Chapter 15
ARIA
It was a cruel prank of fate.
“Your task,” Celeste says, her eyes locked on mine, “is to treat my infertility.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
I stand perfectly still, my mask hiding everything—the shock, the way my stomach drops, the bitter laugh climbing up my throat that I refuse to let out.
Of all the things I imagined when Declan’s letter arrived, of all the scenarios I ran through while burning envelope after envelope—this never crossed my mind.
He brought me here to help her have his child.
Declan’s brow creases slightly at Celeste’s announcement, a flicker of irritation passing across his face.
But before he can speak, Celeste turns and steps into him, her hand pressing flat against his chest as she tilts her face up toward his ear.
Whatever she whispers is too low for even my enhanced hearing to catch.
Declan’s jaw tightens. Then it releases.
He says nothing.
The silence is its own answer.
I watch the small, practiced intimacy of it—the way she fits against his side like she’s done it a thousand times, the way he doesn’t pull away—and something inside me clicks into place. Final. Locked.
They’re bonded. Completely. Whatever I thought I felt in that car, whatever stupid flicker of warmth I almost let myself feel when he looked at me—it was nothing. An illusion, like Ethan said.
Let go, Ethan’s voice echoes in my mind. You haven’t let go of your ex. He still has a hold on your heart.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe it’s time I proved him wrong.
I pull my shoulders back and say, “Understood.”
My voice comes out flat. Professional. Exactly as it should.
Celeste’s smile widens, pleased with my compliance.
Declan looks at me, something shifting in his expression. Surprise, maybe, at the drop in temperature. His eyes search my face, but there’s nothing to find—just the mask and the blank, polished composure of a doctor who has heard difficult news before and filed it away without flinching.
“Where will I be staying?” I ask, looking past both of them toward Antony. “I’d like to get settled.”
Antony opens his mouth, but Declan answers first.
“I’ll show you,” he says. “Follow me.”
The house is small and tucked between two larger ones along the pack’s residential stretch—a quiet corner of territory where the trees press close, and the air carries pine and wild herbs. The kind of place that doesn’t draw attention. I appreciate that, at least.
Declan moves through the rooms without ceremony, pointing out the kitchen, the bathroom, and the small study at the back. The furniture is simple. Clean. The windows look out onto a strip of dense treeline.
“The guest room is fully stocked,” he says, pausing in the hallway. “If there’s anything you need that isn’t here, let Antony know, and he’ll have it arranged.”
“Fine.”
He glances at me with that same look—like he’s trying to read something I’m not offering.
“There’s a welcome dinner tonight,” he says. “Some of the senior pack members are eager to meet you. I’d like you to attend.”
“I’ll pass,” I say, turning toward my bag.
A beat of silence.
“Of course,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”
He doesn’t leave.
I pull my bag onto the bed and start unpacking. My medical kit goes on the dresser first, then my reference texts stacked beside it—three books with cracked spines I’ve carried everywhere.
I set up the small humidifier on the windowsill and tuck the jar of lavender tea next to it. The last thing I take out is a framed drawing Lily made—five wobbly crayon figures she’d labeled in her careful, uneven handwriting —and I set it on the nightstand.
“You travel with a lot of human products.”
Declan’s voice comes from behind me, quiet and thoughtful.
“I find them practical,” I say, not looking up.
“Most wolves don’t bother.” A pause. “I knew someone once who felt the same way. Fascinated by human culture. She’d collect things whenever she could—books, teas, little illustrations. Small things.”
He stops himself.
I keep unpacking, saying nothing.
“Sorry,” he says. “Beside the point.”
I zip the empty bag shut and turn to face him. “I think I have everything I need. Thank you.”
It’s a dismissal, and he knows it. He straightens, gives a short nod, and turns toward the door.
I reach down to drag my larger suitcase toward the closet, but it’s wedged against a second bag and the wheel catches on the strap. I pull harder—
My foot hooks the edge, and I pitch forward.
There’s no time to catch myself.
But hands catch me instead.
Declan moves fast, one arm around my waist and one hand bracing my shoulder, pulling me back before I hit the floor. The momentum brings us close—too close—my back against his chest, his arm still wrapped around me, his breath warm near my temple.
For one second, I don’t move.
I know this. I know the solid weight of him, the warmth that radiates through his shirt, the way his arm feels like it was built to hold me exactly here. Six years of forgetting, and my body remembers all of it in an instant.
Then the image flashes through my mind.
Celeste pressing herself against him. His jaw releasing. The quiet, settled intimacy of two people who have shared a life.
My pride refuses to let me become someone else’s mistress.
I pull away sharply, twisting to get my feet under me.
“I’m fine,” I say, the words coming out clipped and hard. “Let go.”
But his hand is still around my wrist.
I turn to look at him, ready to repeat myself—and stop.
Declan isn’t looking at my face.
His head is tilted down slightly, his expression unreadable but completely still, like something has short-circuited behind his eyes. He’s barely breathing.
He draws closer—just an inch, just enough—and I realize what he’s doing.
He’s sniffing.
Not deliberately. Not like a wolf tracking prey. Like something pulled him forward without permission, instinct overriding thought, and now he’s frozen in the middle of it with no explanation ready.
His brow furrows.
“This scent…?”