Page 7

The scent hits me first—woodsy and sharp, clean in a way that feels intrusive yet comforting all at once. It clings to the sheets, the air, the furniture. Slowly, I realize why. I’m not in my room.

I sit up quickly, and the thick blankets slide down to pool in my lap. The bed beneath me is huge, far too large for one person and infinitely more comfortable than I’m used to. It takes my sleep-addled brain a second to catch up, but when it does, my stomach twists.

Gray’s room.

A quick glance around confirms it. The furniture is heavy and rustic, the floor scuffed in a way that only years of use can create. His boots are lined up perfectly near the door, and his scent is woven into every inch of the place.

I groan, threading my fingers through my hair as the events of the previous night flood back. The tension in the banquet hall, my magic flaring out of control, Gray leading me out before I could embarrass myself further. And then his insistence that I take the bed while he slept on the couch.

I glance toward the door, half-expecting him to barge in, but it’s quiet. Too quiet.

The knob rattles just as the thought crosses my mind, and the door creaks open.

“Morning,” Gray says, stepping inside with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. His blond hair is damp, and he’s wearing a worn t-shirt that clings in ways I’d rather not notice. He leans casually against the doorframe as if he owns the place—which, of course, he does.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, sharper than I intended.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my tone. “This is my room.”

I scowl, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “Then why am I in it?”

“You needed rest,” he says simply, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “The couch wasn’t an option for you.”

“And yet it was for you?”

“Obviously.”

His nonchalance grates on me, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grabbing my boots. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Thanks,” he replies dryly, but as I move to brush past him, he holds up a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait a second.”

I pause halfway to the door, narrowing my eyes at him. “What now?”

Without a word, he steps over to the dresser, pulls open a drawer, and lifts out a neat stack of folded clothes. He holds them out to me, his expression unreadable.

“What’s this?” I ask, not reaching for them.

“Clothes,” he says plainly. “You can’t keep walking around in…” He gestures vaguely toward the shapeless, threadbare dress I’ve been stuck with since Malcolm decided witches shouldn’t look presentable. “That.”

I glance at the clothes in his hands—a mix of well-worn jeans, t-shirts, and sweaters. “Where did you get these?”

“From the women in the pack. I asked around. Told them it was for someone who needed it. No one asked questions.”

I blink, caught off-guard. “You… what?”

“I figured you’d want something that actually fits,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “And something that doesn’t look like it’s one wash away from disintegrating.”

The knot in my chest tightens, and I hate that it feels like gratitude is threatening to surface. I glance at the clothes again, noting the care in how they’re folded, the variety of sizes. They’re not just hand-me-downs, they’re a gesture. A thoughtful one. And that only makes it worse.

“I don’t need charity,” I say.

“Would you quit saying that? It’s not charity, Jaslyn. It’s practicality,” he replies, stepping closer and placing the clothes on the edge of the bed. “You’ve got enough to deal with. At least wear something that doesn’t look like it’s been dragged through the mud.”

The softness in his voice catches me off-guard, and I look away quickly, focusing on the pile of fabric instead of the man standing far too close for comfort. “Fine,” I mutter, reaching for the clothes. “But don’t think this makes up for anything.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I clutch the clothes to my chest, avoiding his gaze as I turn toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get dressed without an audience.”

He steps back with a small nod. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready. Coffee’s on the nightstand.”

I wait until the door clicks shut behind him before letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Looking down at the clothes in my arms, I feel a flicker of something I can’t quite name. Something I’m not ready to acknowledge.

For now, I push it aside, focusing on the simple act of changing into something that doesn’t make me feel like a prisoner anymore.

***

Over the next week, life in the packhouse becomes… routine, which is a word I never thought I’d associate with my time here. The place is bigger than I remember, sprawling with endless hallways and hidden nooks that will take time to rediscover. I try to stay out of everyone’s way, but Gray makes that impossible.

He’s everywhere.

At first, I think it’s intentional—him hovering to make sure I don’t bolt in the middle of the night. But the longer it goes on, the clearer it becomes that this is just how he operates. He’s always moving, always checking in on someone or handling some issue. And somehow, he always manages to show up when I least expect it.

Like when I’m in the library, poring over an old book on wards, and he drops a plate of food next to me without a word. Or when I’m trying to carry an armful of supplies upstairs, and he wordlessly takes half of them.

It’s not just the little acts of kindness that irritate me. It’s the way he does them so naturally, like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t spent the last decade being the reason I learned to live without help.

But the worst part is how aware I am of him.

He moves through the packhouse with a quiet confidence that draws attention whether he wants it or not. During training sessions, he spars with the younger wolves. His movements are so precise and controlled, it’s almost hypnotizing. He never raises his voice, but his presence commands respect in a way that makes me grind my teeth.

And yet, I can’t stop watching him.

I tell myself it’s because I’m trying to figure him out. To understand what kind of alpha he’s become since I’ve been gone. But deep down, I know it’s more than that.

Like now.

We’re standing at the edge of the training field, watching the wolves run through drills. The sun is warm against my back, but I can’t focus on anything except Gray. He’s leaning against the fence beside me with his arms crossed and his attention fixed on the trainees.

“They’ve improved a lot over the last few days,” I comment, mostly to distract myself.

“They have,” he agrees.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, studying the sharp line of his jaw and the way the sunlight catches in his hair. I hate that my gaze lingers, that I notice the faint sheen of sweat on his brow or the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks suddenly.

I snap my attention back to the field, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Nothing.”

He hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he pushes off the fence and moves toward the sparring ring.

