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We're lost in the dance of it, the give and take of bodies that know each other despite the years between. Fiona's scent surrounds me—lavender and rain and something uniquely her—and my wolf rises to the surface, recognizing its mate in ways my human mind has tried to deny.

"Switch," Victoria announces.

Now Fiona is the aggressor, coming at me with quick, precise strikes that I deflect and redirect.

She's smaller than me, but faster, using her agility to stay just out of my reach, where my size advantage becomes a disadvantage.

When she manages to hook her leg behind mine and send me off balance, I catch her wrist and take her down with me, both of us rolling across the training mats in a controlled fall that ends with her pinned beneath me.

We're both breathing hard, faces inches apart, and for a moment, the world narrows to just this—her wide green eyes, the rapid pulse at her throat, the way her body fits perfectly under mine.

Her lips part slightly, and I see something flicker in her expression, a crack in the armor she's worn since returning to Silvercreek.

"Thomas," she whispers, and my name on her lips sounds like a prayer and a question all at once.

I help her to her feet, my hands lingering on her arms longer than necessary. She doesn't pull away immediately, and that slight hesitation gives me hope I probably shouldn't feel.

"Water break," Amelia calls, apparently sensing the tension crackling between us. "Fifteen minutes."

The other pack members training nearby disperse toward the water stations and shaded areas, but Fiona and I remain on the mats, caught in some invisible current that makes moving away from each other feel impossible.

"You're stronger than I remembered," I say, the words coming out rougher than I intended.

A small smile tugs at her lips. "I've had to be."

"Had to be?"

The smile fades, replaced by something guarded. "Six years of taking care of myself. And then Maisie. It changes you."

"Fiona—"

"We should hydrate," she interrupts, but she doesn't move away. "Amelia’s watching."

I glance over to see that Victoria has indeed positioned herself with a clear view of our conversation, her expression thoughtful in a way that makes me uneasy. But when I look back at Fiona, the moment feels too important to abandon for the sake of appearances.

"I never wanted things to end the way they did," I say quietly.

Her expression hardens. "Then why did they?"

"It's complicated."

"So you keep saying." Fiona takes a step back, rebuilding the walls between us. "But it felt pretty simple from where I was standing. You decided I wasn't worth the trouble."

"That's not—" I step closer, driven by the need to make her understand. "Fiona, you have to know that's not how it was."

"Then how was it, Thomas?" Her voice rises slightly, then drops back to an urgent whisper. "Because I've spent six years trying to understand how someone could go from saying 'forever' to… the way you became, overnight."

The pain in her voice cuts through me like a blade. She's right to hate me, right to build walls and keep her distance. But knowing that doesn't make the truth any easier to tell—or any safer to share.

Instead of answering, I do something that's probably incredibly stupid. I cup her face in my hands, feeling the silk of her skin against my palms, and lean in until our foreheads touch.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For all of it. For hurting you, for leaving you, for not being strong enough to find another way."

Her breath catches, and for a moment, she leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed. When she opens them again, they're bright with unshed tears.

"Thomas..."

"I know I don't deserve forgiveness," I continue, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "I know I hurt you in ways that can't be undone. But Fiona, what we had—what we have—it wasn't nothing. It was everything."

She stares up at me, conflict warring in her expression. I can see her fighting herself, fighting the pull between us that defies logic and time and all the very good reasons she has to hate me.

"I can't," she whispers. "I can't do this again."

"Yes, you can," I say, leaning closer. "We can."

Her resistance crumbles all at once. She surges up to meet me, her hands fisting in my shirt as our lips crash together with six years of separation and longing behind them.

The kiss is desperate and fierce, with nothing gentle or hesitant about it.

She tastes like coffee and possibility, and when she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, my control nearly snaps entirely.

My hands slide into her hair, scattering the elastic that holds her ponytail, and she presses closer, her body molding against mine like she was made to fit there.

This is what I've missed, what I've dreamed about during the long years apart—the way she responds to my touch, the way she gives as good as she gets, the way she makes me feel like I'm more than the sum of my mistakes.

"Thomas!" James's voice cuts through the haze of desire like cold water. "There you are."

Fiona springs away from me so quickly she nearly stumbles, her hands flying to her hair to smooth it back into place.

Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her cheeks flushed, and the sight of her like this—disheveled and beautiful and mine—makes my wolf want to claim her right here in front of everyone.

"This can't happen," she says, her voice shaking as she takes another step back. "This was a mistake."

"Fiona—"

"No." She holds up a hand to stop me from coming closer. "I have to think about Maisie. About what's best for her. And this—" she gestures between us, "this isn't it."

She starts gathering her things with jerky, agitated movements, refusing to meet my eyes.

I want to go to her, to convince her that what just happened wasn't a mistake but the most right thing I've felt in years.

But James is approaching with that determined expression that means pack business, and the moment is already broken.

"Sorry to interrupt," James says, though his keen eyes suggest he knows exactly what he interrupted. "But we've got developments on the border situation. Nic wants you in his office."

Fiona shoulders her gym bag, still not looking at me. "I have to go."

"We need to talk about this," I call after her.

"No," she says over her shoulder, her voice steady now but cold. "We really don't."

I watch her walk away, my body still humming with the memory of her touch, my heart pounding with the knowledge that she kissed me back. She can deny it all she wants, can build walls, and make excuses, but I felt her response. For a few precious moments, she was mine again.

"You're playing with fire," James observes mildly.

"I know." I turn to face him, probably looking as wrecked as I feel. "What's the situation?"

"Trail cameras picked up movement on the northern border. Human movement. Armed." His expression grows serious. "Nic thinks it might be scouts from that League group."

The news hits me like a physical blow. If Edward's people are already probing our defenses, then we're running out of time. And Fiona—beautiful, stubborn, infuriating Fiona—is walking right into the center of a storm she doesn't even know is coming.

"Let's go," I say grimly, following James toward the pack house.

But as we walk, I can't stop thinking about the way she felt in my arms, the way she kissed me like she was drowning and I was air. Whatever's coming, whatever Edward Wright has planned, I'll find a way to protect her. Even if she never forgives me for the choices I made six years ago.

Even if protecting her means letting her go all over again.