Chapter 14 - Dane
The cold war between him and Lola was going into week three, and Dane was starting to think he’d prefer actual combat.
At least a fist to the jaw was honest.
This? This was death by distance. By politeness.
By her clipped words and neutral tone, and the way she didn’t so much as glance at him unless it was absolutely necessary.
She handed him Sam like she was passing over a library book, gave him bullet points about bottles and naps like they were business memos, and never, not once, gave him the warmth she used to.
The silence between them was worse than a scream. And he deserved it.
But that didn’t make it any easier to take.
He nursed a whiskey at the Pine Shadow Club, sitting at the bar with one leg bouncing, the burn of alcohol doing nothing to cut the sharp edges inside his head.
Around him, the evening hum of pack business carried on, war talk in quiet voices, training schedules posted on the wall, the low growl of wolves spoiling for a fight.
Rick dropped into the seat beside him, elegantly gesturing for a drink, wiping down the bar in front of him with a tut.
“You’re wound tighter than a tripwire,” he said, his voice silky. “I take it Lola’s still not talking to you?”
Dane didn’t answer.
Rick grinned. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you gave up teasing her.”
“I didn’t give up,” Dane muttered, “she shut me out.”
“Maybe you deserved it,” Nicolas said, appearing behind them like a ghost, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm.
“Always good to see you, too,” Dane muttered.
Nicolas gave him a pointed look and gestured toward the back corner of the room, where two younger pack members were being pulled apart by a third, their voices low but heated.
“Those two tried to break formation on yesterday’s patrol,” he said, “went north without clearance. Thought they could track Red Teeth on their own.”
Dane swore under his breath and slammed his glass down harder than necessary.
“That’s the third group this week,” he said. “They think it’s a game. They want blood, and they’re gonna get themselves killed.”
Rick hummed, “You can hardly blame them. Every time they look around, someone’s getting more aggressive. This place feels like a powder keg.”
“They’re still my responsibility,” Dane said. “Every time one of them acts out, it costs me time I don’t have. I’m supposed to be watching the perimeter, not babysitting a bunch of testosterone-addled pups.”
“You look like shit, by the way,” Nicolas added, casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
Dane glared.
“No offense,” Nicolas continued, “just saying. You’re burnt out. Between the kid, Lola, and trying to keep the entire northern flank from imploding, you’re going to crack. And when you do, people will get hurt.”
“You’re such a ray of sunshine,” Dane muttered.
Nicolas shrugged. “I deal in facts. You want comfort, go talk to Daisy.”
“I don’t need comfort.”
“No,” Rick said, draining his beer, “but you could maybe try talking to the woman you’re clearly still in love with instead of letting your own temper chew you up from the inside out.”
Dane turned on him. “I’m not in—”
Rick raised his eyebrows. “Please. You look like a kicked puppy every time she walks past.”
Dane said nothing. There was nothing to say.
He finished his whiskey and stood.
“Where are you going?” Nicolas asked.
“To pick up Sam.”
“Good. Go breathe something other than your own self-loathing for five minutes.”
Dane walked out into the cool night without replying, his fists jammed into his coat pockets, the familiar streets blurring as he made the walk toward Lola’s apartment.
He hadn’t meant to screw it up.
He’d just panicked. That morning, after they’d slept together, she’d looked at him with something like hope. Trust. And he hadn’t known how to hold it.
So he’d shoved her away.
Now, she was colder than a winter wind. Polite. Professional. Everything between them was swept clean like it had never happened.
And somehow, that made him feel even more pathetic. Because he still wanted her.
Not just her body.
He missed her thoughts. Her snippy little remarks. Her stupid thesis babble that made no sense to him but lit up her eyes. He missed how flustered she got when he leaned too close. He missed her.
He reached the apartment building and climbed the stairs two at a time.
Stopped at her door.
Took a breath.
Straightened his spine.
And knocked once.
The door swung open after a moment, and there she was, backlit by the golden glow of the living room, hair scraped into a haphazard bun, dark blue glasses perched halfway down her nose.
She looked tired, regal, and vaguely furious.
Not that she was glaring. Oh, no.
This was a much more refined fury. The kind you had to be raised on.
Lola Devereaux wasn’t angry. She was disappointed. And wasn’t that always so much worse?
