Chapter 16 - Dylan
The storm hits just after midnight—a sudden, violent collision of pressure systems that sends rain lashing against the windows like thrown gravel.
I'm still awake, sleep having become an elusive luxury since Sera's panic attack. Since the closet. Since everything started shifting beneath my feet. Sometimes, it feels like I’ll never sleep again.
The power goes first, the cottage plunging into absolute darkness mid-heartbeat. Backup protocols spring to mind automatically—security assessment, environmental evaluation, and threat prioritization. Old habits, never quite dormant.
I navigate to the kitchen by memory and touch, locating the emergency kit in the cabinet below the sink. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room in stark, blue-white brilliance before plunging it back into darkness. Thunder follows immediately, the sound vibrating through the floorboards.
The drawer yields matches, three pillar candles, and a battery-operated lantern that flickers weakly when I switch it on. Backup batteries should be here somewhere—
"Dylan?"
Sera's voice comes from the hallway, pitched just loud enough to carry over the storm's percussion. I turn, the lantern casting elongated shadows across the walls.
"Power's out," I say unnecessarily. "I'm getting light."
She steps into the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. Her blonde hair falls loose around her face, still bearing the impression of her pillow. Sleep-warm and slightly disoriented, she looks younger somehow, less guarded.
"Storm woke me," she says, moving closer to the meager light. "Sounds serious."
"Probably knocked down a line somewhere." I strike a match, touching it to the first candle. "Could be a while before it's restored."
The candle catches, flame stretching tall before settling into a steady glow. I light the others, arranging them on the kitchen table, conscious of Sera watching my movements with unusual intensity.
"Is the heat out too?" she asks, tightening the blanket around herself.
"Electric system, so yes." I check the thermostat anyway, confirming what we already know. "Temperature will drop pretty quickly without it."
As if in response, she shivers slightly, the motion rippling through the blanket's folds. The cottage isn't well-insulated—charming for summer visitors, less practical for extended winter habitation.
"We should consolidate in one room," I say, keeping my tone neutral, professional. "More efficient to maintain body heat."
Something flickers across her expression—hesitation, maybe, or something more complicated.
"Living room has the fireplace," she points out.
"It’s decorative—we can’t actually light it." I gather the candles. "Your room or mine, doesn't matter. Whichever has more blankets."
Another hesitation, longer this time. "Mine, I suppose. I have an extra comforter."
We relocate without further discussion, the practicalities of survival temporarily overriding whatever tension has been building between us.
Her room feels distinctly hers—books stacked on the nightstand, a small potted plant on the windowsill, the subtle scent of her shampoo lingering in the air.
I've never been in here before. It feels like crossing a boundary I've been careful to respect.
Sera arranges the candles on her dresser, casting the room in warm, amber light that makes shadows dance across the walls. Outside, the storm continues its assault, rain and wind beating against the cottage with increasing fury.
"Temperature's already dropping," she notes, breath visible as a faint cloud.
I nod, setting the lantern on the floor between the bed and the wall. "Body heat is the most efficient solution. We should—"
"Share the bed," she finishes, voice carefully neutral. "I know."
The simple acknowledgment hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us is prepared to address. I take a breath, steeling myself against the complicated tangle of duty, desire, and restraint that defines our relationship.
"Just until the power returns," I say, as if this qualifier changes anything.
Sera arranges the blankets methodically—sheet, thin cotton blanket, her comforter, then the extra one she retrieved from the closet. She slips beneath them fully clothed, moving to the far edge of the mattress to leave maximum space between us.
I hesitate, then remove only my boots before joining her, maintaining a careful gap between our bodies. The bed is small—a full, not a queen—making this separation an active exercise rather than a passive state.
Silence stretches between us, punctuated by the storm's rhythmic violence. The candles throw strange, shifting patterns across the ceiling, hypnotic in their constant motion. Despite the layers of blankets, cold seeps through, settling into muscle and bone.
Sera shivers again, the motion transferring through the mattress.
"This isn't working," I say after several minutes. "You're still cold."
"I'm fine."
"Your teeth are chattering."
"They are not," she protests, the sentence undermined by the slight tremor in her voice.
