Chapter 45 Torben #2
Easton stumbles down the stairs looking like he's gone twelve rounds with a pack of angry wolves.
His hair is disheveled, his once-crisp dress shirt half unbuttoned and smeared with dried blood on the shoulder.
The sight of him, so weary and battle-worn from what should have been a simple bath, sends a wave of unease rippling through me.
I pour him a cup of tea, watching the warm steam curl in the cool air, as he collapses into a chair with the boneless exhaustion of someone who's been thoroughly used.
"Don't even ask," he sighs, the words escaping on a breath of defeat.
I arch a brow, my gaze flicking to the others.
Diaval, ever the vigilant observer, steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he studies Easton.
With a deft movement, he tugs at Easton's shirt collar, exposing a fresh bite mark—vivid and deep against the pale skin of his shoulder, still glistening with traces of blood.
"Hmmm." Diaval tilts his head, examining the wound with clinical interest. "She's been biting more often than not when she gets frisky lately. This is the third one this week." A pause hangs in the air as we all digest this new piece of the puzzle.
Easton's voice breaks the silence, heavy with weariness yet tinged with a possessiveness that echoes deep within me.
"I think she's marking what's hers so others don't take us.
" He lifts the teacup to his lips, stifling a yawn, and I see the truth of it in his eyes. He's not complaining. He's worried.
I glance toward the stairs, the shadowed space leading back to her, and then back at the others.
"Do you think the 'lesser wolves' thing hit a bad enough nerve that she's afraid of losing everything again?
" The question pulls memories to the surface like bodies rising from deep water—the fire that took her first home, the destruction of everything she knew, the years of abuse that followed.
I remember Fi standing there when I offered Feray shelter at my sleuth, her pride wrapped around her like armor, indignant that I would dare suggest her sister needed protection.
You'd think I'd insulted her ancestors. But Feray had seen the truth beneath my offer.
She knew that safety was more important than pride, even if it meant challenging her sister's protective instincts.
My offer was selfish, if I'm honest. It was a way to keep my mate close to my sleuth, where I could protect her with everything I had.
"That would make sense," Khal offers, moving closer, his phone finally set aside.
"I gave her a stuffed rabbit at the botanical garden, and she almost hugged the stuffing out of it.
I thought she was just being polite, but.
.." He moves to Feray's bag, rifling through it with careful hands, and pulls out the very rabbit he mentioned—a small plush creature that's clearly been held many times, its fur worn soft in places.
But that's not all.
He pulls out more. My notes that came with the care baskets I sent her.
A seashell that catches Diaval's eye. A handkerchief that draws Easton's attention.
"I gave her that at the hospital when we first met," Easton says quietly, his gaze softening.
"When I felt the initial bond with her. She was so scared, and I didn't have anything else to offer. "
"It appears our mate has hoarded treasures like a dragon," Diaval remarks, his smirk infuriatingly smug, but there's warmth beneath the words.
"It makes sense," I say, nodding as I take in the collection spread before us.
"Each item holds meaning to her, and they're small enough that she can carry them with her, no matter where she is.
No matter what she loses." My eyes fall on more trinkets as Khal continues his careful excavation—Dezi's collar, a wooden snow leopard that must be from Tiernan, a leather bracelet from Khol, and something sparkly that has Revelin written all over it.
"What does she have of her sister's?" There's a small plastic bag tucked away, almost hidden at the bottom, with what looks like a thin scarf inside. The moment I open it, Fi's scent hits me—sharp and unmistakable—and I promptly seal it back up, placing it carefully where I found it.
"It has her sister's scent on it," I explain. "Preserved."
We all nod, understanding the weight of these small tokens as Khal rearranges Feray's bag with the same care a curator would show ancient artifacts, restoring her hoard to its rightful place.
"Winter wolves were worse than firedrakes when it came to hoarding treasure," Diaval muses aloud.
"I remember stories of their dens filled with objects that meant nothing to anyone but them.
Worthless by any standard except sentiment.
" He moves to his own pack, pulling out a simple black mug with a dragon's head and neck forming the handle.
The inscription 'until death' catches the dim light, and I remember the night she gave it to him—the night she got her first tattoo and piercings, the night she started becoming the woman she was always meant to be.
"I guess this is her hoard," Diaval says, turning the mug in his hands with reverent care. "Just like this mug became mine. Both our species keep our treasures close—the tangible anchors to what we cherish most." I look at the collection one more time before Khal closes the bag.
A stuffed rabbit. Handwritten notes. Seashells and scarves and small tokens of affection that most people would throw away without a second thought. But to Feray, they're priceless. Proof that she is loved. Proof that she belongs.
And proof that no matter how many times the world tries to take everything from her, she will always find a way to hold onto what matters.