growl to keep you safe, I’ll figure it out.”
I blink. My throat goes tight.
“You’d really do that?”
He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “You hum when you chop vegetables. You dance like nobody’s watching—which would be great, except I’m always watching. You think I’m walking away from that?”
I laugh, wet and shaky. “You’re such a grump.”
“And you’re mine.”
That night, I sleep with my head on his chest and the faint echo of his heartbeat under my ear.
The danger’s still out there. But for the first time, I don’t feel alone in it.
We’re a team.