Gabriella
We didn't speak much after he came back upstairs. Words felt too big, too clumsy for whatever this was. Instead we moved around each other like people learning the shape of a new room—careful steps, stolen glances, hands brushing without grabbing.
He showered first. Came out in sweatpants and nothing else, towel slung over his shoulders, hair dripping onto his collarbones. I went next. Let the hot water pound my back until my muscles stopped screaming. When I stepped out, I didn't reach for one of his shirts. I put on an old tank top and soft shorts I'd found buried in the back of the closet—things I'd brought from Trimoon, things that still smelled faintly like home.
When I walked back into the bedroom he was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owed him answers.
I stopped in the doorway.
He looked up.
No smirk. No hunger. Just… him.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"Not really."
"Me neither."
I crossed the room. Sat beside him. Not touching. Close enough that our thighs almost brushed.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
After a while he spoke. Voice low.
"I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Be with someone without… winning."
I turned my head. Studied his profile—the sharp jaw, the faint scar along his cheekbone, the way his lashes threw shadows when he blinked slow.
"Then don't win," I said. "And don't let me win either. Just… be here."
He exhaled. Rough sound.
"Easier said."
"Yeah."
He reached over. Took my hand. Not possessive. Just held it. Palm to palm. Fingers loose.
I let him.
We sat like that for a long time.
Eventually he tugged me back until we were both lying down—side by side, staring at the ceiling. No sheet between us. No clothes coming off. Just breathing.
His thumb traced slow circles on the back of my hand.
"Tell me something real," he said. "Something you never told anyone."
I thought about it.
"When I was fifteen," I started, "I used to sneak out at night. Not to parties. Not to meet boys. Just to sit on the roof of the pack house and look at the stars. I'd pretend I could fly away. That if I jumped high enough the wind would catch me and carry me somewhere no one knew my name."
He turned his head. Looked at me.
"Did you ever jump?"
"No." I smiled small. "I was scared I'd fall."
He nodded. Like he understood.
"My turn," he said after a minute. "When I was twenty-three I killed my first challenger for alpha. He was older. Bigger. Thought he could take the pack because my father was dying. I didn't want to kill him. But I did. And after… I sat in the woods alone for three days. Didn't eat. Didn't sleep. Just sat there with his blood still under my nails. I kept thinking—if I'd lost, no one would've mourned me. Not really. They'd have mourned the title. Not the man."
His voice cracked on the last word. Barely. But I heard it.
I turned onto my side. Faced him.
"You're more than the title."
He looked at me. Eyes raw.
"Prove it."
I leaned in. Kissed him.
Not hungry. Not angry. Just soft. Lips brushing. Breathing each other in.
He kissed back the same way. Careful. Like he was afraid he'd break something.
When we pulled apart he rested his forehead against mine.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For all of it."
"I know."
"I don't know how to fix it."
"You don't have to fix it tonight. Just… stay."
He nodded.
We didn't have sex. We didn't fight. We didn't plan revenge or escape or domination.
We just lay there.
Hands linked.
Breathing in rhythm.
After a while his arm came around me. Heavy. Warm. Not trapping. Just holding.
I tucked my head under his chin. Listened to his heartbeat.
Steady.
Real.
For the first time in months I fell asleep without wondering if I'd wake up in chains.
I woke up in the middle of the night to him still holding me. His breathing deep and even. One hand resting on my hip like it belonged there.
I didn't pull away.
I pressed closer.
And for once—
It didn't feel like surrender.
It felt like choosing.