“You’re late,” she said.
“By four minutes.”
“Which you consistently underestimate every time you say it.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. No use arguing with her when she was in this mood, all sharp lines and unshakable precision, like a queen holding court.
She stepped back, allowing him in with the air of someone tolerating a tax auditor.
The apartment smelled faintly of lemon balm and old books. Sam’s bag was packed and resting by the door, as always, labeled, zipped, and organized with military precision.
“I just need to get his bear from the crib,” Lola said crisply, “he’s gotten absurdly attached. If I forget it, he’ll wail all night, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Dane watched her disappear into the nursery, all business and no warmth, and fought the ache blooming under his ribs.
She was still mad.
No, not mad. That would’ve been easier.
She was hurt.
He could see it in the way she didn’t meet his eyes. In how she moved like a wind-up toy wound one click too tight.
She came back out a moment later, the soft grey bear tucked under one arm. Without a word, she set it beside Sam’s things and walked straight into the kitchen.
Then came the crash. A dull, familiar thunk. A quiet curse.
Dane followed.
She was crouched beside the cupboard under the sink, yanking at the door with both hands, teeth clenched. “If this wretched thing jams one more time—”
“Let me do it.”
She glanced over her shoulder, already shaking her head, “It’s fine. It’s been doing this since I moved in. I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to be.”
He didn’t wait for permission. Just crossed the room, pulled open the hall closet, and fetched her pathetically under-stocked toolkit.
Lola stood, arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow arched in unmistakable challenge.
“Well,” she said dryly, “good luck finding anything useful in there.”
He ignored the jab and knelt to inspect the hinge.
The wood had warped slightly at the base. Easy fix. A quick adjustment and some sandpaper would solve it.
He tightened the bottom screw, adjusted the alignment, and sanded the inner edge just enough to stop the catch. Then opened and closed it twice to check.
No jam.
Smooth as glass.
Lola stared at the door like it had betrayed her.
“It’s working,” she said, voice flat.
“Aye.”
She adjusted her posture slightly, straightening her already-ramrod spine. “Thank you. Very gallant.”
Dane stood and closed the toolbox.
For a beat, silence hung between them. He hesitated, then tried, gently, “You know you don’t have to do all this alone, right?”
She blinked.
“You’ve been running yourself ragged,” he continued, softer now. “Sam’s got at least eight people wrapped around his finger and a whole damn pack backing him. You don’t have to shoulder all of it by yourself.”
Lola’s chin lifted. “I’m not. I have a schedule. And a job. And a thesis to finish, which is, incidentally, already behind deadline. So no, I don’t have time to sit around sipping weak tea at the club while the rest of you make jokes about patrols and…and…protein powder.”
Dane blinked. “That wasn’t what I—”
“Ethel’s expecting me tomorrow, anyway,” she cut in, “she wants help reorganizing the archives. There’s a stack of old history scrolls in the back that haven’t been catalogued since 1987.”
“Right.”
She turned toward the table, gathering her notes, tucking them sharply into folders with practiced precision.
He watched her for a long moment, then stepped toward Sam’s bag and lifted it. The baby was quiet in his carrier by the couch, eyes heavy with sleep, clutching a corner of the blanket.
Dane bent and scooped him up gently.
Lola glanced back briefly, eyes softening when they landed on Sam, but her expression shuttered the moment she looked at Dane.
“I left a note in the side pocket,” she said, “feeding times, nap log, bath preferences. He’s been drooling more than usual, so he might be teething.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
Another silence stretched. She didn’t break it.
Dane shifted Sam’s weight in his arms, then added, a little too awkwardly, “You know…the club’s not just for jokes. It might do you good to be around people who actually like you.”
Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something sharper.
“I’m quite well-liked, actually. Ethel says I’m very efficient.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Well, lucky for me, I’m not in the market for validation from a bunch of testosterone-fueled warriors who think ‘likability’ is measured by who can throw the most punches before breakfast.”
There it was.
The full Lola.
Haughty, biting, and practically a walking thesaurus.
But under all that crisp sarcasm was something brittle. Something that cracked if he looked at her for too long.
He wanted to say something. Apologize. Explain. Anything.
But his throat closed around the words.
So he just nodded.