I tell myself I’m not watching him as he squares off with Theo, but my eyes betray me.

The two of them move like they’ve done this a hundred times. Their strikes and counters are perfectly in sync. Gray ducks under Theo’s swing, delivering a sharp jab to his ribs that earns a grunt of approval. It’s almost like a dance, the way he moves—calm, controlled, and so damn confident.

“Careful,” Theo calls out to me as he catches my gaze over Gray’s shoulder. “You keep staring like that, and people might start talking.”

“I wasn’t staring,” I protest, but my voice wavers.

Theo grins, dodging Gray’s next strike. “Whatever you say, Jaslyn.”

Gray glances back at me, and my stomach flips. I turn away before he can say anything, heading toward the packhouse with my heart pounding in my chest.

I tell myself it’s frustration, not something else. But I’m not sure I believe it anymore.

By the time we fall into a routine, the packhouse feels less like a looming prison and more like… well, something tolerable. I wouldn’t call it home—not yet—but the weight in my chest eases bit by bit.

Gray is everywhere, and his presence is like the static of a storm on the horizon. It’s impossible to avoid him, though I’ve stopped actively trying. It’s not because I trust him—not entirely, anyway—but because every time I push, he doesn’t push back. He doesn’t try to force my cooperation or prod me into gratitude. It’s unsettling in its own way, his quiet patience.

But if there’s one thing I can’t ignore, it’s the way the rest of the pack watches him. They look at him with respect, trust, loyalty. It’s disarming to see, and a tiny part of me wonders if maybe there’s more to him than I’ve allowed myself to see.

Still, when I finally approach him with my request, I’m braced for a fight.

“Take me to the last demon-sighting,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe of his office.

Gray looks up from his desk, his pen pausing mid-signature. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He sets the pen down and leans back in his chair. “Why?”

“Because if you’re serious about me helping, I need to see it for myself. I can’t just throw wards at a problem I don’t understand.”

He studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to fidget under his gaze. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

“I’m not a child, Gray.”

“No,” he agrees, standing and grabbing his jacket. “You’re not. But that doesn’t mean this won’t be dangerous.”

“I think I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he gestures for me to follow, and we head out into the crisp morning air.

The drive to the last demon-sighting area is quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy with unsaid things. Gray keeps his eyes on the road, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. I keep mine on the horizon, but the knot in my stomach tightens the closer we get.

When the truck finally rolls to a stop, the forest around us feels different. It’s still, but not in a peaceful way. The air feels saturated with something dark and heavy, and I can’t shake the sensation of being watched.

“This is it,” Gray announces, stepping out of the truck.

I follow with my boots crunching against the dry leaves as I scan the area. It looks ordinary enough—a clearing surrounded by towering pines, sunlight filtering through the branches. But the moment I step forward, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“There’s something here,” I comment, closing my eyes and reaching out with my magic. The energy in the air is faint, like a shadow of something long gone, but it’s there. Dark and cold, clinging to the edges of the clearing.

“Still a threat?” Gray questions.

“I don’t think so,” I reply, though my tone lacks certainty. “Whatever it was, it’s not here anymore. But the residue… it’s strong.”

Before he can respond, the sound of footsteps draws our attention. I turn to see two women approaching—a tall brunette with russet-colored eyes and a shorter, curvier woman with black hair and blue eyes. Their presence radiates magic, and I immediately know they’re witches.

“Gray,” the brunette greets him with a nod. “This must be Jaslyn.”

“Jade,” Gray says, his tone warmer than usual. He gestures to the girl with the black hair. “And Isadora. They’re the witches from Starfire Hollow and East Hills.”

I blink, stunned. I knew other packs had witches, but seeing them here, standing side by side with Gray like equals, feels surreal.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Jade says, offering her hand.

I hesitate before shaking it, unsure how to respond. “You… work with the packs?”

“Of course,” Isadora chimes in, her grin widening. “Why wouldn’t we? We’re part of them.”

“Because…” I trail off, unsure how to voice the years of prejudice and hostility I’d endured without sounding like I’m accusing them.

Jade seems to sense my hesitation and offers a small, understanding smile. “Things have changed, Jaslyn. The alliance between the packs wouldn’t be possible without witches. We’re not just tolerated anymore. We’re valued.”

Isadora snorts. “Took them long enough to figure out we’re not the bad guys.”

I glance at Gray, half-expecting him to contradict them, but he just watches me with that blank expression of his.

“How?” I ask the women, my voice barely above a whisper. “How did that happen?”

“Necessity,” Jade says simply. “The demons forced us to work together. Once the packs realized how much they needed us, the old prejudices didn’t hold up anymore.”

The words hit me harder than I expect. For so long, I believed there was no place for me here—that my magic made me an outcast, a threat. Hearing otherwise feels like someone’s flipped my world upside down.

“Look,” Isadora says, stepping closer to me, “I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong. But you’re here now, and trust me, these packs? They’ll have your back if you give them a chance.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod, though my thoughts are a tangled mess.

Jade studies me for a moment before speaking again. “The energy here—it’s old. Whatever caused it isn’t coming back anytime soon, but it’s a good place to start building wards. Between the three of us, we should be able to reinforce the borders.”

“Agreed,” Gray says, his tone brisk. “We’ll need to coordinate with Damien and Alec to cover all territories.”

As they discuss logistics, I step away, letting their voices fade into the background. My mind is spinning, torn between disbelief and cautious hope.

Valued. Needed. Trusted.

For the first time in years, I wonder if I can belong here after all.