Chapter ten
1052 Words
Ronan’s POV
She runs like someone still expecting to be chased.
Not fast. Not reckless. Controlled. Every stride measured, every breath deliberate. She cuts through the pines on the north trail just before dawn, when the mist is thickest and the world is still half-asleep. She thinks no one sees her slip out of the lodge. She thinks the pack is still snoring behind closed doors.
She’s wrong.
I’ve watched her for weeks.
Not the way Darius watches, with heat and barely-leashed want. Not the way Kade watches, with strategy and quiet possession. I watch the way shadows watch: silent, patient, collecting pieces no one else notices.
The flinch when someone moves too quickly behind her.
The way her hand twitches toward her pocket when she thinks no one’s looking.
The faint bitter scent that clings to her even after she showers, herbal, chemical, suppressant. She’s still taking them. Small doses. Hidden. Probably tucked inside the lining of that old jacket she never takes off.
She doesn’t trust her own body yet. Doesn’t trust the pack with it either.
Today I follow.
Not close enough for her to catch my scent on the wind. Close enough to hear the soft rhythm of her breathing turn ragged when she thinks she’s alone. She stops at the small clearing where the stream cuts through moss-covered rocks. Drops to one knee. Pulls a tiny vial from her inner pocket.
The cork pops. She tips two drops onto her tongue, grimaces, swallows.
I step out from the trees.
She freezes.
Her head snaps up. Eyes wide, emerald catching the first gray light. For half a second she looks like prey—heart hammering, muscles coiled to bolt. Then she forces it down. Straightens slowly. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Ronan,” she says. Voice steady. Too steady.
I don’t answer right away. Just walk closer. Slow. Deliberate. Letting her feel every footfall.
She doesn’t back up. Good.
But her pupils are blown wide. Pulse jumping at the hollow of her throat. Fear and something else. Something that makes her scent sharpen, sweet under the bitterness of the herbs.
I stop a few feet away. Close enough she has to tilt her head to meet my eyes. Close enough I can see the fine tremor in her fingers when she tries to slip the vial back into her pocket.
“You’re still taking them,” I say. Not a question.
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I tilt my head. “Liar.”
She flinches—just a flicker. Barely there. But I see it.
I circle her slowly. Not touching. Not yet. Just moving, letting the air shift around her. She turns with me, keeping me in sight. Smart. But every time her back is exposed for even a second, her shoulders tense.
“You flinch at sudden noises,” I continue. Low. Calm. “You check corners before you enter rooms. You wake up gasping three nights out of seven. You think we don’t hear it through the walls?”
Her breathing quickens. “I’m adjusting. That’s all.”
“Adjusting.” I stop behind her. Lean in just enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear. “You’re medicating yourself into numbness so you don’t have to feel the shift coming. You’re still running, Lila. Just slower now.”
She shivers. Not from cold.
I step around to face her again. Her eyes are glassy, angry, afraid. Beautiful.
“Secrets in a pack are dangerous,” I say. “They rot from the inside. You think you’re protecting us by hiding the suppressants? You’re weakening yourself. And if you weaken, we weaken. That’s how it works here.”
She lifts her chin. Defiant. “I’m not your responsibility.”
“You are now.”
The words land heavier than I intend. Her lips part. A soft, involuntary sound escapes, half protest, half something else.
I step closer. Close enough our chests almost touch. She doesn’t retreat. But her hands come up instinctively, palms flat against my shirt. Not pushing. Just… holding on.
I can feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric. Fast. Erratic.
“You’re scared of what happens when the drugs wear off completely,” I murmur. “When your heat comes. When your wolf decides she wants what she wants. When you can’t pretend you don’t feel us watching you.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Stop.”
“Stop what?” I ask softly. “Telling the truth?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Then away. Back again. She’s fighting it, every instinct screaming to submit, to bare her throat, to let me in. But she’s still Lila. Still the girl who ran from one cage and refuses to step into another.
I lift a hand. Slow. Give her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
My fingertips brush the line of her jaw. Light. Barely there. Her breath hitches.
“You think you can keep this up forever?” I ask. “Swallowing poison so you don’t have to feel? Hiding from what you are?”
“I’m not hiding,” she whispers. But it’s weak. Cracking.
“You are.” My thumb traces the edge of her lower lip. Once. “And it’s going to break you if you don’t stop.”
Her eyes close. A tremor runs through her. Fear. Want. Shame. All tangled together.
I lean in until my mouth is a breath from hers.
“The truth always comes out,” I say against her lips. “And when it does, you won’t be able to run from it. Or from us.”
I step back.
The space between us feels colder than the dawn.
She sways slightly. Eyes snap open. Wide. Dazed. Pupils blown so dark the green is almost gone.
I turn and walk away.
“Don’t take another dose,” I say over my shoulder. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
She doesn’t answer.
I don’t look back.
But I feel her watching me go, heart pounding, body trembling, scent thick with arousal and terror and the first faint bloom of surrender.
She’ll fight it.
She’ll lose.
And when she does, I’ll be there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Ready.
- Writer
