Chapter 21 Secret Lessons

Chapter 21 Secret Lessons


FLASHBACK

The old oak tree became our sanctuary, a silent witness to a world we were building for just the two of us. Sunset turned to twilight, and our meetings became a ritual as essential as breathing.

He was waiting for me the next evening, just as he said he would be. He leaned against the massive trunk, and when he saw me, that same intense, focused look settled on his face, but now it was softened by something warmer, something that made my stomach flutter.

“You came,” he said, as if he hadn’t been entirely sure I would.

“I said I would,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.

He pushed off the tree. “Good. Today, I’m going to teach you how to track.”

I blinked. “Track? Why?”

“Because everyone should know how to read the forest,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was the Alpha’s son in him, the innate command. “It’s a language, if you can’t speak it, you’re deaf and blind out here. Now, look down.”

I looked at the carpet of leaves and moss at our feet.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“Leaves. Dirt.”

He moved to stand directly behind me, so close his chest almost brushed my back. His warmth enveloped me. He leaned over my shoulder, his arm extending past my side to point at the ground. His voice was a low murmur in my ear. “Look closer. See the broken stem on that clover? The slight discoloration where a footstep compressed the moss? That’s a trail. A rabbit, moving from east to west about an hour ago.”

His proximity was dizzying. The scent of him, of sun and earth and boy, was all around me. I could feel the heat of his body through my thin dress. My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to focus on what he was showing me.

“How do you know it was an hour?” I asked, my voice a little breathless.

“The sap from the stem is still wet, but it’s starting to darken. And the moss hasn’t fully sprung back.” He straightened, but didn’t step away. “Your turn, find me another sign.”

It became our pattern. He taught me to track deer by the placement of their hooves, to identify the subtle markers of a fox’s passing. He showed me which plants were edible, which would heal, and which would kill. He was a relentless teacher, patient but demanding. And I was an eager student, desperate for his approval, for the heat of his gaze when I got something right.

A week later, under the dappled shade of the oak, the lessons changed.

“Stand like this,” he said, shifting into a defensive stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. “Balance is everything. If you’re off balance, you’re on the ground.”

I mimicked his posture, feeling awkward.

He came up behind me again, his hands settling on my hips. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through me. “Wider,” he instructed, his voice low. He adjusted my stance with a gentle pressure, his fingers burning through the fabric of my dress. “There. Now, you’re rooted.”

He moved to face me. “If someone grabs you, you don’t pull away. You move into them, use their momentum.” He reached for my wrist. “Try it.”

His fingers closed around my arm. Instead of yanking back, I stepped forward, twisting my body as he had shown me. The move surprised him, and his grip loosened. A grin, quick and brilliant, flashed across his face.

“Good. Again.”

We sparred, our movements a slow, careful dance. His touches were clinical, instructional, but each point of contact, his hand on my shoulder to correct my posture, his arm blocking my strike sent sparks across my skin. The air between us grew thick, charged with a tension that was about more than just learning to fight. Our breaths came faster, our gazes locked. I was hyper-aware of the flex of muscle in his arms, the way his shirt clung to his chest with a light sweat.

One time, I misstepped, and he caught me as I stumbled, his arms wrapping around me to keep me from falling. For a moment, we were pressed together, chest to chest, his face inches from mine. My hands were flat against his solid chest. I could feel the frantic beat of his heart, a wild rhythm that matched my own. His eyes darkened, the blue deepening to a stormy sea. His gaze dropped to my lips. The world stopped.

He didn’t kiss me. He slowly, reluctantly, set me back on my feet, his hands lingering on my waist for a moment too long. “You’re getting better,” he said, his voice husky.

The lessons continued, but the undercurrent was now a roaring river. We both felt it, the casual touches lasted longer. The silence between instructions grew heavier, filled with things we were too afraid to say.

One afternoon, he brought a small, sheathed knife. He drew it, the blade caught the sunlight.

“This is for defense,” he said, his expression serious. “Only if you have no other choice.” He showed me how to hold it, how to thrust, how to slash. He stood behind me, his body caging mine, his hand wrapped around mine on the hilt. His cheek was near my temple, his breath warm on my neck.

“Like this,” he murmured, guiding my arm through the motion. His body moved with mine, a solid, powerful presence. I could feel the hard line of him against my back. My skin was on fire, I was learning the deadliest of arts, and all I could think about was the boy holding me.

When he finally stepped back, the loss of his heat was a physical ache. I turned to face him, the knife still in my hand. My chest was heaving.

He looked at me, really looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my flushed face, my bright eyes, the knife I now held with a semblance of confidence. The pride in his eyes was mixed with a raw, blazing heat that stole the air from my lungs.

“You’re incredible,” he breathed, the words full of wonder.

It was the final crack in the dam. I let the knife fall to the mossy ground, I took a step towards him. Then another. I reached up and touched his face, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw.

He froze, his eyes wide, his breath catching.

“Garrick,” I whispered.

That was all it took. A low sound escaped him, half-groan, half-sigh. He captured my hand, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to my palm. The sensation was so intense, so intimate, I trembled.

Then his arms were around me, crushing me to him, and his mouth was on mine.

I kissed him back with everything I had, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tasted of wildness and hope and a future I desperately wanted.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing as if we’d run for miles. He rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.

“Anika,” he said, my name a prayer on his lips.

“I know,” I whispered back.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his expression fierce, full of a young, desperate love that threatened to undo me completely. “I love you,” he said, the words simple, profound, and utterly terrifying. “I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you across that fire.”

Tears pricked my eyes, I stood on my toes and kissed him again, a soft, sure promise. “I love you too.”

In the dappled light under our oak tree, with the scent of earth and our future around us, we sealed the vow with another kiss. It was a secret, a treasure buried deep in our hearts, a perfect, fragile thing that we believed nothing could ever break.