Page 18

"Feels lucky," he mutters, hissing as I clean the wound with antiseptic wipes.

The intimacy of tending his injury hits me unexpectedly—the warmth of his skin under my hands, the way he trusts me to care for him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing as I work. It's been years since I've touched him like this, years since he's let me close enough to offer comfort.

"Hold still," I murmur, applying butterfly bandages to pull the edges of the wound together. "This might scar."

"Won't be the first one."

I glance up at his face, noting the faint lines around his eyes that weren't there six years ago, the small scar on his jaw that's new to me. "Dangerous line of work you've chosen."

"Someone has to do it." His voice is quiet, thoughtful. "Someone has to stand between the pack and the things that want to hurt us."

The echo of his words from the lake makes my hands still against his shoulder. "Is that what you think you're doing? Standing between us and danger?"

"Among other things."

I finish bandaging the wound in silence, hyperaware of the way his eyes follow my movements. When I'm done, I should step away, put distance between us, rebuild the walls that keep getting knocked down every time we're alone together.

Instead, I stay where I am, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

"Better?" I ask.

"Much." His voice has dropped to that low register that used to make my knees weak. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. You got hurt protecting me."

"I got hurt protecting us. There's a difference."

The distinction matters, though I'm not sure why. Maybe because 'us' implies something beyond duty, something personal and complicated and dangerous to think about.

"Fiona." He says my name like a prayer, his hands coming up to cover mine where they rest on his chest. "Can I ask you something?"

I should say no. Should pull away and insist we radio for pickup and pretend this moment of quiet intimacy never happened. Instead, I nod.

"What was it like? Those six years. Where did you go after..."

After you broke my heart. After you told me, I meant nothing to you. After you left me pregnant and alone with nowhere to turn.

"Away," I say carefully. "I traveled. Found work where I could."

"Must have been hard. Especially after Maisie was born."

The mention of my daughter makes my chest tighten. "We managed."

"What about her father?" The question is gentle, but I hear the tension underneath it. "Did he help? Financially, I mean."

I pull my hands free, turning away to pack up the first aid supplies. "He wasn't in the picture."

"What kind of man abandons his child?"

The pain in his voice surprises me. I glance back to find him staring at his hands, his expression dark.

"The kind who decides responsibility is too much trouble," I say bitterly. "The kind who makes promises he never intended to keep."

"Bastard." The word comes out low and vicious. "She's an amazing kid. Bright, funny, brave. Any man would be lucky to call her daughter."

The fierce protectiveness in his voice does something dangerous to my heart. This is Thomas, as I remember him—passionate, loyal, ready to fight the world for the people he cares about. It's the version of him that made me fall in love all those years ago.

"She is amazing," I agree softly. "She's the best thing I've ever done."

"You're a good mother, Fiona. Better than good. She's lucky to have you."

The unexpected praise breaks something loose in my chest. When was the last time someone told me I was doing okay? When was the last time someone looked at my life and saw strength instead of failure?

"I try," I whisper. "Most days, I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water."

"You're stronger than you know." Thomas reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and cups my face in his palm.

"You survived on your own with a child. You came back here when it had to be the last place you wanted to be.

You volunteer for dangerous patrols to protect people who are basically strangers to you.

That's not barely keeping your head above water—that's heroic. "

I lean into his touch before I can stop myself, starved for comfort and acceptance and the feeling of being seen as something other than a burden or a complication.

"Thomas..." I start, not sure what I mean to say.

"I know I hurt you," he says quietly. "I know I have no right to ask for anything from you.

But seeing you today, the way you took charge when I was bleeding, the way you're raising your daughter despite everything you've been through.

.." He pauses, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.

"You deserved so much better than what happened between us. "

The words hit me like a physical blow, six years of carefully buried pain rising to the surface all at once.

"Then why?" I whisper. "Why did you do it?"

