Chapter 14
Rennick
Imake it to the entryway at the same time Noa comes up from the basement stairs.
She doesn’t spare me a glance, doesn’t slow when she turns toward the main staircase that climbs to the top floor where our bedrooms are.
Her arm is still braced across her mouth, her shoulders curled inward as though she can muffle the sound of her ragged breaths.
The coughing has eased, but she’s still fighting for air, each intake sharp and too shallow. The sound twists my stomach tight.
I follow after her, keeping at a distance so I don’t crowd her. By the time I reach the top landing, she’s nowhere to be seen but her bedroom door has been left wide open.
Standing in the threshold, I hesitate to step over the invisible barrier that’s kept me on this side of the doorway since I first showed her to this room the night she arrived here.
But the innate draw to go to her is strong, strong enough to override the respect I’ve wanted to show to her boundaries.
Stepping into her room, her space, is like stepping into a cloud of specially made cocaine.
It’s a formula made just for me, made to infect my bloodstream and give me the greatest high of my life.
Warm brown sugar and spiced fig. Her scent envelops me, swallowing me whole, and for half a heartbeat, I allow myself to bask in it.
Within me, my wolf stretches out, savoring each sweet inhale.
I cut the indulgence short, sooner than either of us is ready for, and turn to the bathroom door. My feet move before thought catches up.
Behind the door, a steady stream of water sounds.
Beneath the splashing, I can still make out her uneven intakes of breath.
The horrific coughs still seem to be letting her be for now.
My hand finds the door handle without thinking, instinct drawing me closer, the need to go to her louder than any reason.
At the last second, I stop myself from bursting in like I want to.
Instead, I find a single thread of something that resembles restraint, and my knuckles brush the wood.
I rap twice.
“Noa?” Afraid I’ll startle her if I speak too loudly, her name scrapes out of my throat softly.
Silence.
I knock again, firmer, my voice rising. “Sweet one? Are you okay?”
The pause is long enough to make my stomach pit and thoughts of shouldering through the wooden door cross my mind again.
But finally, she answers me. It’s nothing more than a hoarse, cracked sound. “Y-yeah. I’m fine.”
I shut my eyes briefly, jaw tight.
It’s a bullshit lie.
I’ve already seen the truth written across her skin, the pale cast of her face, the dull light in her eyes when they flicked up to mine. My mate is unraveling before me, and every second I do nothing feels like I’m betraying her again.
“Are you sure?” I press, the words rougher than I mean them to be. My fear bleeds through, sharpening every syllable, twisting concern into something that resembles a demand. I want her like a dying man wants water. “That cough didn’t sound fine.”
“I just breathed wrong, I guess. Choked on my spit or something embarrassing like that.” Her voice comes out painfully casual, tossed out like it’s nothing, like that flimsy excuse could ever be enough to appease me. She thinks it’ll satisfy my concern.
It does the fucking opposite.
I back up half a step, running both hands over my face. My beard rasps against my palms as I exhale slowly, thinking through every possible way to handle this
The quiet after her weak excuse is a dull blade.
My wolf howls at it, demanding I tear the door off its hinges and drag the truth from her lips.
Every part of me aches to fix her, to touch her, to strip the sickness from her skin.
The disappointment of her lie settles bitter in my gut, but I order myself to hold steady.
Forcing honesty never works and shoving my care on her will undo whatever fragile ground I’ve managed to gain.
So, I wait, muscles coiled, reminding myself that trust will only be built by giving her a choice. Even though every part of me demands I take it.
“Will you come out here so I can talk to you?” So I can see with my own two eyes that you’re as okay as you’re telling me, I silently add.
There’s another pause. Then the faucet clicks off, followed by the faint rustle of fabric hitting tile. “Umm…yeah, okay,” she mumbles. “Just give me a second.”
Relief moves through me, loosening something that had been locked tight. She didn’t tell me to leave, didn’t shut me out. She’s letting me stay. I step back another pace or two so I’m not plastered to the door like a psycho when she opens it.
Still, I can’t help wondering how she’d react if she opened her bedroom door one night and found me slumped in the hall, sleeping against the wall outside her room instead of in my own bed.
My room sits directly across from hers, but it might as well be on the other side of the world for how far away it feels.
The door eases open after another stretch of rustling, and Noa steps out. She doesn’t look at me, her gaze skimming anywhere else—the walls, the floorboards, my shoes. She keeps her head bowed, hoping I’ll miss the truth written all over her. But it’s unmistakable.
From a distance she looked unwell but up close, the sight is like hot iron stabbed between my ribs.
Her skin is washed out, dulled into an ashen shade that makes her look fragile in a way she never should.
But it’s the circles under her eyes that stop me cold—deep-purple shadows so dark they look like someone’s taken a swing at her.
Her lips are just as pale and chapped, robbed of the plump softness I’d felt press against mine during our stolen moment.
And her hair, usually long and loose, is pulled back into a messy ponytail.
Whether from sweat or the water she’s splashed there, I don’t know, but the shorter stands of her bangs cling to her damp brow.
I move before reason can stop me, closing the space I’d only just tried to grant her.
My hands claim her face, palms bracketing her cheeks as I tip her chin upward and strip away the shield she just attempted to raise between us.
Noa now has nowhere to turn but to me.
She inhales sharply, the sound a bittersweet melody of agony and pleasure, and she stiffens, turning into stone in my grasp.
For a heartbeat I think she’s going to pull away.
Then slowly, she surrenders. Inch by inch, her body gives in until all that’s left is her melted into my tender grasp.
Her eyes close, the fight drains out of her, and the sigh that slips free nearly shreds the control I’m clinging to.
