Page 4

Chapter

Four

" W e're going home first," Mia announced, veering away from the inn's path. "I need fresh clothes."

"Because we can't confront Jim smelling like Alpha McPerfect?" her wolf asked innocently. "Or because the emergency outfit makes us look like we raided a teenager's gym bag?"

"Because I'm a professional alpha who maintains standards." Mia picked pine needles from her hair, each one a tiny reminder of her undignified forest wrestling match. "Showing up to eviscerate someone requires proper attire."

"Uh-huh. That's why you're checking your reflection in every surface we pass."

"I am not—" Mia caught herself examining her appearance in a puddle and straightened abruptly. "Shut up."

"You're blushing."

"It's exertion. From the fight."

"The fight was twenty minutes ago. Also, you're fixing your hair."

Mia's hands froze mid-hair-smooth. "I hate you."

"No, you don't. You hate that I'm right." Her wolf's tone turned gleeful. "We want to look good for him. Despite everything, despite the abandonment, despite the fresh tattoo Bertram mentioned, we still want Jim to see us and think?—"

"LALALALALA I CAN'T HEAR YOU." Mia picked up her pace, practically jogging toward her cabin. "We're going home for tactical reasons. Clean clothes provide psychological advantage. It's basic negotiation strategy."

"Is that what we're calling it? Because I call it 'wanting to wear the red shirt that makes our eyes pop.'"

Heat flooded Mia's cheeks. The humiliation of it—Alpha Mia Lee, who'd faced down the Council of Elders without flinching, was blushing like a teenager before seeing her ex. Her treacherous wolf was right. She did want to look good. Wanted Jim to see her and realize exactly what he'd thrown away.

"Pathetic," she muttered.

"Human," her wolf corrected gently. "It's called being human."

The familiar scent of home—cedar wood, lavender from her garden, the lingering trace of this morning's coffee—should have been comforting. Instead, her nerve endings went haywire as a different scent hit her like a freight train.

Pine smoke. Storm-charged air. Jim.

Not faded. Not lingering. Fresh.

"He's here," her wolf whispered, suddenly serious. "He's in our house. Right now."

Mia's key trembled in her hand as she approached her front door. Through the window, she could see movement in her kitchen. The broad set of shoulders she knew too well. Dark hair that still looked like he'd just rolled out of bed no matter how much he tried to tame it.

"We could run," her wolf suggested halfheartedly. "Mexico's nice this time of year."

"We're not running from our own house." Mia squared her shoulders, rage and something far more dangerous warring in her chest. "He broke in. That's... that's criminal. We can have him arrested."

"By Bertram? Good luck with that."

She yanked open the door hard enough to make it bang against the wall. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?"

Jim turned from her stove—her STOVE where he was COOKING like he LIVED here—and Mia's brain short-circuited.

One year, two months, and fifteen days had been kind to him in the cruelest possible way.

The worn henley stretched across his chest in ways that should be illegal.

His jaw held more stubble than before, giving him a dangerous edge that hadn't been there.

But it was his eyes that stopped her cold—those warm amber eyes that still held flecks of gold, now shadowed with something that looked suspiciously like exhaustion.

And there, peeking out from his pushed-up sleeve, was fresh ink. Black lines swirling up his forearm in a pattern she couldn't quite make out.

"Hi," he said simply, as if he hadn't shattered her world with his absence. As if making eggs in her kitchen was perfectly normal. "You're home early."

"I'M HOME EARLY?" Mia's voice climbed octaves. "That's what you're going with? Not 'sorry for breaking and entering' or 'my bad for using your kitchen without permission' or, oh, I don't know, 'SORRY FOR DISAPPEARING WITHOUT A WORD'?"

"I have a key," Jim said mildly, flipping what looked suspiciously like her favorite omelet. "Technically not breaking and entering."

"You HAD a key. Past tense. Keys are revoked when you abandon someone." She stalked into the kitchen, fury propelling her forward even as her wolf whined at his proximity. "What are you doing here?"

"Making lunch. You still forget to eat when you're stressed." He glanced at her, and something flickered in his eyes. "You smell like Matthews."

The observation was casual, but Mia caught the way his knuckles whitened on the spatula.

"Jealous?" The word slipped out before she could stop it.

"Should I be?" He turned fully to face her, and God, how was it fair that he looked even better up close? The henley was definitely a size too small. "Did he give you a reason to smell like wet dog and expensive cologne?"

"We wrestled," Mia said, then immediately wanted to kick herself as his eyes darkened to near-black. "In wolf form! It was a dominance thing. Very professional. Mostly professional. He ended up naked."

Jim's expression didn't change, but the spatula in his hand bent completely in half with a sharp crack. "Naked."

"Not by choice! He shifted back and—why am I explaining this to you?" She grabbed the ruined spatula, tossing it in the sink with more force than necessary. "You don't get to waltz into my kitchen and play the jealous card. You left, remember?"

"I remember everything." His voice dropped to that gravelly register that used to make her melt. Still did, damn him. The sound vibrated through her bones, settling low in her belly.

She jabbed a finger at his chest, trying to ignore how solid he felt. "Stop right there. I don't care why you left."

"Don't you?" He caught her hand, pressing it flat against his heartbeat. The thunder of it matched her own.

"I did. Not anymore." She tried to pull away, but his grip was gentle and unbreakable, while every cell in her body yearned for more contact.

Her skin felt too tight, too hot. "We don't have time for this.

And if your explanation leads to why you put your name on that cursed list, then I don't want to know.