His face contorts. “Fiona…”

"I know what you’ll say,” I cut in. “You can't tell me. It's complicated, you had reasons. But Thomas, I loved you. I would have done anything for you, been anything you needed. And you threw it all away without even trying to explain."

For a moment, I think he might actually answer me this time, might actually tell me the truth. His mouth opens, words seeming to hover on the edge of speech. Then he shakes his head, that familiar wall sliding back into place.

"I can't," he repeats, but his voice breaks on the words.

The pain in his expression mirrors my own, and suddenly, I'm tired of fighting this. Tired of pretending I don't feel the pull between us, tired of denying the way my body responds to his nearness, tired of protecting my heart from something that might not be the threat I think it is.

"Thomas," I breathe, and then I'm kissing him.

The contact is electric, years of longing and frustration and unfinished business pouring out in a single desperate moment. He responds immediately, his arms coming around me, pulling me closer until there's no space between us.

This isn't the gentle exploration of our first kiss all those years ago, or even the desperate claiming from the training grounds. This is raw need and mutual comfort and the acknowledgment that whatever happened between us before, right now, we need each other.

His hands tangle in my hair as I press closer, straddling his lap on the narrow bench, careful of his injured shoulder but unable to keep any more distance between us. He tastes like memory and possibility, like coming home after years of wandering.

"Fiona," he gasps against my lips, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't quite believe this is happening.

"Don't think," I whisper, trailing kisses along his jaw. "For once, please don't think. Just feel."

His restraint snaps at my words. His mouth finds mine again, hungry and desperate, while his hands roam over my back, relearning the curves and hollows he once knew by heart. When he slides his palms under my shirt, I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping before I can stop it.

"God, I've missed you," he breathes against my throat, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear that always made me melt.

"Show me," I whisper, my fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, careful around the bandage but desperate to feel skin against skin. "Show me how much."

His shirt falls open beneath my fingers, revealing the lean muscle I remember so well. My hands explore the planes of his chest, tracing the new scars that weren't there before, mapping the changes time has wrought on his body. His skin burns hot beneath my touch.

Thomas groans when my fingertips graze his nipples, his hips bucking upward involuntarily. The friction sends a jolt of pleasure through me, and I roll against him, seeking more of that delicious pressure.

"Fiona," he gasps, his voice ragged. His hands slide higher under my shirt, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. When I don't pull away, he cups them fully, his touch reverent.

I arch into his palms, my head falling back as sensation floods through me.

The cool night air on my exposed skin contrasts with the heat of his hands, his mouth as it blazes a trail down my neck.

I reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion.

His eyes darken at the sight of me in just my bra, the moonlight casting shadows across my skin.

"You're even more beautiful than I remembered," Thomas whispers, fingers tracing the lace edge of my bra before deftly unhooking it. The garment falls away, and I shiver as the night air caresses my exposed breasts.

His mouth replaces his hands, hot and eager, tongue circling one peaked nipple while his fingers tease the other. I moan, my fingers threading through his hair, holding him against me as pleasure spirals through my body. My hips rock against him, feeling his hardness through our clothes.

"Too many layers," I murmur, reaching between us to unfasten his belt. My fingers fumble with his belt, but Thomas suddenly grips my wrists, stopping me. His eyes are wild, pupils dilated with desire. Something shifts in his expression—a darkness, a hunger barely contained.

"Fiona," he growls, voice deeper than I've ever heard it. "My turn."

He stands in one fluid motion, lifting me with him. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist as he spins us, pressing my back against the rough stone wall. The cool surface shocks my bare skin, but his body burns against mine, a furnace of need.

His mouth crashes into mine, no longer gentle or questioning. His teeth nip at my lower lip, drawing a gasp from me that he swallows with his kiss. One hand pins both my wrists above my head while the other grips my thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

His hand slides higher along my thigh, slipping beneath my pants with determined purpose. I gasp against his mouth as his fingers trace the edge of my underwear, teasing the sensitive skin where my thigh meets my center.