11. Rennick
Rennick
Breakfast felt more like a performance than a casual meal.
Everyone had been careful with their words and tone, trying to settle into a new rhythm under my roof.
Too much had happened too fast. The attack, the rushed packing, the sudden move to an unfamiliar territory.
The tension was easy to spot if you knew where to look.
Shoulders held too high, smiles that looked practiced rather than natural.
And on top of it all, the unspoken reminder of the dark coven’s threat clung to us like a shadow we could not shake.
We weren’t only playing at cool for our own sake. The act was for Hattie and Elio. We were overcompensating, smoothing our sharp edges and masking our unease, doing everything we could to make sure the new omegas could not see how rattled we all still were.
I’d remained in my seat beside Noa, our thighs still pressed together beneath the table.
The contact steadied me, but it also fed the hunger I’d been holding back since she stepped into my house with bags that said she meant to stay.
My wolf prowled inside me, demanding more, but neither of us, me or her, were ready for that.
Even through layers of clothes, that small point of touch made me restless, and when I remembered the way her hands had trembled around the coffee mug earlier, concern sliced through the haze of want.
Splitting my attention between the table’s conversation and her had felt like a battle of wills.
Rhosyn, Siggy, and Noa did their best to include Elio and Hattie, but the newcomers folded in on themselves each time our group’s attention landed on them.
They turned wide-eyed and stiff, like prey begging to go unnoticed.
We all saw it, and it only took a handful attempts before Noa’s sharp look halted any further efforts.
We finished the meal with small talk that felt lighter than it should have, all of us grasping at the illusion of normal for as long as we could.
Once the plates were cleared and the kitchen was scrubbed clean, Noa turned her attention to the new omegas and directed them toward Seren and Siggy.
She assured them we’d return once Juno had been seen to and our meeting was done.
The way they listened told me they already trusted her more than anyone else here. Rightfully so.
When we reached the guest room door, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding out for a miracle.
The kind where months of captivity and fear unraveled in a single night of safety and left a girl standing where a caged wolf had been.
But when we eased open the door and found a shaking, snarling she-wolf crammed under the perfectly made bed, I felt the hollow bite of disappointment.
Noa hadn’t blinked, leaving me unsure of whether she shared my disappointment or not. She’d moved first, because of course she had, unfazed by the angry sounds coming from the wolf half hidden beneath the sleigh-style bedframe.
Now, I watch as Noa drops to her knees in the threshold.
She inches the tray of water and raw beef inside with one hand but makes no move to breach the feral wolf’s territory beyond that.
I remain standing, my attention fixed on Juno’s dark shape, but Noa won’t allow it.
She flicks a look over her shoulder, the weight of her silent order unmistakable.
Without a word, I drop into a crouch at her back.
The simple change in position eases the snarling from under the bed a fraction.
And then we stay like that and wait. For Juno to realize we’re not a threat, to catch the scent of the bloody meat, for something.
But the vibration of displeasure never ceases.
After a while, Noa lets out a quiet sigh. The sound is more resignation than frustration, and my wolf bristles at the defeat it carries. She rises to her feet, every vertebra straightening in deliberate slowness, giving the wolf time to watch and assess.
I mirror her because it seems the safest thing to do—to simply follow her lead and not disrupt whatever fragile calm she’s been trying to fill the air with.
That is until she bends, scoops the tray up, and edges deeper into the room.
My chest tightens, protective instincts scraping as Juno’s growl deepens with every step Noa dares to take.
The shift rouses my wolf, urging me to close ranks, to guard her.
I obey without hesitation. I press into her back, my presence nothing more than a shadow draped over her smaller frame.
My focus remains pinned to Juno, noting every tense ripple of movement of her muscles beneath her matted fur.
She tracks us with sharp precision, her head canted at an uneasy angle, ears pinned fat against her skull.
This time, Noa lowers the tray closer to the bed.
Her movements may be steady, but the wild thrum of her pulse in her throat betrays her.
She’s shoving her fear aside and giving everything she has to Juno.
And all I can think as I watch is how much I admire her for it but in the same breath, I want to throw her over my knee and keep her there until she remembers she’s not expendable.
