Chapter 16 The Distance Between Us
Levi:
The city never sleeps, but tonight it feels like it’s holding its breath.
Seattle’s skyline flickers against the mist, glass towers gleaming like they’ve stolen light they didn’t earn. I park two streets away from the building. I swore I’d never come near again. Yet here I am, like gravity forgot how to work unless it pulls me back to her.
Aurora Anderson.
The woman I rejected to save. The mother of the children I didn’t know I had until a week ago. Aria and Lior.
She had knowingly or unknowingly named them after us. I could not have chosen anything better for them myself.
I look up at the window.
I tell myself I’m not breaking my word, not really. I’m not knocking on her door. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m only making sure the three heartbeats that carry my scent keep beating through the night.
Through the fogged windshield, I can see the faint outline of her apartment window. Curtains drawn, lights dimmed, the soft glow of a television playing something I couldn’t hear. She’s awake, probably working. Her version of sleeping has always been coffee and deadlines.
Koda paces beneath my skin, restless, growling low in the back of my mind.
Ours. We should go inside.
No. Not yet.
They’re unguarded. Too exposed. He snarled in my head.
They’re safe, I lie.
But even to myself, it sounds hollow. I want nothing more than to go to her, to them and hold them in arms, but I don't, I won't. Not yet
A car turns the corner, tires splashing through puddles, and I catch a scent that isn’t human. Too sharp. Too cold. Hunter steel and sage. My muscles tighten before thought catches up. I’m out of the car, silent, moving through rain that smells of oil and memory.
The shadow crosses her building’s alley. Tall, lean, wrong. A Council tracker.
He doesn’t see me until it’s too late. My hand catches his throat mid-turn. His eyes flare silver, mouth open in half a curse before my claws tear through it. He drops without a sound. The scent of silver ash burns the air.
I drag the body behind a dumpster and burn it with a whisper of power. The fire catches fast, unnatural, eating flesh without smoke. Rain hisses when it hits the flames.
“Stay out of my city,” I mutter, though the only one left to hear it is me.
Koda hums approval, proud and wild. But guilt crawls under my ribs. It’s too close. They almost reached her.
I glance up and freeze.
Through the glass, a small figure moves. A little girl, hair soft gold in the TV light. She presses her hand to the windowpane, looking right at me, though I’m hidden in the dark below.
Aria.
She shouldn’t be able to see me, but her gaze locks onto mine. There’s recognition there, not understanding, but instinct. Then her lips form a single word I can’t hear but know.
Daddy.
My chest constricts so hard I forget to breathe.
Aurora appears a moment later, pulling the curtain shut, laughing softly, unaware that the world just tilted.
I stand there in the rain long after the light goes out.
Back in the car, my reflection in the window looks nothing like the man who left her four years ago. There’s more gray in my hair, more emptiness in my eyes. Every mile I put between us was supposed to protect her.
But protection feels a lot like punishment now.
The phone buzzes on the seat beside me. A message from Lucas.
Lucas: Trackers spotted near the downtown pier. Might be following the journalist again. Orders?
Me: Handled one near her block. Increase patrol radius by five miles. No contact with her. Not yet.
I add the last words because I know what Lucas will say if I don’t.
He’ll say you can’t keep this distance forever.
He’s wrong. I have to. At least for now.
An hour passes before I drive away. The city swallows me again, its heartbeat steady and cold.
But when I close my eyes, I still see hers, green and stubborn, the way they were the night I said the words that broke her.
I wonder if she still dreams of that night.
Because I do. Every time I sleep.
And every time, I wake before I can reach her only to find the bed empty next to me.
The next morning, I stand on a rooftop across from her building as dawn bleeds pink into gray. A security van idles near the entrance; the smell of silver residue still lingers. I file a silent report to Lucas.
“Building secure,” I say into the speaker. “Send cleanup crew by nine. Make it look like routine pest control.”
“Copy that,” his voice replies. “And you?”
“I’ll be gone before she wakes.”
But I don’t leave right away. I wait, just long enough to see her step out with the twins. Aurora’s wearing a beige coat, hair up, a coffee cup in one hand, a small backpack slung over the other shoulder. The kids trail behind, chattering. Aria twirling her umbrella, Lior pointing at a stray cat by the curb.
Aurora bends to tie his shoe. Her hair slips loose, brushing her cheek. My breath catches.
Koda murmurs softly,
Home.
I force the wolf back, jaw tight. “We don’t get to say that anymore.”
Still, I can’t help the smile that ghosts across my face when Lior trips, when Aurora laughs, when Aria waves at the clouds. They look untouched by everything I am, everything I ru
They reach the corner. A cab pulls up. Aurora checks her watch and ushers them inside. The car pulls away, carrying my whole heart in its backseat.
And I’m left here again, protector, ghost, sinner.
But tonight, when the city sleeps, I’ll be here again. Watching. Guarding.
Just close enough to keep them safe.
Just far enough to never touch them.
Because that’s the distance between us.
And for now, it’s the only thing keeping them alive.