I sigh, turning to face her profile in the dim light. "Sera. This isn't about... whatever this is. It's basic survival. Your core temperature is dropping."
She turns her head just enough to meet my gaze, expression guarded. "What do you suggest?"
"You know what I'm suggesting."
Another silence, tense with unspoken complications. Then she nods once, a small concession to necessity.
I shift closer, closing the artificial distance between us. My arm settles around her waist, drawing her against me with careful restraint. She's cold, colder than I expected, her body tense beneath my touch.
"Relax," I murmur, adjusting our position to maximize heat transfer. "I'm not going to—"
"I know," she interrupts, voice sharp. Then, softer: "I know."
Gradually, incrementally, the tension leaves her body. She melts against me by degrees, her back conforming to my chest, her head tucking naturally beneath my chin. Her hair smells of lavender and something herbal, familiar yet still foreign.
We lie like this, not speaking, as her shivering subsides. Minutes pass, marked only by the storm's continuing fury and the steady rhythm of our breathing.
"Were you always like this?" she asks suddenly, voice quiet beneath the rain's persistent drumming.
"Like what?"
"So..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Angry.”
The question catches me off guard, digging beneath my defenses to something in my gut. I consider deflecting, maintaining the boundary still technically between us. The boundary we both imagine we can keep up, despite knowing we can’t.
"No," I answer instead, surprising myself with the honesty. "Not always."
She waits, not pushing but not retreating either. The silence between us shifts, becoming an invitation rather than a barrier.
"Before my parents died, I was different," I continue, the words emerging unfamiliar after years of silence. "More like Ethan, actually. Optimistic. Quick to laugh."
"What happened to them?" Her question carries no demands, only gentle curiosity.
"Hunter ambush." The words still taste bitter, even after a decade. "They went for an early morning run in wolf form. Never came back."
She makes a soft sound of understanding, her hand finding mine beneath the blankets in a gesture that feels surprisingly natural.
"I was eighteen," I continue. "Ethan was six. Old enough to remember them, young enough to still need... everything."
"You raised him."
"Tried to." My throat tightens unexpectedly. "Did my best. Maybe not good enough, in the end."
Her fingers squeeze mine, offering comfort I don't deserve but accept anyway. "I'm sure you were exactly what he needed."
"What about you?" I ask, needing to shift focus away from memories too sharp to handle. "Before Cheslem corrupted, what was your childhood like?"
She's quiet so long I think she might not answer. When she does, her voice carries the distance of someone retrieving something long stored away.
"Simple," she says finally. "Ordinary, sometimes. My mother kept a garden, I remember. Vegetables, mostly, but flowers too. She let me help plant the seedlings every spring. It all feels distant now.”
I can picture it—a younger Sera with dirt-smudged cheeks, carefully placing seeds in freshly turned earth.
"My father taught music in the human school one town over," she continues. "He had to hide what he was, of course, but he loved the work. Came home every day with stories about his students. He never got to teach me the piano.”
"You’d be good at music," I say without thinking.
She twists slightly to look at me, surprise evident in her expression. "How would you know that?"
"Just a guess," I murmur, embarrassed by the slip. "You seem like someone who’d be good at music.”
I hardly know what I’m saying. I feel drunk, somehow. I feel out of control of my own mouth.
The storm outside intensifies, a particularly violent gust rattling the windows in their frames. Sera startles slightly, pressing closer against me in instinctive response. My arm tightens around her waist, protective without conscious intent.
"We lost it so gradually," she says after a moment, voice barely audible above the rain. "The normality. The safety. First came the restrictions—where we could go, who we could talk to. Then the rituals, small at first. By the time we recognized the danger, it was too late."
"You survived," I remind her. "When many others didn't."
"Sometimes survival feels like its own kind of failure." The admission carries the weight of long-held guilt. "Watching others break while you remain hidden, protected. I watched people die. You can’t ever be proud of that.”
"That wasn't your choice," I say, unexpected fierceness coloring my tone. "You were a child."
"So was Ethan."
The simple statement lands like a physical blow. I stiffen, every muscle suddenly rigid with tension.
"That was different," I say, voice dropping dangerously low.