“Sometimes, I worry that what I do isn’t enough. The rest of my family are enforcers, you know—”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Pack protectors.” Noah’s clueless expression has me biting back a chuckle. “Ummm…like pack soldiers?”
“Got it,” Noah responds, processing. “Why’d you choose a different route?”
I shrug. “When the twins were born, everything was so chaotic. I’d been messing around in the kitchen and helping out a little, but then it just became a necessity. Mom had a brood of wild kids and pack stuff she was in charge of, two of our dads were always on patrol at any given time. Things were falling through the cracks, so I stepped up to help. Then they appreciated it. Noticed me, you know? I liked when any of my fathers would clap me on the back and tell me ‘Well done’ and stuff like that.”
“Mmmm,” Noah’s response is muted and makes me sneak yet another glance at her. I wish she was projecting her thoughts right now so that I’d better know where we stand. Where I stand.
The light glints off her hair and—it might be my imagination—but her shoulders seem more relaxed than before. Her expression is thoughtful as she replies, “I may bring peace when someone’s world is breaking, but you bring the joy. People go to your restaurant to celebrate. You create a space for them to do that. That’s a different kind of magic all on its own.”
We come to my favorite spot on the property just then.
It’s a small clearing surrounded by trees but set on a slight rise above the lake. At the crest of the hill, there’s a series of square wooden posts with a small awning overhead connecting them. A worn red porch swing hangs from the awning, gently rocking in the breeze. Sitting on the swing gives the perfect view of sunset on the lake, and the house is tucked back at an angle so that it can’t be seen from here, giving the illusion of utter privacy. I’ve spent many evenings alone in this very spot, and somehow, it seems like the perfect retreat for this moment, the perfect thing to share with Noah.
“After you.” I gesture to the swing.
“Thank you.”
She sits down at one end, and I take the other. We rock in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the sun roll down over the treetops on the far side of the lake, drizzling them with drops of yellow.
“Tell me something good about shifting,” she requests, interrupting the buzz of the insects around us.
I press my lips together and use my heels to gently propel the swing back and forth while I try to decide on just one thing. “Running,” I finally say.
“Running? That’s it?” Her tone is skeptical.
Searching for an explanation, I glance over at her as I try to piece together words to explain something so much better than any description could be. “When you shift and run, your thoughts are just…free in a way that you never experience as a person. All those worries you carry at the back of your mind, the ones that never really go away, fade. Self-consciousness? Gone. Day-to-day stress rolls right off your fur. It’s just existence in its purest form. It’s you pushing yourself to your limits, finding out what you’re capable of, opening yourself completely to your instincts and power. It’s life changing.”
I can tell a bit of cheesy excitement has crept into my tone, and I bite my lip and shake my head at myself.
“Sorry. That sounded like a fucking sales pitch. It’s hard to explain. Perth is better at helping make sense of it all because he teaches it…” I trail off, feeling a little awkward and vulnerable.
Her eyes stare steadily up at me as she tries to conceive of something that’s clearly foreign to her and hard to understand. Finally, she gives a slow nod. “Running. Okay. Thanks. That actually sounds nice. I have something to look forward to then.” A soft smile curves her cheeks.
I turn back to the lake, trying to contain the tiny flicker of excitement dancing in my belly—because this is the first time I’ve heard her talk about shifting without an edge of fear or contempt.
I could dump a million other reasons to love eerie life on her right now, but I press my lips into a straight line and make myself shut up. She’s already overwhelmed enough as it is—I’m here to help her take things slow, move at her own pace.
Noah makes a small sound and I look down to find her observing me. “You’re a caretaker, Ruger,” she declares, as though she’s a touch surprised. “You wouldn’t think so just by looking at you, but I wonder if that’s by design? You know, the big tough exterior that distracts from the warm and gooey center.” She gestures at my tattoos and the space I take up on the swing. “You guard peace and safety in your own way.”
I chuckle and wave my hand in her direction, trying to hide how much her words sink into me, warming everything they touch as they go. “Takes one to know one,” I goad, and she smiles.
“Touché.” Noah is quiet for a moment, her features growing pensive. “Tell me though, who takes care of you when you need a soft spot to land?”
We stop swinging as I stare down at her. “My den,” I tell her evenly as I try to silently communicate the unfathomable bond the four of us have.
It could be hers too if she wanted.
She nods after a beat and then turns back to the lake, relaxing deeper into the swing. We languidly rock back and forth, the chain creaking, the insects singing, the leaves rustling. Her breathing grows slow and even, and when I glance back over at her, I see her wearing a contented smile, the same sort of expression that I’m certain is plastered across my own face.
“Does it get better than this?” I ask, gesturing out over the lake as it mimics the sky’s bright bands of orange. “Good conversation and watching the sunset with a beautiful woman?”
There’s a weighted moment of silence as she considers my words. “Well, maybe it can get a little better.” Then, in a move that blindsides me, she slides her hand across the swing to the empty space in the middle of the seat and then flips it over palm up. Fingers open. Beckoning.
My throat goes dry as I slowly reach out and my big, rough palm engulfs hers.
Soft.
Petite.
Fragile.
I turn back to the lake and watch the sun disappear for the night. But inside of me, something warm and bright dawns as I sit, holding the hand of my mate, rocking back and forth while the world floats on by.
25
NOAH
“They thought they were rebels, Noah! Can you even believe it, and the height of the rebellion was corn,” Melana Arcan tells me conspiratorially, leaning across the table toward me with a wide smile, her berry red lipstick still perfect after an entire meal. All of her is perfect—she’s the epitome of a gorgeous, gracious hostess—full of laughter and, more importantly, embarrassing stories.
“Corn?” I squawk with a laugh, looking over at the bandits themselves and giggling even harder.
“Mom,” Ellery warns in the tone annoyed children use on their parents worldwide.