Hazel’s POV
The pack house is quiet for the first time in three days.
No screams. No guards at the door. No Ella hissing poison. No Vincent’s shadow.
Just me. Alaric. And the bond humming between us, gold and insistent and hungry.
We’re in the Alpha suite. His rooms. Our rooms, now. The sheets were changed while we were at Lina’s grave. Clean linen. Moonvine in a vase on the nightstand , Cleric’s doing. Healer’s touch.
Alaric sits on the edge of the bed. Splint on his leg, shirtless, bandages clean and white over the blackroot wound. It’s healing. Pink, not black. My work.
He’s watching me.
“You’re staring,” I say. My voice is steadier than my hands.
“You’re my Luna,” he says. Simple. Like it explains everything. “I’m allowed.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You should be resting.
