Chapter 10 #3
We shift back. The change from wolf to human always takes a moment longer than human to wolf. Or at least it does for me. I wait while the world reassembles itself, language and thought and the weight of being a person settling back in over the clean animal clarity of my beast.
Mia ducks behind a thick tree with her pack.
I listen as she gets dressed while I do the same.
When she re-emerges, she doesn’t look at me immediately.
She’s breathing harder than she’d probably like, and her hair is tangled.
She looks undone in the best way. Like the woods gave her back something the city had been slowly draining from her.
I know better than to say so.
She walks over to Echo and the button. “Where does he even find these things?”
“Probably better not to ask,” I say.
She picks up the button. Turns it over in her fingers. Slides it into her jacket pocket. Echo clicks his tongue at her and trots off.
Apparently, they just bonded.
We set up camp in the practiced quiet of two people who’ve done this sort of thing many times before.
She takes the sightline position while I establish the perimeter.
We eat a cold dinner, which is safer than chancing a fire until we’re sure we won’t attract unwanted attention.
Hopefully, tomorrow I can scope enough of the area to allow for a hot meal.
The supply route below remains quiet, though. No movement, no sign of life.
By the time the light starts to die, the hollow is as close to secure as we can make it, and Mia is sitting across the space from me with her knees drawn up, her eyes on the abandoned camp below, and her wolf still close to the surface in a way I can feel even from here.
She’s more herself out here than anywhere I’ve seen her.
I watch the woods.
But mostly, I watch her.
“Can I ask you something?" she says, and even though she doesn’t look over at me, I know she’s caught me staring at her.
“Shoot.”
“You’re a powerful alpha,” she says. “Crossvale is established, respected. You have resources, alliances, a loyal pack.” She pauses. “Why haven’t you taken a mate? By now, most alphas in your position would have.”
I meet her gaze steadily. “Because I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“My fated mate.”
“That’s…” She trails off like she’s choosing her words carefully. “That’s a significant gamble.”
“I know.”
“A lot of wolves never find theirs.”
“I know that too.”
“And you’re willing to just… wait? Indefinitely?”
I look at her across the darkness. “I’ve spent my whole life building things worth having. I'm not interested in settling for something that isn’t.” I hold her gaze. “Some things are worth the wait, Mia.”
An owl’s call breaks the silence.
She looks away first. Down at the route below, or at least pretending to.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You were going to say something.”
“I was going to say it’s romantic and slightly impractical and leave it at that.”
“But?”
A pause. “But I also think it takes a particular kind of faith to wait for something you can’t guarantee will ever come.” She says it quietly, like an admission she didn’t intend to make out loud. “I'm not sure I have that kind of faith in anything.”
I let that sit. Don’t push for more.
After a moment, I ask, “What about you?”
She looks up, brows furrowed.
“A mate,” I say. “Have you thought about one that’s not fated?”
Something shifts behind her eyes—a door starting to close—before she catches herself and lets something lighter take its place instead. “I’m not sure a chosen mate could handle me, honestly.” A small smile. Deflecting. “Can you imagine? The poor man.”
“Devastating,” I agree. “The smartass responses. The impossible standards. The Italian profanity.”
“Exactly.” She gestures broadly. “It would be a lot.”
“It would be everything,” I say.
The teasing in her expression falters.
“Nash—”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m not fishing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Telling you the truth.” I lean forward slightly, forearms on my knees, and look at her across the low fire.
“I’m hooked on you. I don’t entirely understand it.
You’re not—” I pause, choosing carefully.
“The connection I feel with you doesn’t follow the rules.
My wolf doesn’t have a clear explanation for it. But I’ve stopped needing one.”
She’s not moving.
“I’m trying to be patient,” I continue. “Deliberately. Because I know patience is the only language you trust. But I want you to know that it’s not absence of feeling. It’s the opposite.”
The moon throws soft light across her face. Her hair hangs loose and wild around her shoulders, and her eyes are the particular shade of green they go when her wolf is close to the surface.
“You’re very—” She stops.
“What?”
“Certain," she says. “About me.”
“Yes.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“About which part?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks into the dark. “I don’t know,” she admits. But the silence that follows makes it clear she’s not going to risk any of it tonight.
So, I watch the trees.
I watch her.
And I think: three days.
I have three days in this hollow with this woman, and the supply route below is quiet and the night is long, and I have been patient—genuinely, deliberately, at considerable personal cost—for long enough.