Chapter 11 #2
She’s throwing my words back at me, but she’s right, of course. I’ve been running on fumes, catching minutes of rest here and there but never truly sleeping. Until the silver is gone, its effects will linger—weakness, slowed healing, dulled senses.
But it’s not just the silver making me hesitate.
It’s been years since I’ve slept beside another person.
Years since I’ve had to worry about morning arousal or the unconscious movements that come with sharing a bed.
And this isn’t just anyone—this is Lithia.
My mate. The woman whose scent has been driving me half-mad with want despite our circumstances.
The thought of lying beside her, breathing in her scent with every inhalation, feeling the warmth of her body just inches away, listening to the soft sounds she makes in sleep—it’s both torture and temptation.
What if I reach for her in my dreams? What if she wakes to find me curled around her like the possessive bastard my wolf wants me to be?
But the exhaustion weighs heavier than my concerns, and the practical part of me knows she’s right. We both need rest.
After a moment’s hesitation, I settle beside her on the narrow mattress, careful to leave space between us. The bed creaks under our combined weight, but holds. “Wake me in four hours,” I say. “I’ll take second watch.”
“Deal.”
I close my eyes, expecting sleep to evade me as it usually does. But whether from exhaustion or the strange comfort of having her nearby, darkness claims me almost immediately.
I dream of running through endless forests, silver arrows raining from the sky, a silver-eyed wolf always just ahead of me. When I jerk awake, heart pounding, the cabin is dark and empty except for the dying embers in the fireplace.
Lithia!
I hear her moving in the bathroom, and relax. She let me sleep longer than we agreed.
I rise quietly and walk to the window. Outside, night has fallen completely, the forest a tapestry of silver-blue shadows in the moonlight. I slip outside and make my way around the cabin, checking our perimeter warnings—all undisturbed—then return to add wood to the fire.
Lithia’s passed out on the bed, the blanket curled around her.
As the flames grow, casting warm light across the small space, I study her again. In sleep, the fierce Beta softens. She looks younger, less burdened by responsibility and pain.
My wolf stirs, pressing against my consciousness with uncharacteristic insistence.
I push back against the instinct. Not now. Not yet. She needs to heal. We need to get her home.
But my wolf is persistent. Ours. Claim. Protect.
I shake my head, moving away from the bed to clear my thoughts. Whatever this pull between us—and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel it—now is not the time to explore it. We’re fugitives, injured, hunted. Romance is the last thing either of us needs.
A soft sound from the bed draws my attention. Lithia’s face has tensed, her breathing quickening. A nightmare, by the looks of it.
I debate whether to wake her, then decide against it. Better she gets what rest she can, even if troubled. Instead, I move closer, gently placing a hand on her arm in silent reassurance.
She settles almost immediately, her features smoothing out. I withdraw my hand, surprised by the effect.
Outside, an owl calls, breaking the silence of the night. I move to the window, peering through a small gap in the boards. The forest is still, peaceful under the moon’s glow. No sign of pursuit, no hint of danger.
But I know better than to trust the calm. Zella will be hunting us, and she’ll have resources at her disposal that we can only guess at. Our reprieve is temporary, our safety an illusion.
“Kier?” Lithia’s voice is soft with sleep. “Everything okay?”
“All quiet,” I reply, turning back to her. “You should still be resting.”
“I’ve slept enough.” She sits up carefully, testing her injured side.
“You’ve needed it.”
“So do you.” She studies me in the firelight. “You look better, though. Less like death warmed over.”
I snort. “Such flattery.”
A small smile touches her lips. “I’m known for my charm.”
“How’s the wound?” I ask, nodding toward her side.
“Healing, I think.”
“Good.” I move toward the bed where she’s resting. “Let me check your wounds before I make dinner. Make sure the infection hasn’t returned.”
She nods, shifting to give me better access as I settle on the edge of the narrow mattress.
My wolf stirs beneath my skin, pleased by her nearness. Three years of isolation have left me starved for physical contact.
“This might be tender,” I warn, gently lifting the edge of her makeshift bandage.
The wound has healed significantly—no longer the angry red of infection, but a healthy pink. It seems that we might make it out of this after all.
