Page 36

CHAPTER 14

SUTTON

The scent of cedar and strong coffee lures me from the edge of dreams, curling through my senses like an invisible hand and tugging me gently toward wakefulness. It stirs something in me before the sunlight even has a chance to warm the room—earthy, rich, and grounding. The aroma wraps around my awareness, comforting and commanding all at once, and I know, even before I open my eyes, that I’m not in my own bed anymore.

For a second, I’m weightless—caught in that hazy space where dreams haven’t quite let go and reality hasn’t fully landed. But then I stir, feel the unfamiliar mattress beneath me, the cool air brushing bare skin above the covers, and it all clicks back into place. Team W headquarters. A sprawling ranch in the middle of nowhere, secured tighter than Fort Knox and filled with people who can turn into wolves.

And one of them—Deacon—claims I’m his fated mate, like the universe tied some invisible thread between us I never asked for and can’t seem to untangle.

I stretch slowly, testing sore muscles that ache with a residual burn—part fatigue, part something else entirely. The bed creaks softly beneath me, and I pause, hand pressed tomy ribs, breathing through the reminder of everything that’s changed.

There’s an awareness under my skin now, like my body is listening for something, bracing for movement I haven’t decided to make. It’s not just soreness. It’s anticipation—and a quiet ache that has Deacon's name all over it, that throb with the dull ache of a body coming down from high alert. Each motion pulls a whisper of resistance from places I didn’t even know could be sore—like I’ve been rewired overnight. My fingers flex instinctively, brushing the sheet beside me, and a ripple of memory runs through my limbs—of Deacon’s steady touch, of adrenaline surging like wildfire.

There’s a weight beneath the surface, heavy and intimate, that makes me hesitate before swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Emotional bruises I’m still pretending aren’t there press against my awareness—each ache a quiet echo of yesterday’s chaos—and though I felt weightless a moment ago, the gravity of it all rushes back in like a tide, unrelenting and cold. My ribs protest when I twist too far, and there’s a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with injury and everything to do with Deacon’s voice lingering in my head. My hand drifts to the base of my throat, where the memory of Deacon’s voice still lingers more than any touch.

The sense that I belong to something—or someone—bigger than myself presses at the edge of my thoughts. Like Deacon’s presence is a tether I hadn’t noticed tightening until now.

That deep, possessive declaration should rattle me—send me running for the hills. Instead, it settles in my bones like something I’ve always known, quiet and unshakable.

I sit up, brush a strand of hair from my face, and glance around the room. It’s spare but not unfriendly. Clean lines. Heavy furniture. An old wooden dresser, a cozy armchair in thecorner. A rifle propped in plain view near the window because apparently subtlety isn’t high on anyone’s list here.

I dress quickly—jeans, soft cotton tee, boots—and find my way toward the smell of coffee. The hallway opens into a massive kitchen where sunshine floods through tall windows. Cassidy stands at the island, ponytail swinging as she pours coffee into mismatched mugs. Beside her, a woman with pale red hair and fierce eyes slices a grapefruit like it insulted her mother. That has to be Maggie.

And Kari… Kari sits at the breakfast table, legs tucked under her, sipping from a steaming mug with both hands like it’s the most important ritual of the day. She’s younger than I expected, with glossy brown hair and a face that’s too sharp to be called pretty. She looks like she’d call your bluff with one raised eyebrow—and flatten you with the other if you tried to lie.

Three sets of eyes turn toward me, and for a beat, I freeze. Their expressions aren’t unfriendly, but I feel the heat of their focus settle like a weight across my chest. A flicker of doubt ripples through me—will I be judged, welcomed, challenged? But then something softer takes root. I’m not prey. Not a burden. I’m a woman among others who’ve already walked through fire—and part of me wonders if they see a spark in me too.. The weight of their scrutiny lands squarely on my shoulders, but it’s not hostile. It’s assessing—curious, even. For the first time in days, I feel seen. Not as a victim, not as a liability, but as someone who might belong. The feeling is foreign and dangerous, so I do what I always do—I raise my chin, meet their gazes head-on, and let my sass do the talking.

Cassidy smiles first. “Morning. Coffee?”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” I ask with a wry grin.

Cassidy hands me a mug. “Promise. Cream’s in the fridge, sugar’s on the counter, but don’t let Gideon catch you using it.He thinks sugar or honey in your coffee is for the weak and should only be used in baking.”

"He has a point," says Maggie, who I know owns a bakery I've frequented in town.

“Well, Gideon and I are going to have problems,” I mutter, adding a solid two spoonfuls of sugar before I even take a sip.

The redhead glances at me, curiosity sharp in her gaze. “Sutton, right?” she asks, like she’s connecting dots from a story she’s only half heard.

I tilt my head, wary. “Guilty as charged. I've been in your bakery. You make the best cinnamon rolls. When I'm going to go visit my dad, he always tells me to bring him some.”

The smile on Maggie's face is genuine even though it's fleeting. “Dalton’s been pacing like a caged wolf since he got back. You must be the reason he has a perpetual growl going on,”

"The growly persona is just kind of Dalton's default setting," Cassidy says. Her lips twitch and her eyebrow arches slightly as she studies me. “You’re not what I expected,” she says, her tone laced with curiosity more than challenge.

I meet her gaze, heart giving a subtle lurch. Not in fear—but in something quieter, deeper. Validation, maybe. Or the thrill of being seen for who I truly am. "I’m not what anyone expects—least of all myself," I reply with a faint, crooked smile. "I’m still deciding whether that terrifies me or sets me free."

"Thrill," says Kari, Gideon's younger sister. "You’re Deacon’s mate.”

Not a question. A statement, delivered like a field report.

“So I’m told,” I reply, sipping the coffee. Kari nods like that makes sense. I take the seat across from her. “You were born a shifter, right?”

She nods. “Gideon is my big brother. He was supposed to be alpha of our pack, so we were members of the most prominent family.”

I blink. “Family. Got it. Sounds better than litter.”

Cassidy laughs behind me. “Welcome to wolf culture.”