*Jason's POV*
The scent of cinnamon and vanilla hung in the air, mingling with the earthiness of old parchment and ink. The kitchen was quiet, a rare moment of stillness in a house that thrummed with life. Faith sat across the wooden table, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the ancient scrolls I’d placed in front of her. I watched her, trying to swallow the smile that threatened to break free. She was beautiful when she was focused, those hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, a crease forming between her brows.
She had no idea how much she meant to me—how much she would always mean to me. And that was the problem. If she knew, if she even suspected that our bond went beyond the superficial connections of pack life, she’d start asking questions. Questions I couldn’t answer. Not yet
