Mate Me in Moonlight

Chapter 7

POV: Adeline

By two o'clock, the packhouse had settled into a comfortable rhythm. It felt almost like a real home, which was exactly why I kept bracing for it to be taken away.

Freya appeared in my doorway holding two mugs of tea and a woven satchel.

"Two on the dot," she said. "I'm very punctual when emotional growth is involved."

"That sounds suspicious."

"It should." She handed me a mug and set the satchel on the bed. "One part herbs, one part gossip, one part light bullying."

I took a slow sip. "You holding up?" she asked.

"I'm not falling apart. That's something."

"It is. And because I'm a genius at timing, this is when I tell you I'm kicking you out."

I stared at her.

"Go to the river. Alone. We're low on river mint and blueleaf." She nudged the satchel toward me. "You've been glued to my side for days. You can handle a quiet riverbank."

"That's debatable."

She smiled. "You can't keep treating yourself like glass. Go get some air. Get the herbs. Come back."

She was right. I picked up the satchel.

"If I get lost, I'm blaming you."

"If you get lost, I'll shame you about it forever. Motivation."

Walking through the territory alone felt different now. When the trees thinned, I heard the river's steady murmur. Water flowed in silver ribbons over rounded stones.

I knelt at the bank. The cold water shocked my fingers awake. I started picking, letting the simple task steady my mind.

We could live like this, my wolf murmured. Quiet runs. Soft mornings. A pack nearby.

"You're getting ahead of yourself."

You're pretending you don't want it.

I heard a soft crunch of pine needles behind me. Familiar.

Aiden stepped out from between two pines, sleeves rolled, hair tied back loosely, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow as if he'd come from training. The rogue curl at his temple had escaped again, brushing the scar along his cheekbone.

He paused when he saw me. "Freya said you were out here."

"She sent me for herbs."

He glanced at the satchel, then at the river, then back at me. "Good place to clear your head."

"It is," I admitted. "Quiet."

He walked closer, slow enough that I could step back if I wanted. I didn't. My wolf perked up, tail lifting in cautious curiosity.

Aiden crouched beside the water a few feet away, dipping his hand into the current. Sunlight skimmed the scar along his cheek, making it look softer, like a brushstroke across his skin.

He didn't speak immediately. His silence was gentle, not heavy.

"You're thinking about leaving," he said quietly.

My heart jolted. "What makes you say that?"

"You went quiet when the patrol returned yesterday. Quieter than usual." His eyes found mine. "And you look at the forest like it's a door you're considering walking through."

I opened my mouth to deny it, to deflect, but nothing came.

"You don't owe us anything," he said. "But you don't need to run, either."

"Ironclaw is close now. Closer than they should be. If they came for me—"

"You didn't bring danger here," he said softly.

"I survived it," I whispered. "That's not the same thing."

Silence settled again, but differently—not cold, not dismissive.

He came down the slope, slowing as he drew closer, giving me more space than I technically needed. Then he crouched near the river beside me—not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of cedar and something like rain.

He reached toward a patch of river mint near my hand. Our fingers brushed, just once, a light drag of skin against skin.

The contact was minor. My reaction wasn’t.

Awareness shot through me in a sharp, quiet line, and for a heartbeat the river, the trees, the sky all narrowed to the point where our hands had touched. The bond that I had been trying to ignore all day rose like a tide meeting the shore, inevitable and unhurried but impossible to pretend away.

I looked up at him.

He was already looking at me.

His eyes, dark and steady, had softened. His breath had gone a fraction deeper, slower, as if he was deliberately keeping it under control. The little escaped curl moved near his brow when the breeze shifted, and for some absurd reason, that small imperfection made everything feel more real, more dangerous.

My wolf surged forward so quickly it startled me—protective instinct blooming, not in fear of him, but for him. She wanted to lean closer, to scent him, to guard him like something precious.

I jerked my hand back, heart hammering.

Aiden stilled, sensing the shift, the pull of the bond threading sharply between us. He didn't press closer. Didn't make a sound. His restraint was immediate, instinctive.

