Page 20

DORIAN

T he morning sun slanted through the tall windows, casting soft amber light across the floorboards of the sitting room. Dorian hadn’t moved much since Autumn had fallen asleep beside him, curled up as if still protecting herself.

She was still there now, tucked under the throw blanket he’d pulled over her during the quiet hours of dawn, one hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt. Her breathing was slow, steady. Finally peaceful after a night that had nearly torn him in half to witness.

He brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek once more, careful not to wake her.

She needed the rest. Needed the space.

And he would give her that.

Even if everything in him—the bear, the man, the mate—wanted to hold her and never let go.

So he let go first.

Gently, slowly, he slid from beneath her, replacing his warmth with a second blanket and the pillow from the arm of the couch. She murmured something soft in her sleep but didn’t stir.

He stood there for a moment longer, watching her. Memorizing the lines of her face in the morning light. She looked younger like this. Softer. The weight she carried of ghosts, grief, and old fears seemed to lift when she was unconscious. But he knew better.

He’d felt it in her tears. Seen it in the way she flinched when he touched her too kindly.

She was still running. Just not on foot anymore.

Dorian left the sitting room, his boots silent on the floor. The house felt different today—quieter, not empty, but respectful. Like even the ghosts were giving Autumn some breathing room.

He grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen—black, hot, bitter as the ache blooming behind his ribs—and stepped through the back door into the soft hush of morning.

The porch groaned beneath his boots, same as it always did, like it remembered every storm that had ever rolled over these mountains.

He barely heard it. His attention was fixed on the far corner of the porch, where the row of rocking chairs sat like quiet sentinels, each one holding stories carved into their bones.

His uncle Alaric had started the tradition decades ago, back when the inn still bustled with overnight guests and fire-lit tales. “Memory belongs to places,” Alaric used to say, tapping the arm of his own chair with a gnarled knuckle. “And people deserve to leave a mark where they’ve been known.”

Every name on those chairs belonged to someone who’d mattered. A guest who’d stayed longer than planned, a friend who’d weathered a rough season, a lover who’d come and gone with autumn winds. It wasn’t just a list. It was a testament to presence. To being seen. Being valued.

Dorian hadn’t added any new names since inheriting the place. He hadn’t felt like any of them were meant to stay.

Until now.

His boots scuffed the deck as he approached the final chair—the newest, raw wood still pale and unfinished, its back slat smooth and blank like an unsung promise. He’d meant to stain it months ago. Just never got around to it.

He set his coffee on the porch rail, pulled the worn pocket knife from his back pocket, and flipped it open with the same ease he used to gut fish and whittle branch ends as a boy. His fingers were steady. Steadier than he felt.

There was no plan. No flourish. He just began.

Autumn.

He carved her name into the wood slowly, careful not to rush the lines. He’d watched his uncle do this dozens of times—slow, deliberate strokes, each one like a memory etched into the grain. But this time, it wasn’t about marking a moment for someone else.

It was a vow.

The kind you didn’t need to speak aloud to keep.

Each letter felt sacred. A little weightier than it should have, maybe, but Dorian had always believed in letting his hands say what words couldn’t. She might not be ready to hear it, not yet—but he could say it in his own way.

You belong here.

You matter.

You’re safe with me.

When he was done, he sat down beside the chair and wrapped his palms around the warm mug. The wind had picked up, teasing through the trees at near the end of the property, sending the last of the golden leaves scattering like stubborn truths let loose.

He looked out at the fog curling low across the pines, and all he could think of was how she’d felt in his arms—small, yes, but not fragile. Like someone who’d been holding up the whole damn sky for too long and had finally let herself lean.

He’d felt her heartbreak. Not just in her tears, but in the way she held back even while clinging to him. In the way her voice cracked when she spoke of love like it was a storm she’d barely survived.

And he got it.

He’d seen that kind of loneliness before—hell, he’d lived it. After the fire took his old life, after the people he’d trusted scattered like ash, he’d rebuilt himself with silence and solitude. With routine and walls made of charm-laced timber.

But Autumn…

She made the quiet seem loud.

She made him want things again. Not just the comfort of a steady hand or a warm body, but something deeper. Something like home.

He sighed and leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall behind him. A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth as he reached down, smoothing the rough edges of the carving with a bit of sandpaper he kept tucked under the bench.

She didn’t need to know he’d done it.

Not yet.

But when she was ready, when she finally let herself rest, really rest, he wanted her to have something real. Something lasting. Something she could see and feel and know —not as an obligation, not as a symbol—but as proof.

That he’d been waiting.

That she had a place to land.

“You take all the time you need, darlin’,” he whispered to the wind, his thumb tracing over the finished carving, slow and reverent. “I’ll be right here.”

He finished his coffee, picked up his tools, and sanded the edges of her name until it was smooth enough for her to lean back against without even noticing.

A quiet promise.

And the most honest thing he’d ever carved.