Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Morning light and the scent of baking bread pull me from sleep. For one confused moment, I don’t know where the hell I am. Then I remember.
The village. The inn. The bed.
Garrett.
He’s still pressed against my back with his arm around my waist, breathing soft in sleep. We’ve shifted during the night. My hand has somehow found his where it rests on my stomach, fingers loosely intertwined.
I should move and extract myself before he wakes and this becomes awkward. But I keep listening to him breathe, feeling more rested than I have in years. I slept through the entire night. For the first time in a long time, I fell asleep without watching for the knife.
And nothing bad happened.
The moment stretches. Perfect and peaceful.
Garrett stirs and makes a soft sound. His arm tightens briefly before he seems to realize what he’s doing. I feel him freeze, feel the moment he becomes fully awake and aware of our position.
“Wolf?” His voice is rough with sleep. “Morning.”
We lie there for another moment, neither of us quite ready to break the spell. Then, from downstairs, we hear the sound of voices and footsteps. The village is starting its day.
Garrett slowly withdraws his arm. I immediately feel the loss of warmth. He sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “We should get moving. Still have an investigation to conduct.”
“Right.” I sit up as well. My stiff leg is not aching like it usually does. His hand on the injury actually helped.
Garrett stands, stretching. I catch a glimpse of skin where his shirt rides up and force my eyes away.
“I’ll wash up first,” he says, grabbing his pack. “Unless you want to go?”
“No. You go.”
He disappears into the small bathroom. I busy myself checking my weapons, anything to avoid thinking about Garrett naked on the other side of that thin door.
It doesn’t work.
Thanks to my half-wolven heritage I’m acutely aware of every sound, the splash of water, and the rustle of fabric being removed. I focus harder on my knives, checking the straps that don’t need checking.
The water stops running. A few minutes later, Garrett emerges from the bath, hair still damp and smelling of sandalwood and the forest. I have to physically stop myself from stepping closer to breathe him in like some kind of addict.
What is it about him that pulls at me like this?
It’s not just that he’s beautiful, though he is.
Devastatingly so. This is something else.
My mind recalls the way he looked at me when I was chained and helpless.
It’s as if he could see straight through to all the broken parts I keep hidden.
I watch him silently as he buttons a fresh tunic with those long, elegant fingers.
I want him.
The admission burns through me. I want to taste him, to see if that smug mouth tastes as good as I imagine.
I want to push him against a wall and make him gasp and lose that iron control he wears like armor.
But more than that, I want to understand why he affects me like this when no one else ever has.
I grab my towel and enter the bathroom. The water is cold at first before the malachite crystal warms it. I stand under the spray, trying to wash away the thoughts that won’t leave me alone.
It doesn’t work.
This shouldn’t be happening. Is this what attraction feels like for everyone else? This all-consuming ache? I’ve bedded courtesans of the Gilded Lily before and felt desire. But it’s nothing like this pull and hunger I have for Garrett. I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
I scrub harder, as if I can wash the want away with soap and hot water.
When I emerge, Garrett is already dressed and waiting. He looks up when I enter, and something flickers in his eyes before he glances away.
“Ready?” he asks, adjusting his collar.
I grunt in response, not trusting my voice. We finish dressing in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s quiet and thoughtful. Both of us processing what last night meant.
The cottage sits at the edge of the village, small and tidy with flowers in the window boxes. Someone planted those flowers recently. Probably Marcian, before he disappeared. Garrett knocks, gentle but firm. I stand slightly behind him, watching the street and the windows.
The door opens to reveal a young lady with red-rimmed eyes and hollow cheeks. Eithne. Marcian’s wife or widow.
“Commander Clayborne,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Eithne, thank you for seeing us.” Garrett says gently. “May we come in?”
She nods and steps aside, ushering us into the small main room. The interior is neat despite Eithne’s obvious distress.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Garrett says. “I know this is difficult. But I need to ask you some questions about Marcian. Anything you can tell me might help.”
Eithne nods and gestures to the chairs around the small table. We sit and she wraps her arms around herself like she’s cold despite the warmth of the morning.
The cottage is simple but loved. I notice the colorful quilt draped over the chair, a child’s drawing pinned to the wall showing stick figures holding hands.
