Chapter Five
1144 Words
The drive to his house would’ve been peaceful and scenic if I weren’t in the passenger seat actively trying to outrun the fact that werewolves were real and fate apparently had a personal vendetta against my sanity.
Kael drove like a man whose spine was carved from granite: straight posture, both hands on the wheel, eyes locked ahead like the snow-covered road had personally offended him. Meanwhile, I was in the passenger seat wrapped in his stupid warm flannel, staring out the window and trying not to think about how I had agreed to move in with a man who could turn into a wolf bigger than my ex’s ego.
So obviously, I decided my coping strategy would be:
annoy him.
“You know,” I said, poking a button on the console, “if you had told me earlier that you were a werewolf, I could’ve at least pretended to be normal about it.”
“Don’t touch that.” His voice was flat, controlled. “And I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why? Because of pack rules? Secrecy? Or is it like… you can’t just casually drop ‘hey Lyra, pass the salt, also I grow fur under the full moon’?”
He inhaled through his nose. “Something like that.”
I nodded, very solemn. “Makes total sense. Classic wolf secrecy arc. I respect the culture.”
His jaw tightened. A small victory.
“We’re almost there,” he said.
“You keep saying that, but we’ve been driving for thirty minutes and the trees all look like clones.”
“Please stop analyzing the trees.”
I grinned. “I’m just saying, if one of them turns out to be a cryptid, I’m suing fate for emotional damages.”
He didn’t answer. He just gripped the steering wheel harder, which only made me more determined.
“So,” I continued, “what’s the pack hierarchy? Are there wolf taxes? Wolf politics? Wolf HOA fees? Do I need to bow to someone or sign any new-tenant paperwork?”
“Lyra.”
“Yes, dear?”
His breath hitched so sharply I almost apologized. Almost.
“Try to relax,” he said, low, steady.
“I’m literally living every supernatural romance trope I used to make fun of. This is me relaxed.”
He didn’t respond, but his ears definitely went pink.
We pulled off the main road and onto a long driveway lined with tall pines. A house appeared through the trees — massive, modern wood and stone, with warm lights glowing through the windows. It looked like a Pinterest board for “rugged billionaire who has secrets.”
The car stopped.
He didn’t get out immediately. Just sat there, gripping the wheel, tension rolling off him so thick I could’ve cut it with a spoon.
“You good?” I asked quietly.
He nodded once. But he didn’t look at me.
Like he was scared that eye contact alone would start the bond screaming again.
He finally got out, walked around the car, opened my door. He didn’t touch me. Not even a brush of the hand. He kept a full step back, as if I were radioactive.
I stepped out onto the snow and tilted my head up at the house.
“Well,” I said. “This is very ‘alpha lumberjack cabin meets Martha Stewart’s winter special.’ Strong aesthetic.”
He exhaled, which might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t repressing literally everything he felt.
Inside, the house was warm, all dark wood, high ceilings, soft lighting. It smelled faintly like pine and something that had to be him — that crisp, cold scent that made my chest feel weird.
I didn’t comment. I wasn’t about to give fate any more ammo.
He carried my suitcase in, placed it gently by the stairs, and said, “Guest room is upstairs. Second door on the left.”
“And yours is…?”
“Across the hall.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Across the hall?”
He didn’t look at me. “It’s the safest arrangement.”
“Safest,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“Right. Safety. Definitely the reason.”
He cleared his throat. “Follow me.”
Upstairs, he stopped at a doorway and pushed it open for me. The room inside was simple but nice: bed with a thick comforter, soft rugs, a dresser, a window overlooking the snowy forest.
He stood in the doorway like a guard. Or a wall. Or a statue. Hard to tell.
“This is yours,” he said.
“It’s nice,” I murmured.
He nodded stiffly. “If you need anything—”
“I’ll scream?”
His jaw twitched. “Just call me.”
“You say that,” I said, crossing my arms, “but you haven’t looked at me since we got out of the car.”
He froze.
I had never seen a man freeze so completely. Like someone pressed pause on him.
“I’m trying to give you space,” he said finally.
“You’re acting like if you look at me too long, you’ll combust.”
His eyes flicked up — just for a second — before darting away again.
“I might,” he said quietly.
My heart did an Olympic gymnastics routine.
“Oh,” I whispered.
A whole moment passed — slow, electric, heavy — before he stepped back from the doorway.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he said. “You should rest.”
“Rest?” I scoffed. “I am in a house with a werewolf. I am living with my best friend’s father. You told me I’m your mate. And you expect me to be like, ‘Sure, bedtime!’?”
His lips pressed together. “Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“You need rest.”
“I need therapy.”
“That too.”
I couldn’t help the tiny laugh that escaped me. He definitely heard it, because his shoulders relaxed by exactly one millimeter.
He started to turn away.
But then he hesitated.
Paused.
Looked back.
Not at my face — he still didn’t dare — but at my shoulder, at the flannel, at the proof that I’d nearly died and he’d saved me.
His voice softened. “You’re safe here.”
Something in me warmed and curled up at that.
“I know,” I said quietly.
He nodded once, then disappeared down the hallway.
I closed the door behind me and leaned back on it.
The room was warm. The bed looked soft. The house was safe.
And somewhere down the hall, the man fate bound me to was trying very, very hard not to lose control.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Great,” I muttered. “What could possibly go wrong?”
- Writer
