The kitchen was quiet now. The aftermath of the fight, the chaos—all of it had faded into memory as a few of the pack members who had followed them home filtered out of the house, leaving them alone.
Xochi stood at the sink, carefully dabbing at the bruises on Byron’s knuckles. The skin was already knitting back together, angry red fading to soft pink. She didn’t bother dressing them. His wolf would finish the job.
But her fingers lingered.
She needed a reason to touch him. Just for a little while longer.
Byron watched her in silence. He let her fuss. Let her hands tremble while her face stayed still. She was always like that when her emotions were too big to carry—quiet and calm like the surface of a lake hiding a storm underneath.
“You were incredible out there,” she said softly, ey
