2. Caius #3
“The investigation is the priority,” I try again. “Someone murdered an elder. This isn’t a courtship opportunity.”
“Everything is a courtship opportunity.” Aslan grins, the expression doing nothing to dim the predator in his face. He’s been insufferably happy since claiming Leire—and relentlessly vocal about his opinions on others’ romantic lives. “You finally have a reason to spend time with her. Use it.”
“An elder is dead.”
“And you’re going to avenge her while also pursuing the woman you’ve wanted. Efficiency.” Aslan’s grin widens. “I approve.”
“I don’t need your approval.”
“You have it anyway.” Torin shifts in his stone chair.
The words come out sharper than I intended. “I’m pursuing her because she’s—” I stop.
Four pairs of eyes wait.
“I’m not pursuing her,” I finish lamely. “She doesn’t want to be pursued.”
“She invited you into her space.” Rhodes looks up from his notes. His expression is the particular kind of concern he reserves for situations that don’t fit proper categories. “After midnight. During an emotional crisis. That’s not the behavior of someone who doesn’t want to be pursued.”
“She needed help with an investigation.”
“She needed you.” Rhodes’s voice is flat. “I’ve been noting your interactions for years. The pattern is clear. You observe her. She observes you. Neither acts. It’s exhausting to witness.”
“You’ve been documenting my romantic situation?”
“I document everything. It’s concerning that you haven’t noticed.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can we please focus on the actual crisis? The murder? The Preserver infiltration?”
“We can multitask.” Elio examines his fingernails again.
I push back from the stone circle and stand. “I’m going home. We’ll reconvene tomorrow to discuss actual investigation strategies. Not my personal life.”
“Your personal life is finally happening.” Elio rises with that fluid panther grace. “Some of us have been betting on the timeline. I had money on five more years of noble suffering.”
I leave.
Behind me, I hear Aslan’s voice: “Fifty gold says he makes a move within the week.”
“I’ll take that bet.” Rhodes. “He’s too noble. It’ll be at least a month.”
“The witch will make the first move.” Elio, sounding absolutely certain. “She’s more decisive than he is.”
“Agreed.” Torin. “Twenty says she cracks within two weeks.”
I close the door on their laughter.
The walk back to pack territory is quiet. The mist curls around my boots, thicker than usual, swirling in patterns that seem almost deliberate. Mistvale after midnight is a different creature than the town that exists during the day—softer, stranger, full of magic that doesn’t quite behave.
I think about Anouk.
The way she’d admitted her magic was unstable. The vulnerability in her expression before she locked it away. The scent of lavender and sage that still clings to my jacket from standing too close.
Years.
I recognized her the first time we met—a coven ceremony, her first week as leader, both of us newly appointed to positions we hadn’t expected to hold. She’d looked at me across the gathering with those dark, assessing eyes, and my chest simply said: Her.
Not a question. Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.
I’d been waiting ever since. Watching from a distance. Learning her patterns, her preferences, the way she holds herself in public versus the moments when she thinks no one is looking. Waiting for a sign that she might want what I could offer.
The Winter Solstice celebration, five years ago—standing too close in a doorway, her breath misting the cold air, both of us half a second from something that could have changed everything—before an alarm sent us running in opposite directions.
Tonight she invited me in.
It’s not a declaration. It’s not even an acknowledgment. But it’s a beginning.
And for the first time, a beginning feels like it might be enough.
I shift at the edge of pack territory, letting the change take me. Four paws hit the ground and I run—through the ancient trees, past the cabin I’ve never shared with anyone, toward the high ridge where I can see the whole valley below.
Mistvale spreads out beneath me. The Hollow with its clustering shops. Ironwood Row where the shifters make their homes. The faint glow of the Warding Line at the valley’s edge. And there, in the heart of the witch quarter, the apothecary where a light still burns in an upper window.
She can’t sleep either.
I throw back my head and howl—long, low, carrying across the sleeping town. Not a call to pack. Not a warning. Just a wolf claiming the night, letting the magic know he’s here.
In the distance, the light in her window flickers.
I pretend it’s a coincidence.
We’re both very good at pretending.
Tomorrow that changes. Tomorrow we’re partners—in investigation, at least. Tomorrow I’ll see her again, work beside her, exist in her space with her permission.
And maybe, if patience finally pays off, I’ll get to stop pretending.
I settle into a watchful crouch on the ridge, gaze fixed on that distant window.
I’ll wait.
I’m good at that.