10. Chapter 10
The morning came crisp and bright, snow glittering under a sky scrubbed clean by the storm. Declan stood at the window with coffee burning his throat. The tree line held no movement that shouldn’t be there.
Behind him, Sage’s breathing had evened out sometime before dawn. Sleep she’d fought until exhaustion won.
The bedroom door opened. Every sense locked onto her before she’d taken a step. The soft pad of bare feet on wood. The rustle of borrowed clothes. His shirt, too large on her frame, the hem falling almost to her knee.
The way she moved through his space like she’d always been there.
His hands tightened on the mug.
“You didn’t sleep.” Her voice came rough with exhaustion.
“Slept enough.”
“Liar.”
She stood in the kitchen doorway with her hair tangled from sleep and his flannel hanging off one shoulder. The bruise on her cheek faded to yellow. Her eyes were clearer than they’d been last night, the whiskey burned away by rest.
She was the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen.
“Coffee?” He crossed to the pot, needing something to occupy himself that wasn’t reaching for her.
“Please.”
He poured. Passed her the mug. Their fingers brushed.
Something sharp shot up his arm. Every instinct demanded he hold on, pull her close, make her understand what she was to him. The bond drew taut, harder than it had last night, like proximity and honesty together had changed its register.
Sage’s eyes narrowed. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Pulling away every time I get close.” She set the mug down. “Like I’m going to bite.”
“You might.” He forced lightness into his tone. “You’ve got teeth.”
“Declan.”
The way she said his name. Frustrated and confused and something else he couldn’t name. Made his chest tight.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve been lying since the moment you caught me. Pretending the bond doesn’t matter. Pretending proximity doesn’t affect you.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.” Quiet now. “That’s the problem. I can’t figure out if you’re keeping distance because you don’t want me or because you want me too much.”
Every word he needed stayed locked in his throat.
“Last night,” she continued, “you told me about your pack. About choosing refuge over revenge. About building something better than what hurt you.” She took a step closer. “But you won’t tell me why you look at me like I’m something you can’t have.”
“Sage—”
“Don’t.” Another step. “Don’t deflect. Don’t change the subject. Just answer the question.”
He couldn’t. Because answering meant confession. Meant admitting that he’d been there the night Mason died.
“It’s complicated.”
“Everything about this is complicated.” She was close enough now that he could feel her warmth. “But you told me belonging isn’t the same as being owned. That choice matters more than instinct. So I’m choosing to ask. And you’re choosing not to answer.”
His fingers went rigid at his sides. Every part of him strained toward her. Because touching her once would break every wall he’d built.
“I’m trying to cover you.”
“From Thornwood?”
“From me.”
The admission came without armor. More than he had meant to give.
Sage stared at him. “You think I need keeping safe from you?”
“I know you do.”
“Why?”
He stopped himself. Control fraying at every seam.
“What, Declan?” She reached out, fingers grazing his forearm.
He pulled back so fast he hit the counter.
Her expression changed into something more exposed than anger. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I want you.” The confession tore out of him. “Because every time you touch me, I lose a little more control. Because my wolf wants to claim you and I can’t, I won’t, take what you haven’t offered.”
Silence crashed down.
Sage’s hand stayed suspended in the air where he’d pulled away. Her expression moved through surprise, understanding, something that looked almost like relief.
“You think I haven’t offered?”
“You’re here to investigate me. To find evidence that connects my pack to Mason’s death. Not to deal with a bond you never asked for.”
“Maybe I can do both.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“That’s not your choice.” She lowered her hand slowly. “You keep making decisions for me. Keeping distance for me. Keeping yourself away for my sake. But you never asked what I want.”
“Because what you want doesn’t change what I am.” He forced the words out. “Not when what you deserve is someone who didn’t fail you before you ever met.”
Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
He’d given too much away. Given her a thread she could follow straight to the thing he wasn’t ready to confess.