"Sorry," I breathed. "I didn't mean—"

"You don't have to apologize," he said softly. "Reactions are reactions. Nothing more."

He looked at me then—and something in his gaze felt dangerously warm. Not demanding. Not claiming. But undeniably present, undeniably aware of the tether pulling between us.

The space between us had shrunk. If I leaned forward an inch, I could feel his breath on my mouth. Another inch, and we would be kissing.

My pulse fluttered. His breath shifted, the smallest inhale, as if he could feel the exact moment my wolf leaned toward him again.

I stepped back—not far, but enough for the moment to break.

Aiden's jaw tightened, not in frustration, but in disciplined control. He lowered his hand, grounding himself.

"Take your time," he murmured. "Go slow. Or not at all. Either way, I'll give you space."

Something in me cracked open at that—the gentleness, the patience, the way he seemed to mean it.

"Thank you," I managed.

He nodded once, then rose. "I'll walk the southern loop. If you need anything, call."

He didn't look back as he disappeared into the trees, but my wolf followed the sound of his retreating steps with aching awareness.

Stay, she whispered fiercely. He is safe. We are safe.

"We're not. Ironclaw is near. I can't let them touch this place."

Running won't stop danger from coming. It never has.

"Leaving has kept others alive."

It has kept you alone.

I shut my eyes, refusing to answer. I tied the satchel closed, heart heavier than when I'd arrived.

I stayed by the river long after he left.

The water kept moving. And somewhere inside me, something shifted.

Caleb.

I let myself think his name fully for the first time without bracing against it.

I thought of his laugh. His hands. The way he'd looked at me on our mating night like I was the only thing in the world that made sense.

I had loved him. Completely. And he was gone.

For months, I'd carried his memory like a wound I refused to let heal.

My wolf stirred, quiet but insistent. We loved him. We will always love him. But he is gone, and we are here. And the Alpha—

"I know," I whispered.

He is not Caleb. He is something new. Something ours.

Tears pricked at my eyes. Not grief this time—or not only grief. Something more complicated. Release. Permission.

Caleb would not want this. He would not want me half-alive, running from every offered hand, terrified of warmth because warmth could be taken away.

"Live," he'd said, that last night. "Promise me you'll live."

I had promised. I hadn't kept it. Not really. Not until now.

I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the old scar where our bond used to live—and beneath it, the new thread, fragile and growing, reaching toward an Alpha with patient eyes and a steadiness I didn't deserve.

"I'm letting you go," I whispered to the river. To Caleb. To the version of myself that had died with him.

My wolf settled, warm and approving. He would understand. He loved you enough to want this for you.

I didn't know if that was true.

But when I stood and walked back toward the packhouse, the weight on my shoulders felt lighter.

***

By evening, Freya intercepted me at the door, snatched the satchel, and peered inside.

"Herbs. No tears. No visible mauling. Success."

Dinner was quiet. Aiden moved through the room as always—calm, composed. He passed close once, our eyes meeting for a fleeting instant. Just a small nod. I see you. You're here. That's enough.

Later, alone in my room, I packed. Just enough to leave without noise—clothes, a knife, water, food.

You are running again.

"I am keeping them safe."

Or giving Ironclaw exactly what they want. You alone. Out there. Without him.

I turned away from the bag and crawled into bed. Eventually, sleep came.

When it did, it brought fire.

Flames rose high around me, but there was no smoke, no collapsing beams. The fire spiraled upward, forming a circle.

In the center, Aiden stood.

He wasn’t burned. He wasn’t afraid. The flames licked near his shoulders, traced the air around his jaw, but they never touched him. His eyes found mine across the distance, steady and unwavering, as if this place, this inferno, was nothing more than another room in his packhouse.

He lifted a hand—not reaching, just holding it out, patient, as if the decision would always belong to me.

I hesitated. Then, in the dream, I moved toward him.

Not away from the fire. Not toward an exit. Toward the steady figure at its center.

Heat and light and his gaze wrapped around me—

I woke with my heart pounding, breath coming fast, not in panic, but in something far more complicated. Because in the dream, I hadn't tried to escape.