Chapter 15
Clara paced her living room for what felt like hours before finally forcing herself into bed. She had checked the locks twice, drawn the curtains, even left the hallway light on—something she hadn’t done since she was a child.
And still, her nerves buzzed.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Rowan, standing on her porch, steady and unyielding, the quiet promise in his voice when he’d said she shouldn’t be alone. She should have told him no. She should have insisted he leave. Instead, she’d nodded, as if her body already trusted him in a way her mind couldn’t understand.
She turned over beneath the blankets, staring at the sliver of moonlight sneaking through the curtains. Sleep felt impossible. But exhaustion eventually pulled her under.
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At first, the dream was simple—trees, endless and dark, the hush of night air pressing against her skin. Then the silence broke.
A howl split the forest, low and haunting. Clara froze, her pulse hammering. From the shadows, eyes glowed. More than one pair—dozens, circling.
Her breath caught. Wolves.
She ran. Branches whipped at her arms and legs, the earth slick beneath her feet. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to keep moving. The sound of paws thundered behind her, closer with every heartbeat.
Her chest burned, lungs screaming, but she couldn’t stop. The forest swallowed her whole, twisting paths ahead of her, her panic clawing higher and higher.
Then—hands. Strong hands catching her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest.
She twisted, expecting teeth and claws, but found hazel eyes instead. Rowan’s. They glowed faintly in the dark, not entirely human, not entirely safe—but they pinned her in place all the same.
“Don’t run from me,” he murmured. His voice was rough, threaded with something primal, something that made her tremble.
The wolves around them stilled, their glowing eyes fixed on her. She could feel their hunger, their wildness, but none dared to touch while Rowan held her.
His warmth pressed into her back, his breath stirring her hair as his grip tightened. The fear should have drowned her, but heat unfurled low in her belly instead, blurring the line between terror and want.
And then she woke.
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Clara shot upright in bed, her chest heaving, her nightshirt damp with sweat. The dream clung to her skin, too vivid, too real.
She dragged in a shaky breath and pushed the curtain aside with trembling fingers.
Outside, in the shadows beneath her porch light, Rowan stood. His tall frame was still, arms crossed, head tipped toward the trees as if listening for danger.
Something inside her settled. The dream’s fear faded, leaving only the echo of his voice—don’t run from me.
Clara let the curtain fall, pressing her palm over her heart. Sleep wouldn’t come again easily, but for the first time all night, she didn’t feel alone.