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Chapter Ten

D r. Maya Sorin

Night after night, I find myself abandoning the comfort of my bed for the open sky.

It doesn’t matter how exhausted I am or how cold the night air grows—the walls press in on me, memories of my cell creeping like shadows across the ceiling.

Some nights I wake gasping, clawing at invisible restraints.

Other nights, I don’t sleep at all, just stare at the walls until they seem to inch closer.

The cottage garden has become my sanctuary.

I’ve created a small nest for myself—a thick blanket spread on the soft grass, another to cover me, and the endless canvas of stars above.

My mother has stopped asking why she finds me outside each morning.

She simply brings me coffee and squeezes my shoulder.

Tonight is no different. The moon hangs fat and bright in the sky, nearly full. According to Erik, the ceremony to reinstate Griffin as king will happen when it reaches its peak in another week or so. The thought sends a strange flutter through my stomach.

I wrap my cardigan tighter around me, settling onto my blanket. The night air carries the scent of pine and earth, crisp and clean. I take a deep breath, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders.

“Can’t sleep again?”

The deep voice doesn’t startle me anymore. I turn to see Griffin emerging from the shadows of the trees that separate the cottages from the main palace. He’s wearing loose pants and a simple white shirt, his silver hair almost glowing in the moonlight.

“Never can,” I admit, pulling my knees to my chest.

He approaches slowly, as if giving me time to tell him to leave. When I don’t, he sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“The walls?” he asks quietly.

I nod. “They remind me of...there.”

He doesn’t need me to explain. He lived in that same cell, felt those same walls closing in. Of all people, Griffin understands.

“I can’t sleep inside either,” he confesses, voice low. “Every night I end up on the balcony of my chambers. It’s better than nothing, but...”

“But it’s not the same as being completely under the sky,” I finish for him.

Our eyes meet in the moonlight, understanding passing between us. Something deeper pulls at me, an inexplicable urge to be closer to him. It’s been building over the past few days—a strange, insistent tug that makes my heart race whenever he’s near.

“Come with me,” he says suddenly.

I blink at him. “Where?”

"My chambers have a large balcony. It’s higher up and away from the trees, so it’s more open. You may find it easier to rest there, and you’ll be protected from the elements.” He hesitates. “I can sleep elsewhere if you want privacy.”

“No,” I say too quickly. The thought of him leaving makes something twist inside me. “I mean, you don’t have to go. If you’re uncomfortable indoors, too, then...”

He stands and offers me his hand. “It would be better for both of us.”

I should say no. I should stay right here in my safe little garden nest. But my hand reaches for his of its own accord, warmth spreading from where our skin connects.

“Just for tonight,” I say, more to myself than to him.

The walk to the palace is quiet. Griffin leads me through side entrances and empty corridors, away from the prying eyes of guards or late-night staff. His fingers remain loosely twined with mine, a lifeline in the darkness.

His chambers are larger than I expected—a massive suite with separate rooms flowing into one another.

Unlike the rest of the palace, which is ornate and formal, his space is surprisingly minimal.

The furniture is elegant but simple, the colors muted earth tones. No clutter, no unnecessary decoration.

He leads me straight to the balcony doors and throws them open. The cool night air rushes in, and I step outside eagerly.

The balcony wraps around the corner of the palace, offering a panoramic view of the surrounding forests and mountains. The moon bathes everything in silver light. It’s beautiful, breathtaking even, but most importantly, it’s open. I can breathe here.

“Better?” Griffin asks, coming to stand beside me.

“Much,” I admit, leaning against the stone railing.

He moves away briefly, returning with a thick blanket that he spreads on the balcony floor, followed by another to wrap around me. The gesture is so thoughtful, it makes my chest ache.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks. “I find it helps, sometimes.”

“Please.”

He disappears into his chambers again, and I take this time alone to collect myself. What am I doing here? This man is a king of wolves—or will be soon. I’m a human scientist who doesn’t even belong in this world. And yet...

Something about him feels like home in a way nothing else has since my capture.

