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Still nothing.

My chest aches seeing her like this—vulnerable, lost. She’s always so strong, so steady. It guts me to see her caught in a terror she can’t escape.

Screw it.

I gather her in my arms, lifting her up against my chest. She’s so small, so light, like she could disappear if I blinked too hard. She stiffens at first, a broken whine spilling from her lips, but I pull her closer, tucking her securely against me.

Then, I rumble.

The sound vibrates low in my chest, deep and steady—a noise that instinct pulls from me. A soothing sound. Comfort. Protection.

The way a wolf calms a frightened pup.

I feel the moment it reaches her. Her trembling eases slightly, her fists unclenching from the blanket to clutch at my shirt instead. Her breathing slows, the desperate gasps evening out into softer, deeper pulls of air.

I keep rumbling, rocking her gently, my heart breaking with every soft hitch of her breath.

“You’re safe,” I murmur into her hair, my voice barely more than a breath. “I’ve got you.”

Slowly, slowly, the tension drains from her body. Her weight sags fully into mine, her head pressing against my shoulder, her skin warm against my neck.

I don’t stop rumbling until her breathing evens out completely, until the scent of her fear fades from the air around us.

Only then do I ease my own breathing, my arms still wrapped tightly around her.

She looks so peaceful now.

But the tears staining her cheeks tell a different story. My gut twists at the thought of what she must have been dreaming about.

I brush a stray strand of hair from her face, my fingers barely grazing her soft skin. Even in sleep, she leans into my touch.

I stay like that for a long moment, just holding her.

Then, a movement at the edge of my vision makes me glance up.

Maya’s mother stands in the doorway of the cottage, wrapped in a shawl, her face pale in the moonlight. I stiffen automatically, bracing for anger, for suspicion.

But she just watches us, something raw and aching in her expression. For a minute, she says nothing. Then, low and almost shaking, she whispers, “That’s the first time I’ve seen anyone be able to calm her down.”

I blink, holding Maya a little tighter.

“She’s had those nightmares since she was a child,” her mother continues, stepping closer, her voice thick with emotion. “No one could ever wake her. We just had to wait for them to pass.” She smiles sadly. “She wouldn’t even let me hold her. Always fought it. But you…” Her gaze drops to where Maya is tucked trustingly against me, clinging even in sleep. “You’re different.”

The words settle heavy in the night air, sinking into my chest like stones.

Different.

I’m not sure what to say to that. I’m not sure I can say anything with the lump forming in my throat.

Maya stirs slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake up. She burrows closer instead, seeking more of my warmth.

Her mother’s eyes soften. “Would you like some tea?”

I want to say no. But this woman is important to Maya, to my fated mate. So, I lower my head respectfully. “Thank you.”

“You should bring her inside. She will sleep deeply now.”

Her mother steps aside, and I move carefully, cradling Maya’s slight weight in my arms as I rise to my feet. She sighs quietly, her head resting against my chest as if she has always belonged there.