Chapter 1 #2
Larkin nodded slowly. "That's correct. And what's the therapeutic approach for someone exhibiting that pattern?"
"Consistent, patient presence. Proving over time that trust won't be punished."
"Exactly." Her eyes held mine a moment longer than necessary. "Well said."
Under the desk, James's hand found my knee. A silent acknowledgment that he'd heard what I wasn't saying.
The lecture continued. I went back to my notes and tried to focus.
Lunch was quieter than breakfast.
Ivy had a study group, so it was just James and me at our usual table. He'd gotten us both coffee—he knew I needed it by this point in the day.
"You're thinking about Stone," he said.
"Am I that obvious?"
"To me? Yes." He stirred his coffee, watching me. "What happened this morning?"
I told him. The staff member who moved too fast. The wolf surging up behind Stone's eyes. The way he'd asked me to leave.
James listened without interrupting. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment.
"He's not wrong," he said finally.
"About what?"
"About needing space." James set down his coffee. "The bond between you and Stone—it's intense. I feel it sometimes, the echo of it through our bond. That kind of connection can be grounding, but it can also be overwhelming. Especially for someone who's relearning how to be human."
"So I should stay away?"
"No." His hand covered mine. "You should trust him to know what he needs. And trust yourself to know when to push and when to step back."
I turned my hand over, laced my fingers through his.
"When did you get so wise, cowboy?"
"I've always been wise. You just weren't paying attention." He grinned, and some of the tension in my chest eased. "Come on, or Boone's going to mark us tardy."
Wilderness First Aid was a welcome distraction.
Mr. Boone bounced into the classroom with his usual enthusiasm, immediately pulling out supplies—bandages, splints, thermal blankets.
"Today," he announced, "we're covering wound assessment in extreme conditions. Because nothing says 'fun' like trying to stop bleeding when your fingers are too frozen to feel them."
James and I partnered up for the practical exercises. He held still while I practiced pressure bandages on his arm, then we switched.
"Tighter," I told him. "You won't hurt me."
"I know. I just—" He adjusted his grip, applied more pressure. "Better?"
"Better."
Boone wandered by, nodded approvingly, and moved on to help a pair who'd somehow managed to tangle themselves in gauze.
By the end of class, I felt steadier. More grounded. Physical problems with physical solutions—that was easier than the tangled mess of bonds and trauma waiting for me at the Healing Center.
Mythology was the last class of the day.
Ivy dropped into the chair on my other side. "Survived First Aid?"
"Barely. You?"
"Study group was brutal. I think my brain is leaking out my ears." She propped her chin on her hand. "Tell me Tomlinson's going easy on us today."
"When has Tomlinson ever gone easy on anyone?"
"A girl can dream."
Professor Tomlinson entered through the side door, carrying a stack of old books. His eyes swept the room—paused briefly on me—and moved on.
"Today we begin a new unit," he said. "Guardians and protectors in world mythology."
He opened one of the books, turned it to face the class. An illuminated manuscript page—wolves surrounding a central figure, their bodies forming a protective circle.
“Every culture has stories of beings whose purpose is protection,” Tomlinson continued. “The benandanti of Italy, who believed they left their bodies to fight evil spirits in their dreams. The úlfheenar of Norse tradition—warriors who wore wolf skins and fought as something more than men.”
He paused. “And there are other traditions—often misunderstood—where shapeshifting is tied not to protection, but to taboo and fear. Those stories were warnings.”
His gaze sharpened. “What matters is that across cultures, people recognized the same truth: when someone can walk between forms, power follows. And power always frightens the people trying to control it.
He moved between the rows, letting students see the images in his books.
"What these stories share is a common thread: the guardian exists between. Between human and animal. Between the physical world and something older. They sacrifice a part of themselves—their safety, their normalcy, sometimes their humanity—in service of others."
His eyes swept the room. Paused on me for just a moment.
"The question we'll examine this unit is: what happens to the guardian when the threat is gone? When there's nothing left to protect against?" He closed the book. "Do they return to ordinary life? Can they? Or does the role consume them entirely?"
I thought about Stone. Not a guardian by choice, but trapped in that between space anyway. Wolf and man, feral and healing, caught in a form of protection that had nothing to do with service and everything to do with survival.
