Chapter Six
Aria
I wake to the sound of quiet breathing.
Not mine. Silas’s.
It takes me a moment to understand the shape of the room again. The soft morning glow. The smell of cedar and warm fur. The low hum of something steady, pack energy maybe, pressing lightly at the edges of my awareness.
And Silas. Always Silas.
I blink blearily, turning my head. He’s not in the chair this time. He’s sitting on the floor beside the bed, back to the frame, legs stretched out in front of him. His head rests against the mattress near my hip like sleep finally won over exhaustion.
His presence anchors me. It’s strange but instinctive. It is almost terrifying in how much it calms me. I shift slightly, and his eyes open, sharp in an instant. The tension melts the moment he sees me awake.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. It’s always the same question.
I nod, even though I’m not sure. Something tight coils in my chest when I see how tired he looks. Shadows smudge the skin under his eyes, his jaw rough with stubble. He’s powerful, dangerously so, but right now he looks almost ... human.
Worn.
“You didn’t sleep,” I whisper.
“I slept.” A pause. “Eventually.”
I sit up a little, pulling the blanket around me. “On the floor?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I didn’t want to startle you by moving to the chair.”
A strange warmth flickers in my chest. I tug the blanket tighter to hide my reaction.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His eyes soften. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
Silence drapes the room, gentle and warm. For once, it doesn’t choke me. For once, it doesn’t feel like something waiting to snap. I swallow and look toward the window. Bright morning light makes everything too clear. Too sharp. Too real.
“How long did I sleep?” I ask.
“Most of the morning,” he answers. “Your body needed it.”
Needed it. Right. I’m not used to sleeping this much. Sleep wasn’t allowed. Not without consequences.
Silas watches me carefully now. He always watches me carefully, like I’m fragile, like I matter, like every shift of my breathing is important. It’s overwhelming and it’s safe. It’s too much and it’s not enough.
I don’t know how to hold all these feelings in one chest.
Silas stands slowly, stretching, rolling his shoulders. His shirt pulls tight across his back, and something uneasy stirs inside me, fascination or fear or something dangerous I’m not ready to name.
“Breakfast is coming soon,” he says. “Peyton is preparing something easy.”
My stomach twists. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he says softly.
I. Not the pack. Him. I clear my throat, pushing down the fluttering feeling.
“Can I...” I hesitate. “Can I see outside?”
His brows lift a little. “You want to go out?”
“No.” The word is too fast, too sharp. I shake my head. “Not out. Just ... see. From the window. I haven’t seen a forest in a long time.”
Understanding washes through his expression, softening the edges.
“Of course,” he murmurs.
He steps back, giving me a wide, unobstructed view of the window. I stand unsteadily and stare out through the glass. The sight hits me harder than expected. Trees. Real ones. Tall and rough-barked and swaying in the wind. Sunlight filtering through leaves. Birds darting between branches.
My leopard stirs for the first time with something that feels like longing. Home. Not this place. Not the pack. Not Silas.
Just nature. The wild. The open. I swallow a lump in my throat.
“You can get closer,” Silas says gently.
I step toward the window slowly, as if approaching something sacred. My fingers press against the glass. It’s cool under my palm.
“I used to live near a forest,” I whisper, barely aware I’m speaking. “I used to climb trees. I was good at it.”
His voice is low. “I can believe that.”
“I could jump high too.” Pride infuses my words as I remember my previous life. “The others said I climbed better than any leopard our age.”
The moment the words leave me, I freeze. The others. Silas doesn’t move but his expression shifts, just a little bit, careful and controlled. Curiosity. Concern. A question he doesn’t ask.
I step back quickly, blanket twisting between my fingers. “I ... I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Okay,” he says immediately.
Just like that. No pressure. No questions. No probing. My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods once. “When you’re ready, you’ll tell me. Or you won’t. Either way is fine.”
I blink at him, stunned by how easily he says it. No one has ever given me that freedom. Not without strings. Not without expectation. I don’t understand him. I don’t understand why he stays. Why he looks at me like I’m not broken. Why his animal’s presence feels like warmth rather than threat.
I step away from the window fully, sitting on the bed again. My body feels heavier, but not with fear this time. With something else.
Silas sits back down in the chair, farther than earlier. Giving me space. Being cautious. I hate how much I notice the distance.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “Just ... thinking.”
“About?”
“You.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My eyes widen. “I, I mean about ... why you’re here.”
His brows lift slightly. Not offended. Not surprised. Simply curious. “You asked me to stay,” he says simply.
“That’s it?” I whisper.
“That’s it,” he repeats.
