Page 64

The scent of coffee pulled her out of the dreamplane before the light through the shutters did.

Seren yawned, her limbs tangled in the sheets, the soft cotton tank and faded shorts riding up. The faint ache between her legs from the dream still lingered, hot and mortifying. She didn't want to remember it. She really didn't.

But the way his hands had slid down her back—rough, reverent—his mouth on her throat, her collarbone, her—

She groaned and scrubbed her face, trying to erase the remnants of the dream and the feel of him. Of dream Hagan.

Throwing the blanket aside, she padded barefoot into the kitchenette, rubbing her bleary eyes. Her tank slipped off one shoulder. Her tiny sleep shorts barely covered her ass. She didn't care. It was too early to be decent.

Coffee. She needed coffee.

She walked in the general direction of the coffee machine, still not entirely awake.

And then—

Pine. Spice. Forest.

Her favourite scent, her doom .

She froze.

A beat later, warm arms wrapped around her from behind, solid and sure, and pulled her flush against a very hard, very warm chest.

Her spine stiffened instantly.

She craned her neck back, eyes wide and still adjusting to light—

And met his.

Hagan.

Gods. Hagan.

He stared down at her with the sort of intensity that could melt stone, brows drawn tight as if committing every inch of her sleepy, startled face to memory. His gaze tracked the sleep-creased side of her cheek, the mussed knot of hair on her head, the vulnerable softness of her.

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here," she hissed, trying to twist away, suddenly very aware of the shorts that revealed far too much thigh.

She looked to her left—

Threk.

The big bear shifter sat at the small breakfast bar, surrounded by a warzone of pancakes, whipped cream, and maple syrup. He looked up from his overflowing fork, cheeks puffed like a squirrel, and mumbled around a mouthful of food:

"He made breakfast."

Seren blinked.

"You cooked?"

Hagan didn't release her. "Pancakes. Strawberries. Coffee. And I didn't burn the pan."

Threk added—still chewing—"He even sliced the fruit. With love . I watched."

"Traitor," she hissed at him.

Threk shrugged and returned to his syrup-soaked stack like none of this was weird. "M'just human. Somewhat," he mumbled, wiping his mouth. "Don't drag me into this."

Seren shoved lightly at Hagan's arms, but he didn't move. Instead, he reached for the hem of his hoodie, pulled it off with one smooth motion, and dropped it over her head.

"Hey!" she protested, half-wrestling out of the warm, forest-scented fabric. "What is wrong with you?"

His voice was maddeningly calm. "Threk is not gay. Wear a bra. And maybe something that covers all this. "

He gestured at her tank top and tiny shorts.

"These—" his eyes dipped again, far too heated "—are for my eyes only."

Seren's cheeks went hot. "You have lost your goddamn mind!"

But his touch had branded her. Her skin buzzed where he'd held her, where his breath had stirred the fine hairs on her neck. Her dream came flooding back in flashes—his mouth, his hands, that look in his eyes.

Only now, he was here.

Solid.

And watching her like she was everything.

Threk, ever the Switzerland of this very awkward war, pointed his fork at the pancakes and offered helpfully, "Want some? He made extras."

Seren backed up a step, still trapped in the oversized hoodie and his arms, still burning all over.

"I need caffeine," she muttered. "And space. And probably a shower."

"A cold one like mine? I was dreaming of you."

"You are unbelievable," she sputtered .

Hagan just smiled.

Mid-grumble about Hagan's ridiculous possessive comments—still trying to wriggle out of his hoodie—her fingers brushed against something beneath the fabric. A worn leather cord looped around his neck. Something small and metallic glinted where it disappeared under the collar of his shirt.

Curious, her hand stilled.

"What's that?" she murmured, already tugging the cord free.

It slipped out with surprising ease, the pendant swinging gently between them.

No. Not a pendant.

Her ring.

The slim band of woven gold she had forged for him. The one she had given him during their handfasting on that day when things seemed to be looking up for them.

Her breath caught as it settled in her palm. The air between them seemed to still.

"I didn't expect you to keep it," she whispered.

Hagan didn't say anything at first. His gaze was locked on the ring, the faintest crease between his brows. Then, quietly, "It wouldn't fit anymore. "

She blinked, looking up.

"I grew," he said, almost sheepish. "Even my fingers. I tried, but..." A faint smile curved one corner of his mouth. "This was the only way to keep it close."

She didn't tell him his strength was the gift she ceded for their freedom. Instead, she stared at the ring—at the pain of memory looped around a simple leather tie. Her fingers curled around it like a reflex, her heart thudding too hard in her chest.

He hadn't just kept it.

He'd worn it. Carried it like something sacred.

She couldn't speak—not yet. The ache in her throat was too thick.

Hagan guided her gently to the chair like she was made of spun glass.

She barely had time to protest before he was placing a plate in front of her—pancakes, golden and crisp-edged, layered with strawberries and a generous dollop of crème fra?che, dusted lightly with powdered sugar.

There was a small glass pitcher of syrup beside it, warm to the touch.

A steaming mug of coffee followed just the way she liked it.

She stared at the spread in disbelief.

"You made this?" she asked, suspicious.

"Believe it or not," he said, sliding into the chair opposite, "I've been practising. "

She arched a brow but took the fork.

He watched her.

Gods, he watched her.

His eyes tracked every movement—each bite lifted to her lips, each chew, each swallow. It wasn't even subtle. It was reverent. Intense.

As though she was a long-lost miracle rediscovered over breakfast.

His gaze burned across her skin with a slow, simmering heat that made her shift in her seat. Not uncomfortable. Just... exposed. Seen.

