Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
The dim light of predawn crept through the window, and Ryker woke without the familiar weight of dread pressing against his chest.
Willow was warm against him. Her back fitted to his front, her hair spread across the pillow in a red tangle.
His arm had curved around her waist in sleep, pulling her close, and her fingers had found his sometime in the night, threaded through his own where they rested against her stomach.
Her breath came slow and steady. Peaceful. Safe.
He watched her sleep. Counted the freckles on her shoulder. Seven. He'd kissed every one of them last night. Taking a deep breath, he let himself own this. Let himself want this without bracing for the loss.
He could have this. Mornings with her weight against him, her scent soaked into his skin. Waking like this tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Her sharp tongue and sharper wit. The way her eyes had gone soft when he'd told her how precious she was.
His thumb traced a circle on her hip. She made a small sound in her sleep and pressed back against him, and he forgot how to breathe.
Then the cold started.
It began as a whisper. A flicker at the edge of his thoughts, and familiar as an old scar.
Cara had been warm too. Cara had curled against him in her sleep, had laughed at his jokes, had looked at him like he was something worth keeping.
He'd believed every moment of it. And every moment had been a lie.
Ryker's hand went still on Willow's hip.
His wolf should be awake. If this were real, if she were his mate, his wolf would know.
He would reach for her, demand he claim her, and refuse to let him pull away.
But there was nothing. Three years of near silence, and still nothing.
His wolf stayed locked away, dormant, refusing to weigh in on the woman sleeping in his arms.
The spiral picked up speed before he could stop it. She was still Iris's daughter. Three months he'd guarded himself with that information, and in one weak moment he'd let himself forget.
Last time he'd trusted someone who made him feel like this, she'd been feeding information to the enemy the entire time.
His breathing went shallow. The warmth that had felt like safety minutes ago became a trap, and his skin prickled with the sudden need to move. To run. To put distance between himself and this woman who'd somehow gotten past every wall he'd built.
He needed to think. Needed air that didn't smell like her, space where her presence didn't cloud his judgment. Just an hour. That would be enough time to sort through what the hell had happened last night and figure out if any of it was real.
He started to ease his arm from beneath her. Slow. Careful. She stirred, and he froze.
"Mmm." A sound so soft it barely qualified as a word. Her fingers tightened on his, pulling his arm closer. Her face was slack with sleep, unguarded in a way he'd never seen when she was awake, and the trust in that gesture gutted him.
She'd let him in. After months of his hostility, his cutting remarks, and the way he'd often looked at her like something scraped from his boot, even if that was far from the truth. She'd let him in anyway. And here he was, building a case against her while she dreamed.
Stay, something whispered. Wake her up. Talk about this.
But staying meant admitting that last night had changed something fundamental, that he’d cracked open and now couldn’t put himself back together the same way. It also meant trusting his own judgment, and he’d been catastrophically wrong before. It was too risky.
He pulled away.
She mumbled something unintelligible and reached for him, her hand finding only cooling sheets.
Her brow furrowed. He was already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for his jeans where they'd landed in a damp heap on the floor.
The denim was still wet, cold against his skin.
Good. It gave him something to feel that wasn't this overwhelming terror clawing at his throat.
His henley clung to his back as he pulled it on. The cabin was freezing, they'd forgotten to stoke the fire, but the chill was a relief. Grounding. He bent to grab his boots.
"Ryker?"
Her voice was sleep-soft. Hopeful. He heard the rustle of sheets as she pushed herself up, and he couldn't bring himself to look at her.
"Hey." He shoved his foot into a boot, focused on the laces like they required his complete attention. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
"Come back to bed." A smile in her voice. He could picture it without looking. That real smile, the rare one, the one he'd kissed last night until she was breathless. "It's freezing."
His fingers fumbled on the laces. "Can't. I need to check in with Gray, make sure the marina setup is on track and then get to work at the distillery."
"Okay." She stretched, and he heard the contentment in her voice. "Come find me at the bakery when you can take a break. I'll make you coffee. Or breakfast. Whatever you want."
