HIS GENTLE CLAIM

CHAPTER FIVE - ELARA'S POV

I own three things worth packing.

One grey sweater. A photo I keep face down on the windowsill. And a small wolf carving my mother made me before she died that I wrap in a sock so it doesn't chip.

Everything else fits in a single bag.

That's what three years of being nobody leaves you with.

A single bag and a decision you made in a garden with dirt on your hands.

Dana sits on my bed and watches me fold the sweater.

She hasn't said anything since I told her.

That's how I know she's upset. Dana always has something to say. Silence from her is louder than anything she could put into words.

I tuck the sweater into the bag.

"Say it."

"I'm not saying anything."

"Dana."

She exhales hard through her nose. "You don't know these people Elara."

"I don't know the people here either."

"You know me."

I stop folding.

She's looking at me with her jaw set and her eyes doing the thing she hates — going shiny at the edges when she's trying not to cry.

I sit down beside her on the bed.

"You could come."

"My mate is here."

"I know."

"My whole life is here."

"I know."

She looks at the bag. At the wolf carving sitting on top of the folded sweater. At the empty windowsill where the photo used to sit face down.

"Are you scared?"

I think about it honestly.

"Yes."

"Then why are you going?"

I reach over and pick up the wolf carving. Turn it over in my hands. The wood is worn smooth from years of handling. My mother carved it the year before she died. Before the fire. Before everything.

"Because scared here feels different from scared there."

Dana stares at me.

"That makes no sense."

"I know."

She grabs the carving out of my hand and wraps it back in the sock herself. Tucks it into the bag with more care than necessary. Zips it shut with a sharp pull.

"If he does anything—"

"He won't."

"You don't know that."

"Dana."

"I'm serious Elara. If anyone in that pack lays a hand on you—"

"I'll handle it."

She looks at me like she wants to argue. Like she has a whole speech prepared and she's deciding whether this is the moment to deliver it.

Then she just pulls me into a hug so tight my ribs protest.

I let her.

I press my face into her shoulder and hold on and let myself feel it for exactly thirty seconds.

Then I pull back.

Stand up.

Pick up my bag.

Brendan is in the corridor.

I almost walk past him. I would have. But he steps sideways and blocks my path without being aggressive about it and I stop.

We look at each other.

He looks at the bag in my hand. At my face. At some point just past my shoulder like he can't quite hold eye contact.

"You didn't have to agree."

"I know."

"I would have found another way—"

"Brendan." I keep my voice level. "Don't."

His jaw tightens.

"I'm trying to—"

"I know what you're trying to do." I shift the bag on my shoulder. "You're trying to feel better about it. I can't help you with that."

He goes very still.

For one second he looks like the brother I grew up with. Before the fire. Before everything shifted and settled into this strange cold distance between us that neither of us has ever known how to close.

His mouth opens.

Closes.

"Take care of yourself." His voice comes out rough at the edges.

I look at him for a long moment.

"I always do."

I walk past him down the corridor.

He doesn't call me back.

I don't look back to check.

The courtyard is busy.

Ironwood men loading the last of the convoy. Engines running. The Ironwood Beta Cole standing by the lead SUV with a tablet checking something with the focused efficiency of someone who runs on lists and timelines.

He sees me and nods once.

I nod back.

I'm three steps from the car when I feel it.

Eyes on me.

I turn.

Ryker is standing at the top of the pack house steps watching the convoy prep with his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks exactly like he did when he arrived. Still. Unhurried. Like the whole operation runs on his patience and everyone knows it.

He's not looking at the convoy.

He's looking at me.

I hold his gaze for one second.

Then I open the car door and get in.

Cole slides in beside the driver thirty seconds later.

"Comfortable?"

"Fine."

"It's a three hour drive. There's water in the door pocket."

"Thank you."

He glances at me once with quick assessing eyes then goes back to his tablet.

The convoy starts moving.

I don't look out the back window.

I already said everything I needed to say in that garden yesterday.

What's behind me is behind me.

I press my back against the seat and watch the road ahead and breathe.

An hour into the drive my wolf stirs.

Not much.

Just that faint shift in the deep quiet place where she lives. Like something turning toward light after a long time in the dark.

I press my hand flat against my chest.

Feel it.

Then feel it settle.

I don't tell anyone.

But I don't push it back down either.