I don’t get long to dwell on either option.
The strike comes quick. A flash of black and brown, the gleam of fangs too close to Noa’s pale skin.
Instinct takes over me, and in less than a heartbeat I’ve lifted her off the floor and pulled her behind me, my arm braced firmly across her hip as I hold her tight and shield her with every inch of my body.
The snarl that tears from my throat is vicious, bordering on ugly, and laced with the kind of authority that makes the word fall silent.
Pack Alpha dominance, pure and unrestrained, fills every corner of the room.
Juno succumbs immediately, her defensive growl cracking in her throat and collapsing into a pitiful whine as she begins to retreat. Regret twists sharp inside me as I watch the feral brightness drain from her wide eyes, submission dimming them before she fully disappears beneath the bed.
Only then do I whip around to Noa. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” The words tumble out, too quick, too frantic. I catch her hands, rough thumbs sweeping over soft skin in search of puncture marks or blood. Only when I find none do I breathe again.
“I’m fine.” It’s not bravado. Not dismissal.
Just something automatic that leaves her mouth, as though she doesn’t even notice she’s said it.
But her posture tells a different story.
Shoulders slumped, eyes distant, she looks…
dejected. Like Juno’s sudden lunge was a failure she now pins on herself.
“I thought I’d be able to reach her,” she whispers, voice breaking low to match the sorrow etched across her features.
“I tried…I was just hoping she’d hear me. ”
“Hear you?” I echo, because I was right there beside her the whole time, and unless I’ve lost my grip on reality, she never spoke aloud.
Noa stiffens, a faint wince pulling at her features like she’s said more than she meant to.
It presses into me like a bruise, raw with the reminder that she’s still keeping parts of herself out of my reach.
I can’t resent her for that. I don’t deserve her secrets, not yet, but the ache of wanting them is constant.
What I already have of her consumes me—it’s obsession wearing the mask of reverence.
It’s left me half wild, and I know the more of her I discover—the scars, the laughter, the hidden layers—the more I’ll be undone.
She isn’t just my mate. She’s the wonder I’ll spend the rest of my life falling into.
If she’ll let me.
Her eyes flick between mine and the bed where Juno hides, a silent war playing out behind them.
It ultimately ends with her choosing silence over explanation and with a low sigh, she steps around me.
I’ll let it go, for now. Her priority is the feral omega, and I won’t stand in the way of that.
But I won’t forget the crack in her guard. I’ll find a time to circle back to it.
I scrub a hand down my face, trying and failing to shake the vision of teeth flashing in Noa’s direction. The knowledge that if she’d walked in here alone, she could be bleeding right now gnaws at me.
Rattled still, when I speak, my question lands harsher than I mean it to. “Well, what do we do now?”
The truth is this isn’t my arena. This is Noa’s gift, her domain. And standing useless beside her without answers leaves an acrid taste in my mouth. Inadequate is the word clawing up, whether I want to own it or not.
Noa doesn’t turn to answer me. Just walks to the other side of the room, deliberate in every step and her shoulders tense under the thick wool sweater.
At the far wall she drags the white curtain aside, uncovering the sliding glass doors, and pulls one half open.
Cool autumn air seeps in, brushing over my skin and carrying her scent with it.
Brown sugar and spiced fig. It hits me the same way it always does, until the undercurrent reaches me.
There’s a trace of something sour buried beneath the sweetness.
It’s faint, barely there, but it’s enough to twist my gut and send a chill of fear down my spine. It shouldn’t be there. Not in her.
The bitter note, coupled with the way her fingers shook and her skin looked ashen when she’d come into the kitchen this morning, drives the truth home like a blade. It’s all undeniable evidence of what I’ve done.
Rejected mate syndrome.
The snarl that rakes through my head comes from my own wolf, his teeth bared at me. We’ve made a fragile peace, he and I, but his fury hasn’t faded. Neither has the sting of my betrayal. He sees her pain, and he lays it at my feet like a fresh kill where it belongs.
I vow again—to him, to myself—that I’ll find a cure, though the promise tastes hallow under the burden of guilt.