The offer was so simple. So normal. Like they were people who did this now. Made plans, saved each other breakfast, woke up together and assumed there'd be more mornings. His throat closed around the answer he should give.
"I don't know when I'll be done."
A pause. He sensed her reading it.
"Ryker." The smile was fading from her voice and a slight edge creeping in. "Look at me."
He didn't.
The silence stretched. He felt her gaze on his back, probably cataloging the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. She was a smart woman. It wasn’t going to take her long to figure out this wasn’t going to work and he needed to get the hell out of here—now.
The rustle of sheets as she sat up straighter pulled his focus. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing's wrong. Just a lot to do today."
"You won't even turn around." It wasn’t an accusation yet. More like Confusion. She was trying to understand, and he couldn't give her anything to hold onto.
He finished tying off his second boot and stood, running a hand through his hair, and finally made himself turn around.
She'd pulled the worn blue quilt up to her chest, her hair a glowing mess against the pillow.
Her brown eyes searched his face, and he watched the hope flicker there, still burning, still reaching for him.
Waiting for him to cross the room and kiss her good morning, tell her he'd see her in an hour, that last night was just the beginning.
The hope made it worse. Made him want to be the man she thought he was last night.
"I should go," he said.
"Right. Gray and the distillery..." She tilted her head, studying him. "Ryker, if something's wrong, just tell me. I'm not going to—"
"It's fine. Everything's fine."
"You say that, but you're standing by the door like you're dying to get out." A small, uncertain laugh. "You're kind of freaking me out."
He should cross the room and confess. Maybe sit on the edge of the bed and take her hand and tell her everything—Cara, the spiral, the fear gnawing a hole through his chest. That's what a decent man would do.
Instead he stayed by the door because she was right. He was about to cut and run.
Her expression shifted. The hope dying out, something warier taking its place. Her brow furrowed the way it did when she was working through a problem at the bakery, trying to figure out where she'd gone wrong.
"This isn't about the festival, is it."
It wasn’t a question and he didn't answer. That was answer enough.
"Last night you said you wanted to try." Her voice stayed steady, but he could see the effort it cost her. "You looked at me and you said—"
"I know what I said." His words came out too sharp. He tried to soften them and couldn't. "Last night was... we got caught up in the circumstances. The cold, the adrenaline. It happens."
"It happens." She repeated it slowly, tasting the words like poison. "So that's what that was. Adrenaline."
"I'm not saying it wasn't—" He stopped. Started again, the excuses feeling more pathetic each time they left his mouth. "We should keep this professional. For the festival. For the pack."
Her laugh was short and brittle, nothing like the sound she'd made last night when he'd found the ticklish spot on her ribs. "Professional. Right." She shoved the hair from her face, and her hand was trembling. "And here I thought wolves were supposed to be honest."
"I am being honest."
"No. You're running." She pushed herself up straighter against the headboard, the quilt clutched to her chest, and he saw her fighting to hold herself together. "You're scared, and instead of talking to me about it, you're—what? Going to pretend last night didn't happen?"
"That's not—"
"Then tell me what's happening." Her voice rose, frustration bleeding through the hurt. "Because six hours ago you were inside me telling me I was beautiful, and now you can't even look at me. So tell me, Ryker. What changed between then and now?"
The question hit too close to the truth. He felt his walls slam up, the old familiar defense mechanism engaging before he could stop it.
"Maybe I had time to think."
"Think about what?"
"About what I'm risking." He grabbed the cruelty like a lifeline.
Better she hate him than trust him. Better she walk away now than let him destroy her later.
"About how easy it would be for you to be playing a longer game.
Iris raised you. Trained you. And you just happened to turn on her at the perfect moment? "
The color drained from her face. "We’re going back there yet again? That's not fair."
"Your mother hid who she was too." The words came out cold, deliberate, and he couldn’t seem to stop them. "Smiled and played nice while she plotted. Forgive me for needing to think before I trust someone who—"
"Don't." The word came out raw, ripped from somewhere deep. "Don't you dare compare me to her."
"I'm not comparing. I'm just saying—"