Griffin returns with two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. “Bourbon,” he explains, pouring a measure into each glass. “If you don’t like it—”

“I like bourbon,” I say, taking a glass from him. Our fingers brush, and that same electricity shoots up my arm.

He sits on the blanket, his back against the stone balustrade, and I join him, careful to leave space between us. The bourbon burns pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside.

“One more week,” I say, staring at the moon. “Are you ready?”

He follows my gaze upward. “I don’t know if anyone can truly be ready to wear a crown.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“A lifetime ago,” he says quietly. “I was younger then. More certain.”

I study his profile in the moonlight—the strong jaw, the straight nose, the faint scar on his cheek. There’s a weariness to him that wasn’t there in the cell, a weight that seems to press on his shoulders.

“What changed?” I ask.

His eyes find mine, dark and intense. “Everything.”

The single word hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I take another sip of bourbon, trying to steady my suddenly racing heart.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I say, desperate to break the tension. “That first night you found me in the cottage garden—how did you know I was there?”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “I could smell you.”

“You could—what?”

“Your scent,” he clarifies. “Lavender and something uniquely you. I could pick it out anywhere.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s...intense.”

“It’s a wolf thing,” he says with a shrug, but there’s something in his expression that makes me think it’s more than that.

I readjust slightly, suddenly aware of how close together we’re sitting. The space between us seems to have shrunk without either of us moving. The moonlight catches in his silver hair, and an overwhelming urge to touch it washes over me.

“Griffin,” I say, my voice not quite steady, “I think I should go.”

“Why?” he asks simply.

“Because...” I trail off, not sure how to explain the strange, magnetic pull I feel toward him, the way my skin seems to hum with awareness when he’s near.

His gaze drops to my lips, then goes back up to my eyes. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “and I will.”

I should. I know I should. But the word sticks in my throat as he closes the distance between us, his lips brushing mine in the softest of touches. A question, not a demand.

My answer is to surge forward, my hand finding the back of his neck and pulling him closer. The kiss deepens instantly, his bourbon-tinged tongue sliding against mine. A groan rumbles in his chest, vibrating through me.

His hands are everywhere—in my hair, skimming down my sides, pulling me into his lap so I’m straddling him. I can feel him hardening beneath me, and I rock against him instinctively, drawing a sharp hiss from between his teeth.

“Maya,” he breathes against my neck, trailing hot kisses down to my collarbone. “We should stop.”

But his hands grip my hips tighter, guiding my movements against him. The friction is delicious, maddening.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp, reaching for the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

He helps me pull it over his head, and I take a moment to admire the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen. He has filled out in the past weeks, his body recovering its strength. I trace my fingers along a faint scar that runs across his ribs, and he shivers.

Then his hands are on my cardigan, pushing it off my shoulders, tugging at the thin t-shirt beneath. I lift my arms, letting him pull it off. His eyes darken at the sight of me in just my bra, his hands warm and slightly rough as they glide up my sides.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, reverence in his voice.

I’ve always been the aggressor in my relationships—taking control, setting the pace. I’m used to shy, intellectual men who are happy to follow my lead. But there’s nothing shy about Griffin as he stands up, lifting me effortlessly in his arms.

“Inside,” he murmurs, carrying me through the balcony doors to his bed.

He lays me down with surprising gentleness, his body covering mine as he captures my lips again. His knee nudges my legs apart, and I welcome him between them, wrapping my thighs around his hips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says against my skin, his hand sliding up to cup my breast through my bra.

“You,” I gasp as his thumb brushes over my nipple. “I want you.”

A low growl rumbles in his chest. “You have me.”

He makes quick work of the rest of our clothes, his movements efficient but not rushed. Each newly exposed inch of my skin is worshipped with his mouth, his hands. By the time we’re both naked, I’m trembling with need.

I reach for him, wanting to touch, to explore, but he catches my wrists, pinning them gently above my head.

“Let me,” he says, his voice rough with desire.

It’s not a command, not quite. But the authority in his tone sends a thrill through me. I’ve never surrendered control like this, never wanted to. With Griffin, though...

I nod, relaxing into his hold.