His Human Mate

3.

The next time I woke, it wasn’t pain that greeted me.

It was warmth.

A steady, heavy kind of warmth that sunk into my bones, like a lullaby I hadn’t heard in years. The sharp throbbing behind my eyes had dulled to a quiet ache, and the freezing numbness that once clung to my skin like a cruel lover had finally let go.

The blanket around me was thick, soft, smelling faintly of something warm and earthy—like cedarwood and firewood smoke. Jack’s scent.

I sat up slowly, the ache in my muscles flaring briefly as if to remind me that I was still healing. My fingers trembled as I pushed the blanket off and shifted my legs over the side of the couch. My bare feet met the wooden floorboards, smooth and cool, but not painfully cold.

The small cottage was dimly lit by the soft orange glow of morning light filtering through thin curtains. A faint hum came from a heater tucked in the corner, struggling but managing. There was a rustic charm to everything. Wooden beams, thick stone fireplace, walls lined with old books and tools. It wasn’t polished or cozy in a traditional sense—it was practical, worn, lived in.

Safe.

I forced myself to stand. My body protested, especially where bruises had bloomed along my ribs and hips. I bit down a hiss and hobbled toward what I assumed was the bathroom. Every step was a reminder of what I’d been through, of the hands that had grabbed me, the voices that screamed, the door that slammed shut behind me as I ran. But I was here. I had made it out.

The bathroom was small, utilitarian. No fancy soap or soft towels—just the basics. But the water ran warm, and when I stood beneath the stream of the shower, my breath caught in my throat. Not from pain.

But from relief.

Steam curled around me, washing away the blood and grime, soaking into my hair, tracing over the bruises and cuts like it was trying to soothe them. I stood there too long, probably, until my skin was flushed pink and my knees were shaking again.

I wrapped a towel around myself and hobbled back out. On the bed—my bed, I guess, for now—was a neatly folded stack of clothes. Jack’s. The shirt was a little oversized, dark grey and smelling like cedar and smoke. The sweatpants were soft, hanging loose on my hips once I managed to get them on. They swallowed my frame, but I didn’t care.

He had given them to me.

Bandaging myself was harder. My ribs were sore, my fingers clumsy, and more than once I almost gave up trying. But I gritted my teeth, biting back tears as I wrapped the gauze as tightly as I could manage around the worst of it. It wasn’t perfect. But it would do.

I walked out into the living room, the scent of firewood stronger now. The space was warmer than before, the flames in the fireplace licking gently at the hearth. And then I heard it.

Thud.

A heavy, rhythmic sound, like something striking solid wood.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I followed the sound to the window. The glass was old, slightly frosted at the corners, but I could still see through it.

And what I saw made my breath hitch.

Jack was outside. Shirtless. His back muscles flexed with every swing of the axe in his hands. Each movement was precise, methodical. Like a machine—but not cold. There was a kind of strength in the way he moved, like he wasn’t just chopping wood but channeling something. His jeans hung low on his hips, the grey fabric dusted with flecks of bark and sawdust, and his breath curled in the cold air like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils.

He didn’t notice me watching.

Maybe it was the bruises talking. Or the safety I hadn’t felt in years. Or just the sheer kindness he’d shown me. But something about that moment felt… intimate. Quietly powerful. Real.

I turned away from the window, cheeks warm.

He must be tired. He’d been out there a while. And while I knew I was still healing, still fragile, I wanted to do something in return. Something small. Something that said thank you.

I shuffled over to the kitchen. The counter was rough wood, a little uneven, and the coffee pot looked older than me. But it worked. I found a tin of grounds, a filter, and water in a jug. The coffee started brewing, filling the room with a rich, bitter aroma that felt oddly comforting.

I reached for a mug and poured carefully.

That’s when I felt it.

Someone behind me.

Before I could turn, a presence loomed close—silent, solid.

My heart jumped into my throat, and I spun around too quickly.

“Ah—! I’m sorry!”

Jack stood there, axe nowhere in sight, but his expression was unreadable. Damp hair curled slightly against his forehead, and sweat glistened along his collarbone.

“You’re not to touch anything,” he said. His voice wasn’t raised, but the sharpness in it sliced right through me. “Unless I say so.”

I froze. The mug trembled in my hands, heat seeping through the ceramic into my skin.

“I—I just thought…” My voice faltered. I hated how small it sounded. “I wanted to make you coffee. Since you were… working.”

Silence.

He stared at me for a long moment. Not angry. Not exactly. Just unreadable. Like he wasn’t used to kindness either, and didn’t know what to do with it when it showed up.

Slowly, I backed away from the counter. “I won’t do it again. Sorry.”

He exhaled through his nose and picked up the mug I’d poured. Took a sip.

It wasn’t a rejection. Not really. But it wasn’t an acceptance either.

I stood awkwardly, wringing my hands in the fabric of the sweatshirt.

Then I found my voice again. Tentative. Quiet.

“Where… am I?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“I mean—the address. The area. Just… in case someone comes looking for me, I need to know what to say. That’s all.”

Jack leaned against the counter, the mug still in hand. He watched me for another long, loaded second, like he was peeling back my words for hidden layers.

Finally, he said, “We’re in the outskirts. Edge of Blackpine Woods. Closest town is about fifteen miles out. No one comes here.”

I swallowed. Fifteen miles. That might as well be a hundred. Especially for someone like me, with nothing and no one.

“No one?” I asked, voice softer now.

“No one,” he repeated, his voice like gravel and wind. “That’s the point.”

Something about the way he said it gave me chills. Not from fear—but from certainty. This place wasn’t just a home. It was a sanctuary. A place to be forgotten. A place where the world didn’t reach.

I nodded, slowly. “Okay.”

He took another sip, and then without a word, turned and walked toward the door. The cold air rushed in as he stepped back outside, axe in hand again. The door thudded shut behind him.

I stood there alone in the kitchen, watching the coffee steam curl toward the ceiling.

The house was quiet again. Just the crackle of the fire. The scent of smoke and cedar.

No chaos. No voices. No fists pounding on doors.

And for the first time in years…

I felt like I could breathe.