Mate Me in Moonlight

Chapter 5

POV: Adeline

The room had settled into a careful quiet after Freya left. Soft enough that the unease in my chest could finally unravel, slow strand by slow strand, until the hollow place under my ribs stopped echoing so loudly. I lay back against the pillows with the faintest tremor still moving through my limbs, the ghost of the panic clinging like smoke around the edges of my mind.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall asleep, that I would only rest my eyes for a moment. I drifted anyway.

Not deeply. Not peacefully. But enough that when footsteps approached outside my door, my body startled only slightly instead of jerking upright in alarm.

A soft knock sounded. “Tea delivery,” Freya’s voice called, gentle enough to pass for a whisper. “And emotional support.”

The door opened a crack. She peeked in with exaggerated caution. “Am I allowed inside? Or are you doing brooding in solitude? I can wait until the brooding finishes fermenting.”

I sighed. “Come in.”

She slipped inside, balancing a mug that smelled like chamomile and honey, with something earthier beneath it. “Special blend,” she announced, handing it over. “Guaranteed to either relax you or make you mildly drowsy, I won’t specify which.”

I accepted the mug. The warmth seeped into my palms in a way that felt undeserved. “Thank you.”

Freya perched at the foot of the bed, not too close, legs drawn up and arms around her knees. “You scared me earlier,” she said, voice soft enough that it avoided being intrusive. “Not because of what happened. But because you tried to stay silent through all of it. You don’t have to.”

I stared at the tea, watching steam spiral toward the ceiling like a hesitant ghost. “I don’t like being seen like that.”

“No one does,” she said gently. “I once had a panic attack because a bee flew into my sweater. Aiden found me rolling around the garden like a possessed worm. I still have nightmares.”

That startled a laugh out of me, small but real. Freya grinned triumphantly. “There it is. Proof of life. Now drink before it gets cold.”

I took a sip. The herbal warmth bloomed slowly, softening the tightness behind my sternum.

Freya leaned back on her hands, eyes drifting toward the window. “Can I tell you something?” she asked, tone shifting.

“Of course.”

Her voice lowered, losing its usual brightness. “Before I lost my parents… there was someone else. My brother. Older. He used to babysit me by giving me cookies and pretending we were on secret missions. When our parents died, he tried so hard to take care of me. Too hard. He ended up pushing himself until he… didn’t make it through a patrol one winter.”

My breath caught. “Freya…”

She shrugged one shoulder, though the motion was too forced to be casual. “The pack saved me after that. But it took a long time before I stopped expecting everyone to disappear when I needed them.”

A long silence stretched between us.

“I’m telling you,” she said gently, “because I know what it feels like to hold yourself too tightly. To think you have to carry everything alone. You don’t. Not here. Not with us.”

I set the mug down before my hands could shake hard enough to spill it. “I don’t want to depend on anyone. I’ve done that before. It doesn’t… end well.”

Freya nodded. “I get it. But depending and trusting aren’t the same thing. Sometimes the first thread is tiny. A joke. A cup of tea. Just… letting someone sit with you.”

My throat tightened. “That’s… more than I can promise.”

“That’s fine,” she said warmly. “You can practice.”

Later, when she coaxed me downstairs “to prevent indoor wallowing,” the packhouse felt different. Softer. Less intimidating. A few pack members passed us in the hall — a young mother carrying folded clothes, an older wolf polishing silverware, a pair of teenagers arguing about whose turn it was to chop vegetables.

None of them looked at me with suspicion. Just mild curiosity. One even smiled — a small, tentative tilt of her mouth, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.

Freya caught the gesture. “You’re becoming a local celebrity.”

“I’ve done nothing to earn that.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Imagine their reaction when you do something impressive.”

I shook my head, but the knot under my ribs eased slightly.

We reached the common area. Freya grabbed a bundle of herbs and a small knife. “Help me chop these. Slowly. Carefully. Jonah burned the stew last week and Aiden still hasn’t recovered emotionally, so we’re not taking risks.”

“I’ve cooked before,” I said.

“Great,” she replied. “Just don’t poison anyone and Luca will probably start composing songs in your honor.”

I snorted. “I doubt that.”

