Page 56

In the days that followed, Threk slowly opened up. He spoke of his mother and two brothers. Of running. Hiding. Of seeing them skinned. Of forgetting how to become human. He must have been about four.

"I didn't want to kill you," he said one night. "I just... wanted to scare you. You were in my space. I didn't know what else to do."

Seren nodded; throat tight.

"You scared me," she said quietly. "But you also saved me."

He looked down.

"I wanted to be near you. You feel safe."

It had taken one meeting with Griff.

One long stare—silent, heavy, and appraising—and a slow nod from the burly pub owner.

"You'll do," Griff had grunted. "Big. Quiet. Mean-looking. Perfect."

Threk was hired on the spot.

He shadowed Griff for two nights, watching, and learning. And then, left to his own devices, he made an impression—literally—when he slammed a rowdy shifter through a table.

"Too much," Griff muttered, dragging Threk aside by the elbow after he'd flattened a drunken leopard shifter across two bar stools and a table. "We don't break the furniture. We glare at the furniture until it behaves. "

Threk blinked, towering over the man like a confused boulder. "Glare?"

Griff nodded, sage and deadpan. "Exactly. Menace it into submission. Less paperwork. Like this."

Griff took it upon himself to become something like a mentor. Or a gruff, foul-mouthed father figure who cursed at him when he refilled the wrong tap but then quietly shoved protein bars into his coat pocket with a grumble of "Eat, dammit—you're still half ribs."

He taught him things—how to tap a keg, how to throw someone out without cracking ribs (unless absolutely necessary), and how to tell the difference between a drunken flirt and a legitimate threat.

And Threk listened. Earnestly. Like Griff was a prophet, and the bar was his mountain temple.

Ryn, however, was less impressed.

"Your bear is like a toddler with muscles," she muttered to Seren one night as Threk tried—again—to navigate the tight kitchen without knocking over a stack of glasses. A very very mellow comment... for Ryn. "Big, clumsy, always hungry, and smells like wet moss."

Seren tried not to laugh. "He's learning."

"He nearly sat on a witch yesterday."

"She hexed his shoelaces together. I think she wanted his attention."

Ryn straightened before shrugging. "Still. I bet he eats soap."

To be fair, he had tried that once .

Yet later that same evening, as Threk passed by with a tray tucked under one arm and a quiet focus on his face, Seren caught Ryn watching him.

Just a glance.

Then—deliberately subtle—Ryn leaned the tiniest bit closer as he passed... and took a long, slow inhale.

Seren's brows lifted.

Ryn turned and met her look with a glare sharp enough to gut a stag.

"Say one word," she hissed. "I'll rearrange your face."

Seren raised both hands in mock surrender, biting back a grin.

She didn't say anything.

But the smirk lingered all night.

Another time, he'd tried to hand her a drink that had been left at the bar.

She'd looked at it with narrowed eyes, then at him, and drawled, "Why does it have fur all over it?"

Still, she watched him. Seren saw it in the glances, in the way her tone turned less cutting when he wasn't looking. And Threk—Threk looked at Ryn like she was a mystery he wanted to unwrap with teeth and patience.

Seren tried not to notice.

She had enough on her plate .

Her afternoons were spent tutoring Threk in halting Wolven and thick-accented English, drawing letters in chalk on their shared balcony wall.

He was better with shifting—eventually able to melt into his bear form with ease, and then shift back again without panicking.

She'd taken to walking him to the edge of the forest after work, letting him run under the open sky while she snapped photos of birds and branches, of quiet still things.

But even with her growing independence—her job, her friends, her strange roommate of a bear-turned-bouncer—he still came to her.

Hagan

Always in dreams.

Sometimes, it was his touch—a brush of fingers down her spine that made her wake with her chest heaving.

Sometimes, it was just his voice in the dark, whispering her name like a prayer soaked in regret.

In the worst ones, he was standing at the edge of her vision—close enough to reach but never quite there.

And every time, she woke with an ache in her chest, pressing a hand to the faded scar along her forearm.

The bond was gone. She was sure of that. Why would he wait for her when he had Lia? She had been gone for two years now.

But some part of him—of them—still clung to the corners of her subconscious, digging in with claws made of memory and what-ifs.

At her lowest, weakest moments, she would find herself staring at her phone. Wondering. Hoping. Regretting.

It had stayed off for more than two years .

She hadn't spoken to her mother in just as long. She sent messages through Talis—small updates, reassurances—but she never let her mother hear her voice.

Because she was angry.

Still angry.

At everyone.

The wolves. The oracle. Her mother. Even the crone, sometimes, for dying before she could give her all the answers. They had all decided for her. Her path. Her mate. Her purpose. All mapped out, and she had walked it because it was what was expected. The prophesy that ruled her life.

No one had asked her what she wanted.

No one had let her choose. Until she took matters into her own hands.

And that fury, once a spark, had settled into something low and simmering. A slow burn of resentment that tinted everything—every interaction, every breath of relief she felt when she realized she was finally living a life of her own making.

Even if it was messy. Even if it still hurt.

Warlocks and wandering shifters flirted with her—charmed smiles, little gifts, and invitations to shows. But her heart never lifted.

It's not broken; she told herself. Just... sleeping.

Until one of them—a soft-eyed warlock named Riven—wore her down with gentle insistence and polite attention. He made her laugh. He asked her about her photography. And he was beautiful in a way that any woman would look twice .

One evening, after he had coerced her into having dinner with him, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth.

And... nothing.

No jolt. No flutter.

Only silence.

She'd smiled tightly, mumbled something about a long day, and let him walk her back to the steps of her apartment.

The streets were mostly empty when she distractedly climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment and fumbled with her keys.

The ancient elevator was a health and safety hazard, and the resident phantom liked high-speed up-and-down rides.

Through the open window on the landing, the hush of the night air drifted across her skin, carrying the elusive aroma that haunted her dreams. Her fingers trembled faintly—not from the cold.

A voice, never forgotten—soft and hoarse—whispered behind her.

"Seren... it's me—Hagan."

She went still.

Her keys froze halfway into the lock. Her breath caught in her throat.

The voice was real.

He was real.

And standing just a step behind her.