Chapter 87 Slow Burns
Sable’s POV
Recovery wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t some cinematic moment where I woke up healed, strong, and whole again.
It was slow, annoying and humbling.
It was waking up sore in places I didn’t know could ache, shuffling across Kier’s penthouse like a ninety-year-old woman, and learning exactly how much Sam had stolen from me.
The first morning I made it out of bed on my own, I counted it as a victory.
I stood there, barefoot on cool hardwood floors, hands braced on the dresser while my legs trembled like they were deciding whether to support me or fold. My wolf stirred.
We would heal better if you let you mate mark us, she murmured.
“That's not happening,” I whispered back.
The door cracked open behind me.
“You talking to yourself?” Kier asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. He was leaning against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, hair still damp like he’d just showered. Dressed casual dark sweats and fitted tee that hugged his physique. My mouth watered.
“Only when I’m winning arguments,” I said.
His mouth twitched. “How do you feel?”
“Like I fought a truck and lost,” I said honestly. “But I'm standing.”
His eyes flicked down to my feet, then back to my face. Pride flashed there before he could stop it.
“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”
He didn’t move closer. He’d been careful these last few days, hovering without hovering, present without crowding. It should’ve made things easier.
It didn’t.
The mate bond didn’t care about careful.
It hummed low and constant now, a quiet ache under my skin that sharpened every time he was near. When he passed behind me in the kitchen, it flared. When he handed me a glass of water and our fingers brushed, it pulsed.
And every time, I reminded myself why I’d left.
I shuffled into the living room later, determined to prove I could function without supervision. Kier was on the couch, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear.
“No,” he said sharply. “I don’t care how the council phrases it. They don’t get to move without me knowing.”
I froze.
He glanced up, saw me standing there, and softened instantly. “I’ll call you back,” he said, ending the call without waiting for a response.
I raised an eyebrow. “Was that about me?”
“Everything’s about you lately,” he said, standing. “You need something?”
“I was going to make tea,” I said. “On my own.”
He watched me carefully. “You sure?”
I sighed. “Kier.”
“Okay,” he said, hands lifting. “Okay. I trust you.”
That word landed heavier than it should have.
I made it halfway through the process before my hands started shaking. I ignored it, stubbornness digging in. When I reached for the kettle, my grip slipped.
The kettle didn’t hit the floor.
Kier caught it and set it back on the counter.
“I had it,” I snapped.
“I know,” he said calmly. “I just… helped.”
I turned on him. “You can’t hover forever.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Yes, you are.”
His jaw tightened. “I almost lost you.”
“And I almost lost myself,” I shot back. “You don’t get to fix that by turning me into this fragile thing.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and crackling.
The bond surged—hot, demanding, pulling me toward him like gravity.
I hated it.
I hated how my body leaned forward before my brain caught up. How my heart raced just from being this close.
Kier stepped back first.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I hear you.”
I exhaled, the anger draining as fast as it had flared. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” He said.
We stood there, awkward and unresolved, until he nodded toward the couch. “Sit. Before you fall over trying to prove a point.”
I muttered something under my breath but sat.
Later that night, the city stretched below us in glittering silence. I’d wandered onto the balcony on my own. The air was cool, grounding.
Kier followed a minute later, stopping a respectful distance away.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said.
“I’m not made of paper,” I replied.
“I know,” he said. “But you’re still healing.”
“So are you,” I said before I could stop myself.
He stiffened. “What makes you say that?”
I turned toward him. “You’re wound tight. Watching doors. Flinching at every sound. You haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time.”
He didn’t deny it.
His gaze locked on mine, raw and unguarded. “Can you blame me?”
The bond pulsed, warm and aching.
“I don’t know what this is anymore,” I admitted. “I want you. I feel you. And I still don’t trust what fate tried to force on us.”
“I don’t want fate,” he said. “I want choice.”
“That’s easy to say when you’re the Alpha.”
“I never wanted to own you,” he said quietly. “I wanted to stand beside you.”
The words slid under my skin, dangerous and tender.
I stepped closer without realizing it.
He didn’t move. Didn’t reach. Just waited.
The space between us felt electric.
“Kier,” I whispered, torn.
“I know,” he said. “We don’t have to decide anything tonight.”
“But the bond...”
“It’ll wait,” he said. “We don’t have to rush.”
I leaned my elbows on the railing, staring out at the city. “I’m afraid if I choose you, I lose myself.”
He stepped closer, still not touching. “And I’m afraid if you don't.”
We stood there in the quiet, the bond humming between us like a live wire neither of us was ready to grab.
Recovery wasn’t dramatic.
But the tension?
That was building into something neither of us could ignore for much longer.