My heart thuds unevenly. “People ... people don’t just stay.”
“I do.”
Something in his voice sounds like a vow. Heavy. Unbreakable. I don’t know what to do with that. Another knock breaks the silence. Silas rises immediately and intercepts it like a shield.
A small voice calls softly, “Silas? I brought food.”
Peyton.
Silas cracks the door open and takes the tray from her without letting anyone come inside. He murmurs something quiet, thanks her, then closes the door again. He brings the tray to the small table beside me, placing it carefully.
“I can leave while you eat if you want,” he offers.
My stomach tightens. The idea of being alone in this room ... no. Not yet.
“Stay,” I whisper. It seems like I don’t know how to say much else when it comes to him.
He nods and returns to the chair. It seems like he can’t do much else. The thought of us stuck in this weird loop forever makes me smile and I look away to hide it.
The tray holds oatmeal, fruit slices, and tea. Simple. Safe. Normal. My chest tightens at the normality of it. I lift the spoon slowly, my hand trembling. Silas says nothing while he pretends he’s not tracking every movement. I appreciate the lie.
It takes effort, but I eat. A few bites. Small ones. But I do it.
When I look up, his eyes soften. Filled with pride and warmth. “You’re doing really well,” he murmurs.
My cheeks heat. I look down, confused by the warmth spreading through me.
After a few minutes, I stop eating, pushing the bowl away slightly. Silas doesn’t complain. He just nods like he knew exactly how much I could manage.
When I finally break the silence, my voice is small. “Silas?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to try something.”
His posture straightens, alert but not tense. “Okay. What is it?”
I swallow hard. “I ... I want to shift.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Only if you’re ready,” he says softly.
I’m not. Not even close. But my leopard won’t stop pacing inside me. She wants air. Wants to stretch. Wants to feel the world with her own skin.
“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper. “Not with ... with someone here.”
His expression softens. “Then I’ll leave.”
Panic spikes. “No!”
He stills, eyes locked on me.
I breathe shakily. “If you leave I won’t do it.”
He nods. Slowly. Carefully. “Then I’ll stay.”
I place one hand on the blanket, bracing myself. My body trembles. My leopard presses against my skin.
Instinct says shift. Trauma says run.
My throat tightens painfully. “I’m scared.”
His voice is barely a breath. “I know.”
“I haven’t shifted since...” My voice cracks. “Since them.”
Silas lowers himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged near the bed. Not blocking. Not pushing. Just being there.
“You don’t have to,” he murmurs. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever if you don’t want to.”
“But I want to,” I whisper. The thought of never shifting again makes my heart hurt. “I miss her.” The admission tears out of me, raw and soft.
He nods gently. “Then we’ll go slow. You lead.”
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. In. Out. In. Out. My leopard presses harder. A cold spike of fear claws through me. I gasp, pulling back instantly.
Silas moves, to reach for me, I think, but stops himself inches away. “Aria,” he says softly, “it’s okay.”
“No,” I choke out. “It’s not. I can’t. I can’t shift. I can’t do anything. I’m useless.”
His expression cracks open with something fierce. “You are not useless.”
“You don’t understand...”
“I understand more than you think,” he cuts in softly. “And the last thing you are is useless.”
I shake my head violently. “I can’t even shift.”
“Because you’re scared,” he says gently. “Not because you can’t.”
My breath trembles. Tears sting my eyes. I hate it. Hate how weak it makes me feel.
“Aria.” His voice is deep, soft, and steadying. My eyes snap to his.
“You survived,” he says. “That alone makes you stronger than you realize.”
The words hit something deep inside me. My lips tremble. “I’m trying,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I’m trying so hard.”
“I know.” His voice dips lower, rougher. “And that’s enough.”
A tear slips down my cheek. Then another.
Silas doesn’t move to wipe them away. He just sits, present, calm, and anchored, until the trembling eases and the storm inside my chest fades to something quieter.
When I finally breathe normally again, I whisper, “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me for showing up.”
But I do. Because no one else ever has.
Exhaustion pulls at my limbs again, and he moves the chair closer without a word. Close enough that if I stretched my fingers just a little...
I do. I stretch them. Not touching him. Not yet. But almost.
He sees it. His breath hitches, just a bit, but he doesn’t move closer. “I’m right here,” he murmurs.
My eyes close once more. The bond flickers with warmth this time, not pain. Just warmth ... and the faintest glow of connection. And for the first time, I don’t pull back from it. I let it settle over me as I drift into sleep, knowing Silas is there.
Knowing he won’t leave.
Knowing I’m not alone.
Not this time.
Not anymore.