An instinct I don’t fully understand niggles at the back of my mind, driving me to act.
Fast. Violently. It’s like a piece of my brain knows what to do, how to fix this, but the rest of my mind and body are still in the dark.
Still lost on how to chase the shadow away from her eyes and ache from her bones.
Thumbs tracing the apparent bruising beneath her eyes, I battle the impulse screaming at me to gather her up, carry her across the hall to my room, and bundle her up in a bed that smells like me.
And fuck, the way she reacts to my touch…
that sharp intake of breath that is need and pain tangled in one.
I’ve caught it before, when my hand slid across her back at breakfast days ago.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s as starved for me as I am for her.
“Sweet one,” I murmur, her moniker tangled in the gravel of my exhale. It’s part plea, part demand. “Talk to me.”
The moment fractures. She stiffens, bracing herself, throwing up what’s left of her defenses. But she doesn’t shake free of my hold. Her face stays in my hands, and that alone feels like a victory I shouldn’t cling to as hard as I do.
“I just…” She clears her throat, words catching like she’s choking on the very idea of giving me a sliver of truth. At last, she forces them out. “I don’t feel very well.”
There’s a painful pang behind my ribs, her admission like claws dragging.
“I know you don’t.” My fingers tighten on her clammy skin before I can stop them. “I can see it. Please, just tell me what to do. How to help you.”
I’ll do anything, just tell me what I can do, Noa.
Her eyes open, locking on to mine, and all the conflict reflected in them is laid bare. For a breath, I think she’ll let me in, but then she speaks. Hope fades just as fast as it dared surface.
“I’m not ready.”
Three words layered with meanings she doesn’t have to spell out. Not ready to trust me. Not ready to let me shoulder any part of what’s breaking her. Not ready to believe I’d treat her heart with the care I should have the first time.
Something inside me tears at that. My wolf gives voice to it, a low, broken noise I don’t let past my teeth. But I force myself to nod, to accept what she’s willing to give even as it strips me bare.
“Okay,” I tell her softly. “I understand.” It’s both a lie and a truth because while I understand, I also I hate it.
She holds my gaze for another long moment, her eyes dipping briefly to my mouth.
For one stupid second, I almost let myself close the gap and steal the kiss I’m starving for.
Just a small taste, a reminder she’s still mine.
But then she pulls back, wincing as she does, halting the impulse before it can fully take root.
The loss of her skin against mine is immediate.
Cruel. My hands fall uselessly at my sides, the distance she puts between us cold.
Noa clears her throat before asking, “What did you want to talk about?”
I consider letting it go for now—the talk about her mother, the questions clawing at the back of my skull since I woke.
She looks like she’s barely holding herself together, and maybe I’ve already pushed her far enough for one day.
But if we’re ever going to move forward, to rebuild what was lost, we can’t keep hiding behind silence.
At some point, we both have to start laying our truths down, piece by piece, until there’s enough trust to stand on.
All I can do is keep offering mine, hoping she’ll see it for what it is and eventually meet me halfway.
So, I take the risk, and ask, “Do you think your mother could’ve left me messages? Through dreams?”
The reaction is immediate. Her chin jerks up, eyes widening in that small, telling way that gives her away completely. She doesn’t need to speak. Her silence has already spoken for her.
“You’ve dreamed of her too,” I say quietly, not accusing, not even surprised.
Just... certain. Certain that I’m not crazy in believing this to be possible.
“Thalassa.” The name still feels strange in my mouth after all these years.
“I don’t understand what’s happening, Noa.
Why would your mother be leaving us messages? What did she do?”
That’s the question that won’t leave me.
What did Thalassa Alderwood do to us? How deep does her interference run?
I already know she tore us apart once by taking Noa away, by severing something sacred before it ever had the chance to grow, but Thalassa’s warning in my dream tells me there’s more. I just don’t know how much damage she left behind, or if it can ever be undone.
Noa stands there, shifting on her feet, worrying her cracked lip between her straight front teeth.
She’s staring like she’s caught in some silent argument with herself.
Her hands fidget with the too long sleeves of her top, and I’m now paying attention to the fact it’s not the one she’d been wearing outside.
The purple sweatshirt is gone.
In its place is a warm charcoal knit sweater.
Mine. The one I left hanging over the banister before patrol, half on purpose, half on a stupid, boyish hope she’d find it and ‘steal’ it.
She must’ve grabbed it on her way upstairs.
Now, it hangs loose on her small frame and seeing her in it makes something deep inside me settle.
A quiet hum of alpha satisfaction runs through both me and my wolf.
The sight hits every possessive instinct I have.
My scent now clings to her, wrapped around her, marking her as mine without having to declare it in words.
It’s a silent claim, one she doesn’t even realize she’s made by wearing it.
This is how it’s supposed to be—an alpha providing for his omega, seeing to her comfort in whatever small ways he can.
If soft fabric and a familiar scent bring her comfort, she can have every damn piece of clothing I own.
I’ll rip the shirt off my back if it means it’ll help her breathe a little easier.
A slow exhale leaves her, the kind that sounds like surrender. Whatever argument she’s been fighting with herself finally ends, and she lifts one small hand from the safety of her sleeve. Only half of it shows as she extends it toward me. “Will you go somewhere with me?”
For a second, I just stare, caught off guard by the offering. She’s never reached out for me like this, never silently asked for my touch. My hand finds hers, wrapping around it easily, my heat bleeding into her cold skin. I give her fingers a soft, lingering squeeze.
“Sweet one,” I murmur. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’ll follow you anywhere.”
She turns away, head ducking as she pulls us toward the door, but I catch it. A tiny pull at the edge of her mouth, a flicker of something soft and unguarded.
Something real.