I want you off it within forty-eight hours. Before it becomes binding."

"Let it bind." His thumb traced circles on her wrist, finding her pulse point with devastating accuracy. "I wouldn't have entered if I didn't know the risks."

"God, not you too. If I hear 'tradition' one more time today, there will be casualties."

"I'm not withdrawing."

"Jim Miracles!" She yanked her hand free, instantly missing his warmth.

"Mia Lee!" He matched her tone perfectly, that dangerous half-smile playing at his lips.

She raised both hands, trying to put distance between them before she did something stupid. Like touch him again. "I demand you leave. I don't want you in my house. I... I..."

He stepped closer, crowding her against the counter.

The heat of him surrounded her, his scent making her dizzy.

"If you want to reject me, say it with conviction.

" His eyes bore into hers, gold flecks burning bright.

"You know the tradition. You have to mean it.

And you can't, because you still have feelings for me. Just like I do for you."

"You arrogant?—"

She aimed a kick at his abdomen, but he was ready. His mouth quirked in that infuriating way that said he remembered exactly how she liked to fight. How she liked everything rough and raw and real between them.

He caught her leg, using her momentum to spin her. Their bodies collided with controlled force, his arms banding around her from behind. The full-body contact sent electricity racing through her nerves. Every hard plane of him pressed against her back, fitting perfectly like he'd never left.

"Let go," she gasped, but her body was already betraying her, melting into his familiar heat.

"Make me," he rumbled against her ear, and God help her, she was going to.

She twisted in his hold, their struggle a dance they both knew by heart.

Push and pull, give and take, the violence of their attraction barely leashed.

His shirt came off somewhere in the chaos—she might have torn it, he might have helped.

Her hands found skin, muscle memory taking over as she traced paths she'd mapped a thousand times.

They were breathing hard, faces inches apart, when her fingers found the fresh tattoo on his forearm. The fight drained out of her as she stared at the new ink. A crescent moon, intricate and beautiful, with delicate shading that made it seem to glow against his skin.

"Mia," he said softly, letting her trace the design. His other hand came up to cradle her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, hating how her voice cracked.

"It's you." His forehead touched hers, their breath mingling. "You're my queen of the moon. I did this to remind myself of what we had. What I want our future to be."

The confession broke something in her. "Jim, you can't win that competition." Her hands framed his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You're strong. God, you're so strong. But you're not pure-blooded. That's fact. Pure blood gives them advantages you don't have. And I... I can't watch you die."

"I won't get hurt." His hands covered hers, warm and steady.

"How can you know that?"

"Slight adjustment." His smile was crooked, self-deprecating. "I might get hurt. Nothing I can't handle. But I won't get killed."

"They can challenge to the death, Jim." Her voice rose with desperation.

"If you promise me—if it comes to that, you'll walk away.

It's not defeat. Not failure. You won't lose me because.

.." She had to force the words past the lump in her throat.

"Because you have my heart. Always. We don't need official titles. We don't need anyone's approval."

"It's not that simple?—"

"Promise me." She gripped his face harder, probably leaving marks. "You're a man of your word. That's one thing I'm sure about. Yes or no, Jim."

"Mia..."

"Yes. Or. No."

His jaw clenched. "I can't promise that."

The words hit like a physical blow. "So you won't withdraw and you won't walk away when they challenge you to death?"

"You're forgetting one outcome." His hands slid to her waist, pulling her incrementally closer.

"What might that be?" But she already knew. Could see it in the determined set of his jaw.

"I win." Simple. Certain. Insane. "If I participate, I have a chance. If I don't, we'll never know."

"I've already explained?—"

"No, Mia." His grip tightened, like he could hold her through sheer will. "I won't take my name off before it even starts. For reasons I can't explain yet. But you need to trust me. Everything I do is for you. In your best interest."

"My best interest is not worrying about you dying!" She tried to pull away, but he held firm. "But despite everything, you won't even give me that..."

She finally wrenched free, turning to leave. She made it two steps before his hand caught her elbow, spinning her back. The momentum brought them chest to chest, his arm banding around her waist to steady her.

"I missed you," he breathed, his mouth hovering above hers. So close she could taste his words. "Every damn day."

Time suspended. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest, could count his eyelashes, could fall into those amber eyes and never surface. One tiny movement and their lips would meet. One small surrender to the gravity between them.

"We're going to kiss him," her wolf said dreamily. "We're going to kiss him and never stop."

The realization snapped her back to reality. She pressed her palm against his chest—to push him away or pull him closer, she wasn't sure.

"You want an official contest like everyone else?" Her voice came out husky, betraying her. "Fine. Then behave like everyone else." She leaned in until their lips almost brushed, feeling him tense. "No touching. No kissing. No sex. Not until you win."

She felt more than heard his sharp inhale. His hand flexed on her waist, and for a moment she thought he'd break. Kiss her anyway. Claim her mouth like he'd claimed her heart.

Instead, he released her with agonizing slowness, his hands trailing away like he was memorizing the feel of her.

"If that's what you want," he said roughly.

"It's the tradition," she threw back, weaponizing the word he'd refused to break. "Everyone knows it."

She walked away on unsteady legs, her skin burning everywhere he'd touched. Behind her, she heard the sound of something breaking—probably another kitchen utensil sacrificed to his frustration.

Good. Let him suffer like she had.

"We're going to regret this," her wolf warned.

"We already do," Mia admitted, but kept walking anyway.

Because if Jim Miracles wanted to play by the rules, then she'd make sure he followed every single one.

Starting with the one that was already killing them both.