I reach for the small pot of healing salve I’d made from herbs, warming it between my palms. The ritual is familiar now—I’ve done this dozens of times over the past few days—but something feels different tonight.
Maybe it’s because she’s fully conscious, fully present, instead of lost in fever dreams.
“How does that feel?” I ask, my voice rougher than intended as I smooth the balm over her skin.
“Better.” I notice the way her muscles tense as I brush her skin.
I work methodically, my fingers tracing the edges of the healing wound, making sure the salve covers every inch.
Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my touch, warm and alive in ways that make my chest tight.
I’ve touched her before, but this is different.
She’s aware of every brush of my fingers, and I’m aware of her awareness.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of our breathing. Mine is steady but deliberate, controlled. Lithia’s is shallower, with the faintest catch.
I should be clinical about this. Professional. But the way she’s looking at me—those pale blue eyes following my every movement—makes it impossible to pretend this is just wound care.
When I move to check the bruising along her neck, I have to lean closer. The angle puts my face inches from hers, close enough to see the tiny scar that cuts through her left eyebrow, close enough to catch the subtle scent that’s uniquely her beneath the herbs and healing salves.
My knuckles brush against the smooth expanse of her abdomen as I work, and she inhales sharply—a soft gasp that has nothing to do with discomfort. The sound goes straight through me, and I watch, fascinated, as goosebumps ripple across her skin in the wake of my touch.
Time seems to slow. I’m hyperaware of everything—the way her lips part slightly, the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, the way her fingers curl into the rough blanket beneath her. The cabin feels smaller, the air thicker, charged with an emotion I don’t dare name.
My gaze flies up to meet hers, and what I see there makes my breath catch. There’s no mistaking the heat in her eyes or the way her pupils have dilated. She’s as affected by this as I am, and the knowledge sends fire racing through my veins.
“Kier,” she whispers, my name barely a breath.
The sound of it—soft, needy, uncertain—nearly undoes me. I can see the questions in her eyes, the same confusion I’m feeling.
I’m leaning closer without realizing it, drawn by something primal and undeniable. Her scent surrounds me, making my wolf pace restlessly beneath my skin. Just a few more inches and I could taste her, could finally discover if her lips are as soft as they look.
Her breathing hitches, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. The space between us feels electric, crackling with tension. All I’d have to do is close the distance, and I could finally give in to the pull that’s been driving me mad.
But then I catch sight of the silver cuffs still burning against her wrists, notice the slight pallor that speaks of recent illness, and remember how fragile she felt in my arms when the fever had her in its grip.
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. She’s injured. Recovering. Still weak from infection and silver poisoning. And here I am, taking advantage of her vulnerability, letting my own desperate loneliness cloud my judgment.
What kind of wolf does that make me? What kind of protector puts his own desires above her wellbeing?
The thought is enough to shatter the spell completely. I stand abruptly, putting distance between us before I do something we’re both not ready for—something she might regret when she’s thinking clearly again.
I clear my throat. “We should be able to move in a few days, if you keep improving at this rate.”
I don’t look back to see her reaction, don’t trust myself to maintain this distance if I see disappointment or apathy in her eyes.
“I guess. If we’re not found before then.”
I nod, acknowledging the unspoken concern that hangs between us. “I’ll scout further tomorrow, make sure we truly are alone out here.”
“Be careful,” she says. “We don’t know who or what might be searching for us.”
The worry in her voice catches me off guard. It’s been so long since anyone cared about my safety that I’m not quite sure how to respond.
“Always am,” I say finally, focusing on restocking the fire. “You should eat again. Keep your strength up.”
She accepts the change of subject without comment, allowing me to prepare another simple meal from our limited stores. As she eats, we discuss the area, the mountains, the best route to Shadowmist territory once she’s healed enough to travel.
In the light of the flashlight, we pour over rough maps I found in a drawer, trying to triangulate our position and work out the best possible paths and potential dangers. The planning feels good—concrete, practical, something to focus on besides the pain and uncertainty.
“You know this area well?”
I shrug. “Not overly, but I’ve tracked through most of the northern territories at some point or another. Goes with the job.”
“And what exactly is that job?”