"Stop staring," she muttered, stabbing a strawberry.

"Can't," he said simply.

After breakfast, she mentioned she had a photo shoot planned—a little trip to her favourite hidden trail on the edge of the city forest. Her tone was casual. Maybe even pointed.

Of course, Hagan wasn't having it.

"I'll come with you," he said, already clearing plates.

She rolled her eyes. "You don't even know where—"

"Doesn't matter. I'll carry your things. "

Before she could argue, Threk looked up from his empty plate, still licking syrup from his thumb. "I could come too—"

Hagan turned his head slowly, deliberately.

The look he gave Threk was not just violent. It was a death glare iced in quiet promise.

Threk blinked. "Actually, I just remembered... the dojo's running drills. Gotta... help." He stood up, grabbed his mug, and scuttled toward the kitchen.

"Coward," Seren muttered.

"Pragmatist," Threk called back.

Hagan turned to her, all eager wolf. "Ready?"

"No. I need to change," she said, marching toward her room.

He followed, clearly intending to wait inside.

The door slammed shut in his face.

He grunted. "We'll work on that."

The bus ride was mercifully quiet, aside from the constant low hum of the city beyond the windows .

Seren sat stiffly against the glass, her camera bag on her lap. Hagan had followed her despite her telling him to get lost, short and brutal. He sat beside her, too close, thigh pressed against hers, arm slung along the seat back like he wasn't taking up too much space on purpose.

She edged away.

He edged back in.

"Personal space," she muttered.

"It's such a small seat," he said innocently, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

When the bus rumbled to a stop at the forest edge—her secret spot, the one she hadn't shared with anyone but Threk—Seren jumped up and practically speed-walked off. Hagan, of course, followed with a long-legged stride, carrying her tripod, thermos, and snack bag with smug efficiency.

As they walked, the urban landscape gave way to green. The scent of bark and river moss settled in her lungs. Birds called overhead. She breathed deeper.

He was quiet beside her.

Not hovering. Not pushing.

Just there .

She glanced at him.

Gone were the careless curls—his hair was cropped close now, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His shoulders strained the thin grey shirt he'd changed into, the fabric clinging to muscle and power. He looked older, leaner. More dangerous. More beautiful.

Stop looking, she told herself.

But she didn't.

They reached the sun-dappled clearing where the trees arched high, the light mottled through layers of leaves. It was the spot where she'd taken her best wolf shots. The air shimmered with life here.

She adjusted her settings and crouched low for a frame.

Behind her, there was a quiet rustle.

When she turned—

He was undressing.

Not slowly.

Just efficient. Unapologetic.

Boots. Shirt. Belt. Jeans.

Gods .

Broad chest. Carved abs. Veined forearms. That scar across his ribs she remembered tracing once with her lips. And—

Her face flamed.

She spun around. "Seriously?! You couldn't shift before taking everything off?!"

Behind her, he laughed. "Didn't want to rip the jeans. They were expensive."

A second later, there was the soft crackle of the shift and the whisper of movement.

A large brown wolf with familiar ice-blue eyes trotted past her and flopped down at her feet, massive head resting on his paws. Seren blinked at him.

"You are so smug," she muttered.

The wolf just huffed, his tail flicking.

She worked. Photographed trees, light, riverbank. Once or twice she forgot he was there, lost in her lens—until his warm body brushed her arm or he bumped her with his nose.

It felt like the old days.

At one point, she climbed up a low, sturdy tree to get the angle she wanted. Camera strap across her chest, foot balanced on a wide branch. She sat, heart pounding—not from the height .

Below her, Hagan circled in wolf form, then sat beneath the tree, his thick fur brushing her boots.

Her fingers drifted down without a thought, sinking into his fur.

Warm.

Safe.

His presence curled around her like a forgotten lullaby.

She whispered partly to herself, "Why couldn't it have been like this the first time?"

The wolf looked up at her.

His gaze... mournful.

In Pain.

She blinked rapidly and looked away.

Later, on the walk back, the sun was lower and the shadows long.

Hagan shifted back just beyond the path's bend, tugging his clothes back on with the same relaxed ease, catching her gaze when she looked—letting her look.

No shame .

This is yours , his body said.

I'm still yours.

They reached the bench where the path curved back toward the bus stop.

Hagan pulled out the thermos and poured her a steaming cup of hearty vegetable soup, fragrant with herbs and warmth. He handed it to her silently. She took it.

They sat side by side. Steam curled between them.

"Why couldn't we have stayed like this?" Seren asked quietly, voice almost lost to the breeze.

"What changed?"

He was silent for a while.

Then, "I did."

She turned her head slightly, waiting.

"I took you for granted," Hagan said, his voice low and rough. "You were mine. And I thought you weren't going anywhere. I was so caught up trying to please my father, the tribe, be the future Highclaw... I forgot the most important truth."

He turned to her, eyes burning with regret .

"You were my tribe. My moon. My everything . And I treated you like an afterthought."

Her throat closed up.

His voice broke. "I'm not that boy anymore, Seren. I know what I lost. I know what I threw away. I will never do it again. Please give me another chance to prove myself"

She didn't reply.

Just lifted her hand and ran her fingers over the dark stubble on his scalp.

Then his jaw. His cheek.

"I miss your curls," she whispered, changing the subject.

"I'll grow them back," he promised, his breath catching. "I'll do anything for you."

Then he kissed her.

A soft, reverent brush of lips. Just once.

Then he pulled back, searching her face like he'd never seen anything more precious.

The bond—silent for so long—shivered in her chest. The faintest tug .

Not a single strand anymore, but two.