Chapter 86 The Quiet Before
Sable’s POV
The bath helped more than I wanted to admit.
My muscles loosened inch by inch, the ache settling into something dull instead of sharp.
Behind me, I could still feel Kier.
It was strange how comforting it was to know he was here watching after me.
“You still with me?” he asked after a minute.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The words landed heavier than I meant them to.
He cleared his throat. “Good.”
I cracked one eye open and glanced over my shoulder. He was sitting on the closed toilet lid now, forearms braced on his thighs, gaze fixed on a spot somewhere above my head. Very intentionally not looking at me.
I smirked faintly. “You know, you don’t have to act like I’m going to combust if you glance my way.”
His mouth twitched. “I’m acting like I might.”
That made me laugh.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For the bath?” he asked.
“For… all of it.”
He nodded once, like he understood there were some things better left unsaid.
We sat in companionable quiet for a bit.
Eventually, Kier spoke again. “Do you remember the bonfires?”
I smiled despite myself. “Which ones?”
“The midsummer ones,” he said. “Down by the river bend. When the elders pretended not to notice we were all drinking too much.”
I snorted. “Pretended.”
“You used to steal the best seat,” he went on, a note of fondness creeping into his voice. “That fallen log near the water. Wouldn’t let anyone sit there but you.”
“Because it was the best view,” I said. “And because Jaxon kept kicking me every time he laughed.”
Kier huffed. “He’s always been an ass.”
“Hey,” I said. “Only I’m allowed to say that.”
“Fair.”
The memories slid between us easily. Training runs at dawn. Late-night arguments. The Luna sneaking me extra candy after my dad said I had enough.
Home.
The word still hurt.
I shifted slightly in the tub, and the water sloshed. Kier immediately looked up.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
I couldn't agree more.
The water had started to cool. I shifted again, and this time he stood.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Let’s get you out before you turn into a prune.”
“I can do it myself,” I said quickly.
“I know,” he replied. “I’ll turn around.”
He did—no hesitation. I grabbed the towel he handed me without looking and wrapped it around myself.
“I’m decent,” I said.
He turned back, and for a second his gaze flicked over me before he caught himself and looked away again. Heat curled low in my stomach, unwelcome and unavoidable.
Kier picked me up and carried me back into the room. He lowered me onto the bed with careful precision, like he was afraid I might shatter.
“Stay right there,” he said quietly. “Let me get you something to wear.”
I watched him disappear into what I assume is a closet.
When he came back, he held a black t-shirt and a pair of charcoal boxers folded neatly over his arm.
“Temporary solution,” he said, placing them in my hands.
The moment the fabric brushed my skin, I froze.
They smelled like him.
Not just detergent or clean cotton — but Kier. Cedar, rain, and that deeper scent that was purely wolf. Purely mine. My wolf stirred sluggishly beneath the fading wolfbane, drawn toward it instinctively.
Heat curled low in my stomach before I could stop it.
It was unsettling how my body recognized him faster than my mind.
“You’ll have to wear these for now,” he continued. “Until I can get Jenna to pick up some of your things from your apartment.”
My apartment.
The word hit harder than I expected.
My space. My independence. My proof that I could survive outside the pack… outside of him.
I stared down at the clothes in my lap, unsure whether they felt like comfort or the quiet beginning of surrender.
A stubborn voice inside me whispered: Don’t forget who you are.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I said softly.
Kier’s brow pulled together immediately, like the idea offended him. “You aren’t.”
“I had a home,” I added, hearing the thin thread of defensiveness in my own voice. “A life.”
“You still do,” he said gently. “Right now you just need time to heal. That’s all this is.”
I nodded, but the unease didn’t fully loosen its grip.
Freedom had always meant standing on my own two feet. And here I was in his bed, wearing his clothes, and relying on him for everything.
Necessary, I reminded myself.
Temporary.
“I ordered something to eat,” Kier said after a moment. “Are you hungry?”
Now that he mentioned it, the hollow ache in my stomach made itself known.
“Yeah… a little.”
“I’ll go grab it. You going to be okay if I step out for a minute?”
The question was casual, but I heard the care threaded through it.
“I’ll survive,” I said, offering a small smile.
His gaze lingered on me like he wasn’t completely convinced, but after a second he nodded and left the room.
The quiet pressed in the moment the door shut.
I changed slowly, muscles protesting with every movement. The t-shirt slid over my shoulders, falling almost halfway down my thighs. The sleeves swallowed my arms.
I looked down at myself and exhaled.
Dangerous.
That was the word.
Because standing there wrapped in his scent felt far too close to belonging.
And belonging had always terrified me more than loneliness ever had.
When Kier returned, the smell of warm food drifted in with him. He set everything down before turning toward me and going completely still.
His eyes darkened, something hot flashing there before he carefully tucked it away.
“You look comfortable,” he said.
“They’re just clothes,” I replied.
“They’re mine,” he said quietly.
The air shifted.
He helped me sit up, stacking pillows behind me with practiced care before placing the fork in my hand.
“Easy,” he murmured when my fingers trembled. “No rush.”
I took a few bites, surprised at how grounding something so simple could feel. Kier watched me like every swallow mattered.
“You don’t have to hover,” I said.
“I know,” he answered calmly. “I want to.”
I studied him then. The restraint. The patience. The constant awareness of me.
It would be so easy to fall into this version of us.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
His expression softened. “You don't have to think me. I have to do this.”
The mate bond pulsed faintly between us, warmer now. Steadier.
And that was the problem.
Because while part of me leaned toward him another part of me still strained toward open skies and self-made choices.
I set the fork down, appetite fading beneath the weight of that realization.
I wanted him.
God, I wanted him.
But I also wanted myself.
And I didn’t know yet how to exist without losing one to keep the other.