19. Anouk
NINETEEN
ANOUK
The cabin is larger than I expected.
Set slightly elevated on the hillside, it overlooks the pack center below—a sprawl of homes and gathering spaces connected by well-worn paths.
The massive stone fireplace is visible through the windows, warm light spilling out into the evening darkness.
Comfortable furniture arranged for someone who might be human or wolf at any moment. A kitchen designed for crowds.
And no decorations beyond the functional. Nothing personal. Nothing that says someone lives here, rather than just exists.
Until now.
“This is where you live?” I’m still in his arms, and I find I don’t want to object.
“When I’m not in town for Network business.” He sets me down on the porch, careful, almost reluctant to let go. “I built it fifteen years ago. Extended it twice when the pack grew.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s empty.” His voice is quiet, honest. “I never minded before. Figured it was just temporary—somewhere to sleep between patrols and meetings. But lately…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
Lately, empty has started to feel like lonely.
I understand that better than I want to admit.
“You’ve never brought anyone here.” It’s not a question. I can tell—the space has no feminine touch, no evidence that anyone but Caius has ever crossed this threshold.
“Never.” His gray eyes meet mine, steady and certain. “I was ready for the right person.”
“For what?”
“You know for what.” He pushes open the door, and warm air rushes out to greet us. “For you. Always for you.”
The interior is even more spartan than I expected.
Quality furniture, well-maintained, but chosen for durability rather than aesthetics. Maps on the walls—territorial boundaries, patrol routes, strategic positions. A study visible through an open door, filled with pack records and leadership documents.
No art. No photographs. No evidence of a life beyond duty.
My chest aches with the recognition of it. I’ve done the same in my own space—stripped away anything personal, anything that might suggest I’m more than just the coven leader. We’ve both been hiding behind our roles for so long that we forgot what it means to just be people.
The kitchen catches my attention—large, professional. Copper pots hang from hooks. A massive table dominates the space, scarred from years of use.
“You cook,” I realize.
“For the pack. Weekly dinners, sometimes more often.” He follows my gaze. “My predecessor didn’t believe in it—said an alpha shouldn’t serve his people like a servant. I disagreed. Cooking for them reminds me why I do this. Who I’m protecting.”
“That’s surprisingly domestic for a wolf alpha.”
“Wolves are pack animals. We’re supposed to take care of each other.” He shrugs. “Besides, it’s the only way to make sure the younger ones eat properly. Left to their own devices, they’d survive on raw meat and questionable berries.”
“Questionable berries?”
“There was an incident. Torin still teases me about it. Apparently one of my younger wolves convinced himself that bright red berries screaming ‘don’t eat me’ were actually a delicacy.” He grimaces. “The antidote took three days to brew.”
“I might have that recipe in my archives.”
“You probably sold it to me. At a significant markup.”
“Professional rates apply to all customers, Alpha Sternwolf. Even ones with questionable decision-making wolves.”
I file that away for later teasing and continue my exploration. The private balcony catches my attention—doors leading out to a view that must be spectacular in daylight. Where he watches, and thinks, and runs when sleep won’t come.
“It’s practical,” I observe, running my fingers along a worn leather chair.
“That’s a polite word for sterile.”
“I was being diplomatic.”
“You don’t have to be.” He moves to the fireplace, checking the flames that never seem to go out. “I know what it looks like. I know what I’ve been doing—filling space with responsibilities instead of… anything else.”
“I do the same.” The admission comes easier than I expected. “My apartment above the apothecary has exactly three personal items.”
He’s closer now, and I’m not sure when he moved. Close enough that my magic stirs in response—ambient temperature rising, my pulse quickening.
“I should…” I start, but I don’t know how to finish. Should what? Leave? That’s the last thing I want. Maintain professional distance? We’re well past that. Pretend I’m not acutely aware of every inch of space between us?
“You should tell me what you want,” he says softly. “No more pretending. No more hiding. Just tell me.”
“What if I don’t know what I want?”
“Then I’ll wait until you do.” His hand rises, almost touching my face, stopping just short. “I’ve been patient for years, Anouk. A few more minutes won’t hurt me.”
“It might hurt me.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Raw. Honest. The kind of admission I’ve spent my entire adult life avoiding.
But I’m tired of avoiding. Tired of control. Tired of being so careful with my feelings that I never actually feel anything.
