Ayla's POV
The cabin sounded different from the packhouse in the morning.
Not loud or busy — alive in a quieter way. Wood was creaking softly under the weight of the storm outside. Wind brushing against the walls in long, easy sighs. The fire crackling steadily somewhere below, finding its rhythm.
I lay beneath the blankets for a moment longer, looking at the wooden ceiling above me.
Warm.
It was not the polished warmth of the packhouse; it was something rougher. More honest. The kind of warmth that came from a fire actually doing its job rather than a thermostat set to the right number.
The room smelled of cedarwood and old smoke. Pale light came through the curtains in thin strips across the floor.
Tala stretched lazily. "I like it here. Much better than your room back at the pack