She was already tracking it. He’d gone rigid when she said the date out loud yesterday while sorting papers, just a number, but he’d set his mug down too carefully and turned to look out the window. She’d noticed. He’d felt it register.
“Nothing.”
“Declan—”
“Drop it.” He pushed past her, needing space, needing air that didn’t carry her. “I need to check the perimeter.”
“It’s not even dawn.”
“Thornwood doesn’t care about daylight.”
He grabbed his coat. Headed for the door. Her voice stopped him before he could escape.
“What are you afraid of?”
His hand froze on the doorknob.
“I’ve seen you face down your alpha. Stand at the border without flinching. Put yourself between me and danger without hesitation.” Her footsteps crossed the room. “But you’re terrified of letting me close. Of admitting the bond affects you as much as it affects me.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t lie.” She was right behind him now. Close enough that her breath warmed his shoulder. “You told me last night that you’d keep me safe no matter what. But safety isn’t the same as distance. So what are you really afraid of?”
That she’d hate him when she learned what he’d kept.
That she’d look at him the way she had in the woods. Like he was the monster she’d come to destroy.
That he’d already failed her once. The kind of failure that couldn’t be undone.
That telling her meant saying it out loud after three years of carrying it in silence.
He turned. Couldn’t help it.
She stood inches away with her eyes too clear and her expression too open. The morning light caught in her hair. Made her look soft despite the steel beneath her skin.
Made her look like everything he’d never let himself want.
“I’m afraid—” His voice dropped low. “That you’ll let me have you before you know I was there. That night. On that road.”
She went very still.
“I was three miles out when it happened.” The words came one at a time, like he was pulling them from somewhere deep. “I scented blood and ran. Arrived at the logging road twenty minutes after.” He held her gaze. “He was already gone. I couldn’t stop it.”
“You were—”
“I filed it as a rogue incident I’d cleaned up after.” The words came through his teeth. “Jace let me. He saw what it would do to me to put the rest in a report. He took what I gave him and didn’t push. And I let him.”
Her face had gone white. “You knew.”
“I knew I was too late. That’s all I know.” His voice stayed level despite the shaking in his hands. “I don’t know who killed him. I never saw what did it. Just the aftermath.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I couldn’t find the words.” The words landed hard.
“Because every time I tried, I saw him at the trailhead instead — what he looked like when I got there, what he sounded like trying to say your name. And because every day since you walked into my cabin, I’ve known that when you found out, you’d leave. ”
Sage pressed her fingers to her mouth. Said nothing.
“I can’t tell you everything yet.” His voice cracked on the last word. “Not all of it in one breath. But I wanted you to know that I wasn’t hiding it to keep myself safe.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she took a step back. Steady. Precise.
“Tell me the rest when you can.” Her voice had gone level and professional, the investigator closing behind her eyes. “All of it. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I will. I swear it.”
She walked back to the bedroom. The door didn’t slam. That was somehow worse.
Declan stayed at the door and let the cold air in and breathed until his hands steadied.
He’d told her the partial truth. Not because it was safe. Because she’d earned it.
Because when she knew all of it, she’d look at him differently. Not the way she came in looking at him. Differently. And he wasn’t ready for that yet.
But he’d started the telling. The rest was his to carry to her, when he could find the breath for it. That was the only thing standing between now and what came after.
He stepped outside into the bright cool morning and pulled out his phone.
He had to talk to Jace. Today.
Halfway across the yard, the bond caught him mid-step.
Not relief. He’d braced for relief. Hers.
That he’d gone, that the room was hers again.
This was the opposite. Anger, clean and bright, pushing down the line between them.
She wasn’t glad he’d left. She was furious he had.
Furious he’d reached for the door instead of for her, that he’d chosen the perimeter over the conversation, that walking out had been easier than staying in.
He stopped with his phone half-raised and let it land. She hadn’t wanted distance. She’d wanted him to stay. And the knowing of it pulled harder than anything Thornwood had ever put on the border.