Chapter 9
Dane
Her name hangs between us, the sound of it still vibrating in my chest. I didn’t mean to say it like that—low and rough, like something dragged from my core.
I should let go of her wrist. I don’t.
The contrast hits me—her delicate wrist bones beneath calloused fingers that have seen too much violence. Her skin is pale cream against my weathered tan, unmarked where mine bears scars from years as an Assassin.
Her pulse hammers under my thumb. Fast. Unsteady. Matching mine. Our breath clouds in the frigid air, mingling in the inches between our faces.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to break my hold. This close, I can see the silver flecks scattered through violet irises, the way her dark lashes cast shadows on sharp cheekbones. Her mouth is full, slightly parted, breath coming quick between lips, the color of winter berries.
She watches me with those violet-flecked eyes, waiting. Her body stays tense beneath mine, heat radiating through our clothes.
“Dane.” My name sounds different in her mouth. Not a demand. Not a plea. A fact. “Let me up.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. My wolf claws at my control, demanding more of this—of her pinned beneath me, of her scent filling my lungs, of the defiance in her eyes that hasn’t quite masked what I can smell on her skin.
Desire.
Raw and sharp and unwanted, but there.
I lean down. Her breath catches. The sound slices through me.
“No.” It comes out as a growl against her mouth.
And then I’m kissing her.
It’s not gentle. It’s not planned. It’s a collision—my mouth crashing against hers, her hand fisting in my shirt. She makes a sound—half protest, half surrender—and then kisses back with equal force.
The taste of her cuts through rational thought. Her mouth opens under mine, hot and demanding. I release her wrist, sliding my hand into her hair instead, gripping tight enough that her head tilts back, giving me better access.
She bites my lower lip. Hard. I groan, the pain sharpening everything. My other hand slides to her hip, fingers digging in as I pull her closer.
My hands dwarf her frame; one tangled in silky black hair that catches moonlight like spilled ink, the other spanning her hip where soft curves meet lean muscle. She’s smaller than me but solid, built for speed and stealth rather than brute force.
The world narrows to points of contact—her tongue against mine, her nails scraping down my neck, the curve of her hip under my palm. Her scent changes, deepens, laced with arousal that matches the pulse hammering through my veins. My wolf wants to claim, to mark, to pin her down and—
A crack splits the silence. A branch breaking, north of our position.
We freeze, mouths still connected, breaths harsh.
Another sound follows: a low rustle, deliberate and careful. Not an animal. Someone moving through brush, trying to stay quiet.
I wrench away, every sense straining outward. My hand goes to the knife at my belt as I scan the darkness.
Nova sits up, her movements silent and fluid. Even disheveled, she’s gorgeous—bright, violet eyes, cheekbones sharp in the moonlight. The contrast between her delicate features and the lethal grace in every movement sends heat surging to my cock.
Her lips are swollen, hair mussed where I grabbed it. She doesn’t look at me. Her attention locks on the direction of the sound, head tilted in the way wolves listen for prey.
What the fuck did I just do?
The thought hits like ice water. I kissed her. Here, in the open, with my pack fractured and enemies circling. With her loyalty still unproven.
My jaw clenches tight enough to ache. I focus on the woods, on the threat lurking in the shadows. Not on the taste of her still in my mouth. Not on the way my body burns for more.
The woods have gone too quiet now. Whatever—whoever—was there has withdrawn or frozen in place.
Nova’s fingers brush my arm. Her voice comes in a whisper: “Northeast. Fifty yards.”
I nod, no words needed. Nova’s blade lies in the frost where it fell during our struggle. I scoop it up without thinking, hand it back to her. My fingers brush hers as she takes it, and electricity zips up my arm.
Not now. Focus.
We break into the trees as one unit, our movements synchronized like we’ve done this a hundred times before. She takes the left arc. I take the right. Flanking whatever waits in the darkness.
The night air bites my skin, cold and sharp. Every sense cranks to eleven—the soft pad of her footsteps, the distant call of an owl, the smell of pine and frost and lingering traces of her on my skin. My wolf strains beneath the surface, wanting release, wanting to hunt, to track, to claim.
I force it back. Control. I need fucking control.
Fifty yards in, the forest goes dead silent. No animal sounds. No wind. Just the sound of our breathing and the crunch of frozen earth beneath our boots.
I scan for movement, for shadow, for anything out of place. Nothing. But the hair on my neck stands on end. We’re not alone.
“Spread out,” I whisper, low enough that only she could hear it.
She complies without question, peeling off to circle wider. I track her movement through sound and scent—her steps deliberate but efficient. Professional. Cold.