"For your next paper," Tomlinson said, "select a guardian mythology and analyze the cost of protection. What does the guardian give up? What do they receive in return? Is the exchange equitable, or is it exploitation dressed up as honor?"
Ivy leaned over. "Did he just assign us an essay on whether being a hero is actually worth it?"
"I think he did."
"I like this unit already."
The lecture continued—Tomlinson discussing different cultural interpretations, the way guardian myths evolved over time, the distinction between chosen protectors and those who had the role thrust upon them.
I took notes, but my mind kept drifting.
What happens to the guardian when there's nothing left to protect against?
What happened to Stone when the mountain was no longer a threat? When survival wasn't enough to justify staying lost?
When class ended, Ivy gathered her things quickly. "I've got to run—meeting with my advisor. See you at dinner?"
"Maybe. I'm going to check on Stone first."
She nodded, squeezed my arm, and disappeared.
James stayed.
"I'll walk you to the Healing Center," he said.
We were halfway across the quad when Cole appeared.
He stepped out of the administration building, saw us, and changed direction. Within moments, he was blocking our path.
I noticed his forearms first. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, muscle shifting as he moved. Then his jaw—stubbled, tight. He was big. I noticed that every time, the sheer size of him, and something in me responded to it whether I wanted it to or not.
"Miss Orlav." His voice was low. It rolled through me, settled somewhere deep. "I need to schedule your portion of the security assessment."
James's hand tightened on mine—not possessive, just alert.
"Day after tomorrow?" I suggested. "Before class?"
"I'll meet you at the east entrance."
His eyes found mine. Held. Then dropped—just for a second—to my mouth.
My breath caught.
When his gaze came back up, something flickered there. Heat, maybe. Or restraint. Both.
"The protocols are working well." His voice had roughened. "Stone's stability has improved measurably."
I caught his scent. My body wanted to lean closer. Close the distance. I stayed where I was.
His hands were in his pockets. Keeping them there on purpose, I thought. Keeping himself contained.
"He almost shifted this morning. A staff member startled him."
"I know. I review the incident reports." His jaw flexed. "The recovery trajectory is still promising. Even with setbacks."
Silence stretched between us. The bond tugged—that pull toward Cole I still hadn't told anyone about.
His eyes held mine a beat too long. His throat moved as he swallowed.
James felt something too. I saw it in the way he studied Cole, cataloging, assessing.
"We should go," James said. "Lumi has somewhere to be."
Cole nodded once. "See you soon, then."
He walked away.
James watched him go, then turned to me. "Security consultant sure likes to keep you in his line of sight."
"He's doing his job."
"Is he?" James's voice was light, but his eyes weren't.
I stopped at Cal's room first.
He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a book open in his lap. Dark hair falling across his forehead, longer than it should be, curling at the ends. When he looked up and saw me, his face broke into a genuine smile.
That smile. It still caught me off guard—how human it was. How warm.
"Lumi." He set the book aside. "Come here."
Not a request. A command, soft but certain. The wolf underneath, even when he was at his most human.
I crossed to him, and he caught my wrist before I could sit. Tugged me closer. His fingers were rough, callused, warm against my pulse point.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"Better now." His thumb traced a circle on the inside of my wrist. His eyes—dark brown, almost black—tracked up my arm, my shoulder, my throat. Landed on my mouth. "Really good, actually."
Heat pooled low in my stomach.
"I finished three chapters today," he said, still holding my wrist. "Only lost focus twice."
That was progress. A month ago, Cal couldn't hold a thought long enough to read a paragraph.
He tugged again, and I sat on the edge of his bed. Close. His thigh pressed warm against mine.
"What are you reading?"
"Mystery." He held up the book so I could see the cover—a detective novel, well-worn.
His other hand stayed on me, sliding from my wrist to rest on my knee.
Possessive. Easy. Like touching me was his right.
"Neal recommended it. Said following clues is good for the brain.
Helps rebuild the pathways for tracking details, remembering sequences. "
"Is it working?"
"I figured out who the killer was by chapter four." A hint of pride in his voice. "Neal owes me five dollars."