A family. The kind I never had.
“He didn’t come home,” Eithne says, staring at nothing. “He always does. Even when his patrol runs late, he always comes home.”
There’s such faith in her words. She expected him like she expected dawn. I’ve never known that certainty, never had someone whose return I could count on.
Garrett leans forward slightly, his posture open and attentive. “Tell me about that night. What time were you expecting him?”
“Midnight. I waited all night,” she pauses, swallows hard. “By the time the sun came up, I knew something was wrong.”
Her voice breaks, and she presses a hand to her mouth. Garrett reaches across the table and gently takes her other hand to comfort her.
“Take your time,” he says quietly.
She nods, swallows and continues. “I told myself maybe he’d stopped at the tavern, maybe he was helping another guard, maybe...” She trails off. “In the morning, I went looking.”
“Where did you look?”
“The road from the city. The usual path he takes.” Her voice wavers. “I walked it three times, calling his name. Then I... I found...”
She closes her eyes, and I see her hands begin to tremble.
“The blood,” Garrett says quietly. “At the old oak.”
She nods, a sob catching in her throat. Tears spill down her cheeks and she presses both hands to her mouth, trying to hold back the sound.
Garrett doesn’t speak, just waits. Patient and steady.
When she can breathe again, Eithne looks up at him with devastated eyes. “I’m pregnant, Commander.” Her hand moves to her stomach, protective. “Three months. Marcian was so happy when I told him. He... he wanted to be there. For the baby. He promised...”
The words dissolve into fresh tears.
Garrett stands and moves around the table without hesitation. He crouches beside her chair, one hand still holding hers, the other resting gently on her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Eithne,” he says, voice low and genuine. “I’m so deeply sorry.”
She turns into him, sobbing against his shoulder. Something tightens in my chest watching him. This is who he is. He’s not just the golden commander of the Valorian, but someone who genuinely cares. Someone who stays when things get messy and hard.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Marcian?” Garrett asks, still holding her hand. “Anyone he argued with? Any debts or disputes?”
“No. Everyone loved Marcian. My husband was kind, Commander. He helped people and he—” She breaks again and this time she can’t stop the tears.
Garrett simply sits there, letting her cry.
He doesn’t rush her or try to make it stop.
I shift slightly in my chair, uncomfortable with the raw emotion filling the small room.
This kind of grief is foreign to me—this open, desperate mourning for someone loved and lost. The guild taught me to bury emotion, to treat loss as weakness.
When Eithne finally composes herself enough to speak, she looks at Garrett with desperate eyes. “Will you find him, Commander? Will you bring him home?”
The truth is we’ll probably find his body. Losing that much blood means he’s dead or dying. Four days in the woods with a severe injury? No one survives that. Even if by some miracle Marcian lived through the initial attack, infection or blood loss or exposure would have finished him by now.
But Garrett doesn’t say any of that.
“I will do everything in my power,” he says and it’s not quite a lie. “I promise you, Eithne. I will find out what happened to your husband.”
She nods, clinging to those words like a lifeline. I see the way hope flickers in her eyes, fragile and desperate. Garrett has given her that. A reason to believe, even if just for a little while longer.
We stay for another hour. Garrett asks more questions about Marcian’s routine, his friends, his duties as a Valorian, anything that might give us a clue.
Eithne answers as best she can, though grief keeps fragmenting her thoughts.
She’ll start a sentence and lose it halfway through, derailed by memory or sorrow.
I listen and watch. Not just the words, but the way she speaks. The tremors and the way her eyes dart to the door as if hoping Marcian might walk through it even now.
Eithne is telling the truth. She knows nothing about what happened. All she knows is her husband went to work and never came home. That simple fact has shattered her entire world.
When we finally stand to leave, Eithne grabs Garrett’s hand again. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For coming. For caring. Some of the nobles... they wouldn’t bother. Not for a common guard.”
“Marcian isn’t common,” Garrett says firmly. “He’s a Valorian and he’s one of mine. That makes him family.”
She smiles through her tears and for a moment she looks less broken. Garrett has that effect on people. He makes them feel valued in a world that usually tells them they don’t.