“He pretends he’s all growly, but he tears up at cooking competitions.”

“I’m sure he does.”

She handed me a cutting board anyway. And for once, I didn’t protest.

I lined up the herbs. My hands didn’t shake. I chopped steadily, quietly, almost peacefully. Freya whistled off-key to some tune only she understood, adding ingredients to a simmering pot.

At some point, the back door opened. Soft footsteps. The air shifted.

Aiden stepped inside.

He wasn’t in Alpha mode — not commanding patrols or leading a meeting. Just a man entering his packhouse, sleeves rolled, damp hair pushed back haphazardly from a run. He glanced toward us, something easing in his expression when his gaze landed on me.

Freya whispered theatrically, “He’s here,” as if announcing a celebrity arrival.

Aiden ignored her entirely and approached the counter with quiet steps. “How are you feeling?” he asked me.

“I’m… better,” I said, surprised to hear how true it sounded. “Freya gave me tea.”

“She gives everyone tea,” Aiden said, but there was a faint warmth in his eyes.

“And emotional support,” Freya added from behind him. “Don’t forget the emotional support.”

“She gives that too,” Aiden acknowledged.

I kept chopping, acutely aware of him standing close enough that I could feel the subtle warmth radiating from his skin, the grounding steadiness that had pulled me out of panic hours earlier.

“You did well today,” he said softly. “Helping her. Being here.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You stayed,” he said. “That’s more than enough.”

The bond pulsed gently — not sharp, not demanding, just a warm thread tugging softly inside my chest. My wolf lifted her head, pleased. Proud.

My human side recoiled slightly, terrified by the small bloom of warmth spreading through her.

Our eyes met — just for a moment — and something quiet passed between us. A breath shared. A recognition neither of us named. His gaze softened, deepened, then shifted away politely, giving me space I hadn’t asked for but needed.

“I’ll see you later,” he said. “Get some rest after dinner.”

He left as quietly as he arrived, and the room felt strangely colder without him.

Freya leaned close. “Careful,” she whispered. “You’re staring.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

I shoved a sprig of rosemary into her hand. “Chop.”

She cackled.

After dinner, Freya tugged me outside “to get some fresh air” — which I quickly realized meant “to shove you into a small gathering and hope you don’t implode.”

A low fire crackled in the clearing beyond the packhouse. Wolves lounged on logs and blankets, some shifting between human and wolf form for warmth. Pups darted around chasing sparks. Someone played a guitar softly — slow, melancholic chords drifting upward into the night.

The air smelled like pine, cedar, and smoke — gentle smoke, contained smoke, nothing like fire meant to kill.

Freya nudged me forward. “This is our nightly unwind. You’re safe. No responsibilities except sitting and letting yourself exist.”

The flames were low enough not to threaten. My pulse didn’t spike; my breathing stayed even.

A few wolves nodded as we approached. One offered me a roasted marshmallow on a stick. I hesitated — and Freya elbowed me.

“Take it. Declining marshmallows is a hate crime here.”

I accepted. The warmth seeped into my fingers. Someone made room for us on a log, and I sat, stiff at first, then carefully letting myself lean into the soft rhythm of voices and laughter.

It didn’t hurt. For once, being part of a circle didn’t hurt.

Across the fire, Aiden stood speaking quietly to Marcus and another warrior, his posture relaxed, his expression thoughtful. Our eyes met for only a heartbeat — not long, not intense, just an acknowledgment of presence.

But my wolf stretched, pleased by the connection.

Freya noticed. She whispered, “You’re doomed.”

I elbowed her. She laughed under her breath, leaning comfortably against my shoulder.

The warmth of the fire. The soft murmur of the pack. The quiet thrum of a bond I wasn’t ready to face. It all settled around me like a heavy, gentle blanket.

For the first time in months — maybe longer — I stayed long enough to feel… included. Not because I belonged. But because no one asked me to.

That night, I fell asleep easily, slipping into the blankets with Freya’s tea still lingering faintly on my tongue and the memory of Aiden’s quiet “You stayed” echoing in my chest.

My wolf curled up inside me.

Warm. Content. Hopeful. I dreamed of nothing at all.