Page 10 of Fetch Me A Mate (Shifter Mates of Hollow Oak #1)

ROWAN

T he air in the upstairs hallway was thick with the clean scent of sawdust and old wood.

Rowan worked on his knees, leveraging a pry bar against a floor joist that had succumbed to a slow leak decades ago.

The wood came away in soft, dark chunks, rotten to the core.

He worked methodically, the physical strain a welcome distraction.

It kept his thoughts from drifting to the weight of Diana in his arms, the scent of her hair, the way he had shoved her away with a harshness that still soured his tongue.

His phone vibrated against a stack of new lumber, the buzz unnaturally loud in the quiet inn. He ignored it. A minute later, it buzzed again. With a grunt, he wiped his dusty hands on his jeans and picked it up.

The name on the screen made his blood run cold. Kael.

The message was short, devoid of greeting. The alpha wants a meeting. He’s not asking.

He stared at the words, each one a link in a chain he thought he’d broken years ago.

He could feel the old life reaching for him, the suffocating politics, the scent of blood and obligation.

His thumb hovered over the screen. His wolf paced restlessly inside him, hackles raised.

The message wasn’t just a summons; it was a threat.

They knew he was here. They had found him.

He held the delete button until the entire conversation vanished into nothing. It was a useless gesture, but it was the only one he had.

He tossed the phone back onto the lumber pile and turned to the rotten joist with a vengeance, tearing out the last of the decayed wood.

He worked with a controlled fury, his movements sharp and efficient.

He would rebuild this place. He would make it solid, impenetrable.

He would fix these bones because he couldn't fix his own.

“Figured you might be hungry.”

Rowan looked up to find Diana standing in the doorway, a paper bag in one hand and a thermos in the other. She'd changed from her morning clothes into work jeans and a soft blue sweater that brought out the gold flecks in her amber eyes.

"Lunch," she said, holding up the bag. "Twyla insisted. Said hardworking contractors need proper fuel."

"I'm fine."

"I'm sure you are. But Twyla's scones are better than whatever protein bar you probably forgot to pack."

She wasn't wrong. Rowan had been running on coffee and stubbornness since dawn, too distracted by structural concerns and unwanted text messages to think about food.

Diana approached the work area, stepping carefully around the tools and lumber. "How's the progress?"

"Good. This section's worse than I thought, but nothing that can't be fixed." He gestured to the exposed framework. "Have to replace about six feet of support beam, then we can button it up."

"Sounds expensive."

"Not too bad. Most of the original timber's salvageable." He accepted the bag when she held it out, the warmth seeping through the paper into his palms. "Thanks."

The word came out rougher than intended, like it scraped his throat on the way up. Diana tilted her head, studying his face with those too-perceptive eyes.

"You okay? You seem..."

"I'm working." He opened the bag, revealing thick sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and still-warm scones that smelled of cinnamon and butter.

"Council meeting went well last night," she said. "Trial period approved, renovation budget secured. They want weekly progress reports, but that's manageable."

"Good."

"Varric seems fair. Elder Bram less so, but Miriam says he's skeptical of all change."

Rowan knew Bram's type. The old guard, convinced that any deviation from established tradition would bring ruin. They weren't always wrong, but they weren't always right either.

"He'll come around," Rowan said. "Once he sees results."

"I hope so. The Autumn Hearth Gathering is approved for next week.

He knew he should say something, congratulate her, acknowledge the victory. The words wouldn’t come. All he could think about was the alpha’s summons and what it meant. They wouldn’t just let him go. They never did.

He finished the bite and looked at her, forcing his expression into a hard, unreadable mask. “You should keep out of the work area.”

She blinked, the light in her eyes dimming. “What?”

“It’s a construction zone,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “Exposed nails, unstable flooring. It’s not safe.”

The words hung in the air, a deliberate, calculated barrier.

He was using her own safety as a weapon against her, and it felt like swallowing glass.

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression shifting from confusion to a quiet, wounded resolve.

She wasn't a fool; she heard the dismissal for what it was.

“Right,” she said, her voice losing its warmth. She took a small step back. “Of course. Well. Enjoy the sandwich.”

She turned and walked away without another word, her back straight. He watched her go, the sandwich suddenly heavy as a rock in his hand. His wolf snarled, clawing at the inside of his ribs, furious with him for pushing her away. For hurting their mate.

Rowan set the half-eaten sandwich down on a sawhorse.

It was a lie. He wasn't protecting her from a nail; he was protecting her from a pack of them.

He picked up his saw, the engine roaring to life with a pull of the cord.

The noise was a relief, a violent sound that filled the space she had just left, and for a little while, it was almost loud enough to drown out the voice of his own regret.