“I want—” My voice catches. “I want you to stop being patient.”
He doesn’t let me finish.
His mouth claims mine before I can complete the sentence, and everything I was going to say dissolves into heat and pressure and the overwhelming sensation of being wanted. Not politely. Not carefully. Wanted with the full force of a wolf who’s been denying himself for far too long.
I kiss him back with equal desperation. My fingers grip his shirt, dragging him nearer, and I feel his growl vibrate through my chest. My magic surges—not fighting me, not threatening to spiral out of control, but rising to meet him, to claim him as thoroughly as he’s claiming me.
“Bedroom,” I manage between kisses. “Unless you’re planning to take me against the front door.”
“Tempting.” His teeth graze my lower lip. “But I have plans. The front door isn’t part of them.”
“Plans?”
“Extensive plans.” He lifts me again—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and carries me deeper into the cabin. “I’ve had years to think about this.”
“Years of plans sounds overwhelming.”
“You can handle it.” He kicks open a door, and then we’re in what must be his bedroom—simple, clean, a bed that’s larger than necessary for one person. “You can handle anything.”
“Flattery.”
“Truth.” He sets me on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of me so our eyes are level. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve been carrying everything alone for so long—the coven, the grief, the magic instability. You never ask for help. Never admit weakness.”
“And that’s… attractive to you?”
“It’s impressive. But it’s not what I want from you tonight.” His hands cup my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “Tonight, I want you to let go. Stop being strong. Stop being in control. Just be here, with me, and let me take care of you.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“You don’t have to know how. You just have to let it happen.” He kisses my forehead, soft and reverent. “Can you do that?”
“I can try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Letting go is harder than I expected.
Every instinct I’ve developed over decades of leadership tells me to maintain control. To stay alert, stay guarded, never show vulnerability. But Caius is patient—impossibly, infuriatingly patient—and he waits for each wall to crumble before pressing forward.
He undresses me slowly, reverently, like I’m treasure to be unwrapped. My elegant coat, laid carefully over a chair. My professional blouse, each button undone with deliberate attention.
“You’re staring,” I observe when I’m down to undergarments and vulnerability.
“I’ve been wanting to stare.” His voice is rough. “Let me have this.”
So I let him. Let him look at me—really look—in a way I’ve never allowed anyone. And instead of feeling exposed, I feel… seen. Not the coven leader. Not the untouchable authority figure. Just Anouk. Just me.
“Your turn,” I manage. My fingers reach for his shirt, and I’m pleased to note they’re barely trembling. “Fair is fair.”
“Is that what this is? Fair?”
“This is whatever we want it to be.” I pull his shirt over his head, and my breath catches at the planes of muscle beneath. He’s lean and powerful, built for efficiency rather than show—a predator’s body. “And what I want is to see you.”
The marks on his skin tell stories—scars from battles I wasn’t there for, evidence of a life spent protecting others. I trace one across his ribs, a thin white line that must have hurt terribly when it was fresh.
“Border dispute,” he explains. “Ten years ago. A rogue wolf tried to claim pack territory.”
“What happened?”
“I stopped him.” Simple. Factual. As if risking his life for his pack was just another item on a task list.
“You’re maddening,” I tell him.
“You’ve mentioned.”
“I mean it differently now.” My hands flatten against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palms. “Before, it was frustration. Denial. Telling myself I found you annoying when really I found you…”
“Found me what?”
“Essential.” The word surprises me as much as it surprises him. “Like you’ve become so woven into my life that I can’t imagine it without you. Even when we were just colleagues, even when I was pretending I didn’t notice you at every council meeting—you were there. Part of everything.”
“Anouk.” His voice is rough.
“Don’t.” I drag him closer. “Don’t say anything romantic. Just—show me. Show me what you’ve been planning all this time.”
He shows me.
Caius’s patience, I discover, extends to every aspect of his attention.
He knows me. Knows the way my breathing turns irregular when he kisses the hollow of my throat. Knows that my magic spikes when his teeth graze my shoulder. Knows exactly how to touch me to make my carefully constructed control shatter into pieces.
All that watching. All that quiet attention to details I never thought anyone noticed.
“You’ve been paying attention.” I’m breathless, spread beneath him on sheets that smell like pine and wolf.
“Every moment.” He traces patterns on my skin that make my nerves sing.