Chapter 17 The Wolf Man #2
I found his door, and knocked, and for a long moment, nothing happened — long enough that I started to wonder if he was even there, if he'd gone somewhere else entirely, if this whole walk had been for nothing.
Then the door opened, and Roman stood there, and the moment he saw me, something in his face did something complicated — surprise, first, and then something that looked almost like relief, quickly buried under the same careful, defensive distance he'd shown that afternoon.
"Marlowe. I didn't expect—"
"I need to talk to you." My voice came out steadier than I'd expected, given how my heart was pounding. "And I need you to actually listen this time. Not retreat. Not decide, halfway through, that whatever you're hearing is too dangerous to trust. Just — listen. Can you do that?"
Something in his expression shifted — wary, but underneath the wariness, something that looked like he wanted, very badly, to say yes.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Come in."
His rooms were sparse — practical, the rooms of a man who didn't spend much time thinking about his surroundings, though there was a kind of austere comfort to them, books stacked on every available surface, the particular lived-in disorder of someone whose mind was usually elsewhere.
He gestured to a chair, and I sat, and for a moment, neither of us said anything.
"I owe you an apology," I said finally. "Not for what I'm about to say — I'm not apologizing for that.
But for not saying it sooner. I've been carrying something for the last several days, something I should have told you before — before any of this, before Desmond, before any of it got this complicated.
And I think, if I'd told you sooner, maybe today would have gone differently. "
"What is it?"
I took a breath, and made myself meet his eyes, and told him everything.
I told him about that night — not the council session, not the parts he'd already read in the sealed transcript, but the before .
The months leading up to it. The way the bond had felt, in the weeks before everything fell apart — not just a pull, but a presence, something that had grown steadily, unmistakably, between us, the kind of bond that every wolf grew up hearing about and most never experienced.
I told him about the conversations we'd had, late at night, about the future — careful, hesitant conversations, the kind two people had when something enormous was happening and neither of them quite knew how to talk about it yet, but conversations that had been, unmistakably, hopeful.
Conversations where he'd talked, more than once, about what kind of Alpha he wanted to be — not just competent, but present , the kind of leader his father hadn't always managed to be, too consumed by duty to really know his own family.
Conversations where he'd talked about wanting, someday, a family of his own — not abstractly, not as a distant future, but with the specific, tender uncertainty of someone who'd never quite had what he wanted to give, and was determined to learn how.
"You weren't scared of it, Roman." My voice was steady, even though everything in me was shaking.
"Not the way Desmond described. I was there.
I heard you talk about it — about us, about the future, about everything that was coming.
You weren't drowning in dread. You were—" my voice caught, and I had to take a breath before continuing.
"You were excited . Nervous, sure — anyone would be nervous, twenty-eight and grieving and suddenly Alpha and now this on top of everything.
But underneath the nervousness, you were happy.
I remember it specifically because it was one of the things that made me feel safest, in those weeks — watching you talk about a future you actually wanted, rather than one you felt obligated to want. "
"Marlowe—"
"I'm not done." My voice was firm now, steadier than it had been since I'd arrived.
"Because here's the thing, Roman — Desmond's lie worked, this afternoon, because it offered you an explanation for something you couldn't verify.
The gap. The missing months. He told you a story about what was inside that gap, and because you had no memory to contradict him, the story landed — not because it was true, but because you had nothing to weigh it against." I leaned forward, and held his gaze, steady despite everything.
"But I have the memory, Roman. I was there for the weeks before the gap.
I remember exactly what you felt, exactly what we talked about, exactly how excited and hopeful and present you were.
And I'm telling you — Desmond's story doesn't match what I remember.
Not even close. He took a fear that might exist in anyone , in your position — the ordinary fear of an overwhelming life change — and he amplified it into something that sounds plausible precisely because it's a fear most people would recognize in themselves, somewhere.
But it wasn't your fear, Roman. Not the dominant one.
I was there. I know what was actually in your heart, in the weeks before everything was taken from you — and it wasn't dread. It was hope."
Roman was very still, and when he spoke, his voice was unsteady in a way I hadn't heard from him before. "You're sure."
"I'm sure." I held his gaze, unflinching.
"Roman, I spent three years believing the opposite of what Desmond told you today — I believed you didn't want this, that you'd made a cold, deliberate choice to walk away from me and from Birdie and from everything we'd talked about.
And I was wrong, because I didn't have the full picture either — I didn't know about the binding, didn't know what had actually happened in that chamber.
But you have something I didn't have, three years ago.
You have me . You have someone who was actually there, for the parts that matter, who can tell you — with absolute certainty — that whatever Desmond claimed today, it doesn't match the man I knew.
The man who talked about the future with so much hope that it scared me , a little, because I'd never let myself hope for anything that much before either. "
The room was very quiet.
"I retreated," Roman said finally, his voice rough.
"This afternoon. I told you we needed distance, that I couldn't trust what I was feeling — and the entire time, some part of me knew I was doing exactly what Desmond wanted.
I knew it, and I still did it, because the alternative — trusting myself, trusting the bond, trusting you — felt too dangerous.
Too uncertain." He looked up, and something in his expression had cracked open entirely now, raw and unguarded.
"And then you came here. After everything.
After I sent you away, after I told you to prepare to leave — you came here, anyway, to tell me the truth, because you thought I needed to hear it.
Even after how I treated you this afternoon. "
"Birdie told me to." I managed something that was almost a smile, though my eyes had gone wet.
"She said shy people aren't mean, they're just scared.
And that even when sharing is hard, you should do it anyway, because feeling better comes after.
" My voice cracked, slightly. "She's three, Roman, and she has a clearer understanding of this than either of us has managed in three years combined. "
Something in Roman's face did something complicated — grief, and gratitude, and something that looked, unmistakably, like the beginning of hope finally allowed back in.
"I need to fix this," he said quietly. "Not just — not just us.
Although — Marlowe, I need you to know, what I felt for you this past week, what I still feel, sitting here right now — none of that changed, even when I was telling you it needed to stop.
I was scared, and I let that fear make a decision that wasn't mine to make alone.
But the feeling itself never wavered. Not for a second.
" He took a breath, and something in his posture straightened, the careful, defeated slump of the afternoon giving way to something more resolute.
"But beyond us — Desmond needs to answer for what he did.
To the council. Publicly. Not quietly, not in a study where he can manage the conversation — in front of everyone, with the evidence, so that there's no version of this story left for him to control.
I should have done that from the start, instead of confronting him alone. "
"Then do it." My voice was steady now, certain. "Tomorrow. Bring everything — the transcript, Petra's information, all of it — to the council. Let them hear it. All of it."
"And the binding?" Roman's voice was quieter now. "Desmond said pulling at it carelessly could be dangerous. That it's been load-bearing for three years."
"Then we'll deal with that carefully. Together.
" I reached out, and this time, Roman didn't hesitate — his hand closed around mine, warm and steady, and the bond between us, which had ached with absence for the last day, settled, finally, back into something whole.
"But Roman — whatever the binding is holding up, whatever collapses when it comes loose — I don't think it can be worse than three more years of Desmond controlling the story.
I don't think it can be worse than what's already been lost."
"No," Roman said quietly, his hand tightening around mine. "I don't think it can either."
We sat there for a long moment, hands joined, the evening light fully gone now, the room lit only by a single lamp — and for the first time since Desmond's lie had landed, the bond between us felt, again, like solid ground.