“Right. I’ll bring him back in the morning.”
“Lovely.”
She moved toward the kitchen again, her back to him.
And Dane walked out the door, heart heavier than when he’d arrived.
By the time they got home, Sam was drooling on his sleeve and gurgling to himself, completely unfazed by the emotional wreckage his father was carrying like an anvil.
Dane let out a breath and shifted the baby’s weight in his arms. The bag slid off his shoulder and hit the floor with a muted thud as he turned on the lights. The apartment was quiet, clean, functional, and missing something he didn’t know how to name until recently.
It used to be enough. Now it just felt…temporary.
Like he was borrowing someone else’s life.
“Alright, kiddo,” Dane muttered, walking Sam over to the changing table tucked against the far wall, “let’s get you out of that carrier before you chew a hole in it.”
Sam squeaked, legs kicking as Dane gently unbuckled him. The baby latched onto his thumb immediately, chewing with impressive commitment.
“That’s flattering. Really. Nothing says ‘bonding’ like being used as a teething ring.”
He cleaned Sam up, changed him into soft cotton pajamas with little bears on them, and carried him over to the battered recliner near the living room window. Sam’s tiny hands curled into his shirt like he always did, now, like Dane was his favorite pillow and he had no intention of letting go.
Dane sat, letting the chair rock gently beneath them. Sam settled against his chest with a sigh, his whole body warm and heavy with trust.
It unraveled something in Dane every time.
This baby, his baby, hadn’t asked for any of this. He hadn’t asked to be dropped off by a stranger and handed to a man who didn’t know the first thing about fatherhood. He hadn’t asked to become a flashpoint in whatever the hell was happening between Dane and Lola.
And yet, here he was.
Happy.
Safe.
Loved.
Somehow, against all odds, Dane had kept him fed and warm and whole.
Because of Lola.
The thought hit harder than expected.
She’d stepped in without hesitation, nervous and awkward and so clearly terrified of doing it wrong, but she’d done it.
She’d done it all. With charts and labels and those damn carefully timed bottles, with bedtime songs sung under her breath when she thought no one was listening, with the way she whispered ‘there you go, sweetheart’ whenever Sam cried like comfort was just something she instinctively knew how to offer.
Dane could hold a border. He could win a fight. But Lola?
She could build something.
And he missed her. Badly.
He missed the way her nose wrinkled when she concentrated. The way her mouth opened and shut like she was debating a hundred comebacks when he teased her. The way she looked first at Sam, then at him, like she was afraid to trust either of them but trying anyway.
He’d wrecked it. And he didn’t even know how.
Well. That was a lie.
He’d panicked.
He’d done what he always did when something got too close to the places inside him he’d locked up tight: he pushed it away.
Because what if he couldn’t be what she needed?
What if she was like everyone else and saw him for what he was raised to be—a weapon?
He looked down at Sam, whose lashes were fluttering against his cheeks as he dozed off. Dane ran a hand gently across the baby’s back.
“You’re gonna be better than me,” he murmured, “smarter. Kinder. Probably more coordinated, too.”
Sam made a small, pleased grunt.
Dane chuckled, quiet and low.
“You’re not supposed to agree, you traitor.”
They sat like that for a while, the sound of Sam’s breathing slowly evening out, the gentle creak of the recliner filling the silence.
Outside, the night deepened. Somewhere on the northern ridge, patrols were switching shifts, his men were circling back, and the scent of Red Teeth still lingered like a curse on the wind.
But here, in this little room, everything was still.
Peaceful.
And yet his chest ached.
Because he could feel it now, clearer than ever. What he wanted.
It wasn’t just Sam.
It was them.
All of them.
A home that wasn’t empty.
A family that wasn’t temporary.
A woman who read thesis chapters to a baby like it was scripture, who slammed doors when she got mad, but still labeled every bottle with a timestamp just in case he needed it.
I think I love her.
The thought rose in him like smoke.
He didn’t say it out loud.
Not yet.
But it settled deep, weighty, and undeniable.
He rocked a little more, letting Sam’s warmth anchor him to the moment.
And then, softly, almost to himself, he said, “I think I love her, kid. I just don’t know how not to ruin it.”
Sam didn’t answer, but his fingers curled tighter into Dane’s shirt like he understood.