Nothing like the woman who bit my lip three minutes ago and smelled like she wanted me as much as I wanted her.
A branch snaps to my right. I freeze, muscles coiled, knife ready. The forest holds its breath.
Then—movement. Fast. Something dark cutting through the trees thirty yards ahead. I surge forward, keeping low, and tracking the disturbance through the underbrush.
Nova appears on my twelve, materializing from shadow like she’s made of it. She points—two fingers, sharp—toward a denser section of pines.
We converge from opposite angles. My pulse hammers in my ears. Not from exertion. From the hunt. From her proximity. From the memory of her mouth still fresh on mine.
I round a thick trunk, knife ready, and find—nothing.
Empty forest. Cold air. Disturbed earth where someone had stood moments before.
Nova appears at my side, her breath visible in small puffs. We scan the area, backs to each other, covering all angles. Her shoulder blade presses against mine through our jackets.
“Gone,” she says, voice flat.
I crouch, examining the ground. Boot prints. Heavy. Male from the size and depth. Deliberate in placement.
“Not gone. Pulled back.” I stand, scanning the tree line. “This wasn’t an accident. This was reconnaissance.”
“Testing perimeters.” Nova’s eyes narrow as she studies the darkness. “Checking response times.”
“Checking who responds.” The implication hangs between us. Who’d they see? What’d they see?
Silence stretches as we stand, alert for any return. But the forest remains empty. The watcher has retreated. For now.
I turn to face her. The kiss sits between us like a third presence. Unacknowledged. Unavoidable. Her lips are still slightly swollen, the only evidence that anything happened.
“We need to head back.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods once, all business. No trace of the heat that flared between us minutes ago. But I catch it—the slight acceleration of her pulse at her throat. The faint shift in her scent.
She feels it too. Whatever this is.
I slide my knife back into my boot sheath. She tucks hers into her belt. We stand across from each other like nothing just happened.
But I know better. My hand still remembers the curve of her hip. And that’s going to be a problem.
I keep three strides between us.
The forest thins as we approach the compound, pines giving way to frost-coated clearings. She walks with that silent glide—like her feet never fully commit to the ground. I focus on my breathing. Four counts in. Hold two. Six out. Military pattern. It’s not working.
Every breath still brings her scent. Pine and cold air, and that lingering trace of desire that shouldn’t be there. That needs to not be there.
I scan the perimeter instead. Looking for movement, for weaknesses, for anything that isn’t her. The compound lights glint through trees—security floods by the main gate and softer glows from cabins where wolves are moving in early morning routines. Pack life continuing while my control slips.
Her boot crunches ice. The sound cuts through the silence. Not an accident. She doesn’t make noise unless she means to.
I glance over. Mistake. Her profile is sharp in the pre-dawn light, jaw tight, eyes forward. A bruise forms at the corner of her mouth where I—
I snap my gaze ahead. Lock down that thought. Bury it.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
I check my hands. Nothing. Then taste copper. My lip. Where she bit me.
“It’s fine.” My voice comes out rough. Wrong.
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, face neutral, body language closed. But her pulse gives her away—too fast, too hard. I shouldn’t be able to hear it from three strides away.
We reach the edge of the trees. The compound spreads before us—still half-asleep, wolves moving between buildings, steam rising from the mess hall chimney. Someone’s shouting orders near the training yard. Normal morning. Nothing’s changed.
Except everything.
She stops at the treeline. I stop too. Not by choice. By some invisible tether that won’t let me walk past her.
“I need to check something.” Her voice is clipped. Professional. “The energy signature our visitor left. It might match what I found on the ridge.”
I should say something tactical. Should focus on the threat, the reconnaissance, and the implications for pack security. Instead, I notice how the early light catches purple undertones in her hair. How her fingers curl away from mine.
“Report back when you have something.” I sound like myself again. Almost.
She nods once. Not looking at me. “I will.”
Then she’s gone—cutting across the compound edge, heading for the shack. Her stride is purposeful, shoulders straight, nothing in her posture betraying what happened in the woods.
What nearly happened.
I watch her go. Tell myself to move. To turn toward the main lodge. To focus on the pack that depends on me. On the threat circling us. On anything but the door she just disappeared through.
My feet don’t move.
My hands curl into fists. Muscles lock tight enough to ache. The cold slices through my jacket, but I barely feel it. All I feel is the ghost-weight of her against me. The memory of her pulse under my thumb. The taste of her still on my tongue.
This can’t happen. Can’t continue. Can’t be anything.
But I stand there anyway, jaw clenched, watching her door like I’m waiting for permission to breathe.