I laughed. Cal and Neal had gotten close these past weeks—the healer and the healing, finding common ground I hadn't expected. Neal brought him books. Cal made Neal laugh. It was good. Easy. One small bright spot in all of this.
"Any memories today?"
"Bits and pieces." His expression flickered—something complicated moving beneath the surface. His hand tightened on my knee. "I remembered a classroom yesterday. Rows of desks, sunlight through windows. I think I was a student somewhere."
I covered his hand with mine. "We're still trying to find your records."
"I know." He turned his hand over, laced his fingers through mine. His grip was strong. Grounding. "Stone's having a hard day."
It wasn't a question. Through the bonds that connected all of us, Cal could feel Stone's struggle the same way I could.
"Yeah," I said. "He is."
"He won't talk to me about it." Cal's jaw tightened. I watched the muscle flex beneath his stubbled skin. "He thinks he has to protect me. Like I'm not strong enough to handle his pain on top of my own."
"Maybe he's protecting himself."
Cal looked up at me. His eyes were dark, intense. Still wolf-like, even in human form. The kind of eyes that tracked movement, that saw too much.
He reached up. Brushed a strand of hair from my face. His knuckles grazed my cheek, and I felt it everywhere.
"Go see him," he said, voice rough. "He needs you more than he'll admit."
Stone was standing by the window when I entered his room.
"You came back," he said without turning.
"I told you I would."
"I know." He was quiet for a moment. "I just wasn't sure."
He turned then, and his head came up. Nostrils flaring. Scenting the air.
"You were with Cal."
"I stopped by his room."
Something shifted in his expression. His shoulders dropped a fraction—the pack scent settling him, reminding the wolf that I was safe, cared for, surrounded by their own. But his eyes tracked me as I moved closer. Hungry. The wolf and the want tangled together.
"Good," he said roughly. "That's good."
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He looked different than this morning. Smaller somehow. More fragile. The rigid control was still there, but underneath it, exhaustion had carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, darkened the skin under his eyes.
I crossed to stand beside him. Close enough that my arm brushed his.
He inhaled sharply. A shudder ran through him.
The window looked out over the back grounds—trees, paths, the distant shape of the mountains where everything had started. We stood there together, not quite touching, the bond humming between us.
"Stone."
"Don't." His voice was rough. "Don't ask if I'm okay. I can't answer that."
"I wasn't going to."
He met my eyes. The gold was brighter now. The wolf close to the surface. His gaze dropped to my throat, my collarbone, the places where Cal's touch still lingered on my skin. His jaw tightened. His throat worked as he swallowed.
"I can feel you," he said. "Through the bond. All the time. You smell like pack. Like Cal. Like safety." His voice dropped, roughened. Almost a growl. "And I want things I can't have. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"Stone—"
"It helps. God, it helps more than you know." He shook his head. "But it also makes me afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of losing control." His hands clenched tighter, knuckles going white. "Of hurting you. Of being the thing I was on that mountain."
"You're not that thing."
"I could be." The words came out harsh. Broken. "I could be, Lumi. Every day, I feel it waiting."
I reached for him.
He flinched away—but not before I saw it. The flash of raw need in his eyes. The way his body swayed toward me even as he stepped back. He wanted my touch. Craved it. And that was exactly why he couldn't let himself have it.
"Don't," he said. "Please."
"If I lose control again..." He closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "Don't come near me. Promise me. If I break, if I become that thing again—stay away."
"I can't promise that."
"You have to." He opened his eyes. The gold was burning now, desperate. "Because if I hurt you, I won't survive it. I'll let the wolf have me completely. And I won't come back."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Not a threat.
A plea.
"I'm not afraid of you," I said.
"You should be."
"Well, I'm not." I stepped closer. Held his gaze. "And I'm not giving up on you. Not now. Not ever."
Something cracked in his expression. His hand lifted—trembling—like he wanted to touch my face. He stopped himself. Let it fall.
"Go," he said quietly. "Get some sleep. I'll still be here tomorrow."
"Promise?"
His eyes traced my face like he was memorizing it. Like he might not see it again.
"I promise to try."
It wasn't enough. But it was all he could give.