POV: Evelyn

Silas had cleared half his closet and made it look like a hostage negotiation.

Twelve black shirts occupied the far end. An empty rail stretched beside them. Three polished boots had been pushed together so tightly that the middle one leaned in defeat.

“You own more than three boots.”

Silas stood in the bedroom doorway holding two mugs. “There are others.”

“Where?”

“Ronan's office.”

I turned slowly. “You hid your shoes at work?”

“You said you might need space.”

“For one night.”

“I plan ahead.”

“You panicked ahead.”

His mouth moved at one corner. It was the first almost-smile I had seen since he tore his father's name from the wall.

Sophie was sleeping at Maeve's apartment above the clinic, thrilled by the promise of wolf-shaped pancakes. I had packed a toothbrush, clean underwear, and nothing that justified half a closet. Silas had apparently prepared for immigration.

I set my overnight bag on the bench.

“Put the boots back tomorrow.”

“So you are staying until tomorrow.”

“That was the arrangement.”

“I wanted to hear you say it in this room.”

The humor left his face. The air changed.

His bedroom was spare without being cold. A dark quilt covered the bed. One photograph showed him and Maeve as teenagers beside their first motorcycle. No portrait of Elias had ever hung here.

I accepted the mug. Tea, not whiskey. He remembered what I drank when my nerves were louder than my exhaustion.

“I'm staying.”

Silas's gaze dropped to my mouth.

His wolf moved behind his eyes, a flash of gold quickly contained. The bond tightened between us, warm and hungry, but he remained beside the door. He did not close it until I reached back and pushed it shut myself.

“Better?” I asked.

“Worse.”

“Why?”

“Now I can smell you everywhere.”

The honesty sent heat down my body.

I stepped closer. “That sounds inconvenient.”

“It is becoming a medical emergency.”

“Maeve is off duty.”

“Cruel woman.”

I kissed him before he found another reason to wait.

His mug struck the dresser with a careless thud. One hand slid into my hair. The other stopped at my waist as if he needed permission even now to hold me harder.

I gave it by gripping his shirt and pulling.

The sound he made against my lips was too rough to be called a breath. My back met the closed door. He braced one palm beside my head rather than letting his weight trap me, and that careful distance made me want to destroy it.

I caught his belt loops and drew him against me.

“Evelyn.”

My name sounded like warning and prayer together.

“I know where I am.”

“Tell me if—”

“Silas.” I touched his lower lip with my thumb. “I spent years having a man decide what I meant before I finished speaking. Let me finish.”

He went still.

“I know where I am. I know whose room this is. I know what the bond wants, and I know what I want.”

“Are they the same?”

“Tonight they are.”

Restraint broke without becoming violence. He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his hips. His mouth moved from mine to my jaw, then lower, where his breath caught over the pulse in my throat.

His teeth did not touch me.

The absence felt more intimate than a bite.

“You want to,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

“But you won't.”

“Not because a terrible week made you grateful. Not because my wolf recognizes you. Not until you ask while you are free to walk away.”

I held his face. “That is why I came.”

He carried me to the bed and lowered me onto the quilt as though putting down something both precious and dangerous. His hands trembled when I unbuttoned his shirt.

“You are nervous.”

“I faced six armed men at the rail yard without shaking.”

“They probably didn't make fun of your closet.”

“They had survival instincts.”

I laughed. His forehead dropped to my shoulder. The laughter softened what had become too enormous: mate, Alpha, divorce, all the lives that taught us wanting came with debt.

“Stay,” I said.

He looked toward the door. “Here?”

“Here. And talk to me.”

We sat on the floor beside the bed, our backs against the frame. Rain moved softly against the windows.