Chapter 193 – Morning and Mercy
Eli
I wake up languidly, the world coming back to me in tiny, contented increments.
Light drips through the shutters in thin gold stripes, warm enough to touch, soft enough not to hurt. The fire has gone to embers. The air smells like us and my skin is still marked by what we did to each other.
Ronan is already half awake. I can feel him behind me, the solid weight of him, his arm slung over my waist like a bar he forged there himself. He breathes deep and even, nose pressed into my neck, stubble scraping the faint marks he left the night before.
It’s a quiet that feels earned. No noise from the pack, no messages, no war to plan. Just the small sounds of home. The tick of wood settling, the whisper of his breath, my own heartbeat learning how to slow down and believe that I actually have a home.
Not the timber cottage, or even the Blackthorn pack. I love both and would miss them if I were to lose them, but home is the grumpy bastard holding me. The one who bit me without permission and watched me snarl and fight to escape him.
Neither of us were ever prepared for what we found in each other. A soulmate. A perfect balance. Incredible sexual chemistry.
I stretch a little and wince. Every muscle sings in a dozen languages, all of them the dialect of last night. The bruises are vivid, a constellation of where his hands and mouth decided to memorize me.
The ache doesn’t bother me. It’s proof of us and I treasure it.
He stirs when I move, the hand on my waist tightening briefly before sliding up my ribs in a lazy apology. “You should still be sleeping,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough from sleep.
“I’m just verifying I survived.”
“You did.”
“Barely.”
He grunts, half amusement, half satisfaction, and I feel his smile against my shoulder. The warmth of it settles something in my chest that nothing else has ever been able to calm.
When we finally untangle, the world outside is awake too. Sunlight catches the edge of his hair, gilding the dark strands.
He’s a glorious mess. Stubble shadowing his jaw, hair sticking up in every direction, chest mapped in fading scratch marks. He looks more like a wolf than a man in this moment, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more beautiful.
My stomach lets me know that I need to replenish the multitude of calories I burned last night. I pull on a shirt that isn’t mine and start rummaging through the kitchen shelves.
“You know,” I say, “Most people reward heroism with breakfast in bed. Not post-battle manual labor.”
“You’re not most people.”
“Neither are you, apparently. You could at least pretend to be domesticated.”
He’s watching me, amusement barely hidden. “Yesterday you accused me of being boring when I made coffee.”
He’s right, which annoys me. I grab the pan with a little more force than necessary, just to make a point. “You say that like you think I enjoy chaos.”
“You do. If life doesn’t provide it, you make your own.”
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me light the stove. His shirt hangs open, ridiculously defined abs winking at me one by one.
“You crave craziness so you can hand control over to me. It’s the only way you ever get quiet.”
“Don’t get poetic before coffee.”
“You love it.”
He’s not wrong about that either. I’ll have to interrupt this streak he’s on.
I pour water from the kettle, watching steam curl upward, the aroma of coffee permeating the air when hot water hits the ground beans.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are you going to pretend having me at your mercy doesn’t silence your own inner demons?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just crosses the room and pours each of us a mug, before wrapping his arms around my waist from behind and resting his chin on my shoulder.
“It does,” he admits finally, but there’s a thread of something not quite right underpinning it.
He stands there, the picture of calm authority, but his eyes are darker than usual. The kind of dark that means he’s thinking too much.
“Ronan. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
He looks up and meets my eyes. “It’s the Voice,” he says finally. “Every time I use it, I can feel it changing me a little. Like it’s something ancient trying to climb through me. I know it saved us, but it frightens me.”
The admission lands between us like a dropped stone. I know what it costs him to say that. Ronan doesn’t scare easy, and he doesn’t admit fear when he does.
I cross the space between us and take the mug from his hand. “You think it’s making you less human?”
“Maybe.” His mouth twists faintly. “Sometimes I feel the power move before I decide to use it. It knows how to command before I’ve even formed the words. It isn’t me speaking, it’s something in my blood remembering what it means to rule.”
I set the mug aside and touch his collar, tracing the edge of the rune burned into his skin weeks ago. “You’re wrong,” I say softly. “The Voice doesn’t scare me.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “No?”
“It’s not the Voice I trust.” My hand slides to his throat, resting in the same spot where he usually loves to grip me. “It’s the man behind it. The one who stops when I tell him to. The one who asks me if I want to continue when he could just take what he wants.”
Something in his face shifts. The tension that lives in his shoulders eases by a degree. He exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between relief and disbelief.
“You make it sound simple,” he says quietly.
“It is simple,” I reply. “You’re complicated.”
His laugh rumbles low. “And you’re impossible.”
“Mutual curse.”
We eat at the table with our feet tangled together under the wood. He tears the bread and passes me the larger piece without even thinking.
The sunlight keeps shifting, crawling up the walls as the morning warms. Every now and then, one of us reaches out, looking for contact. His hand brushing mine, my thumb tracing the edge of a bruise on his wrist. It’s not deliberate affection, it’s instinct. Gravity doing what gravity does.
He finishes his food before me and leans back, watching me with that faint half-smile that means his mind is wandering to indecent places.
“I’m still eating,” I warn without looking up.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He chuckles. “You were the one who said I was getting boring.”
“And in your effort to prove me wrong you nearly broke the bed last night. I’m being responsible.”
“That’s new. Bet I can change your mind.”
I throw a crust at him and he catches it easily, grinning. The sound that escapes me surprises even me. It’s laughter, real and unguarded.
After everything we’ve been through, the battles, the politics, the blood, it’s absurd that this is what undoes me. The sight of Ronan Vale laughing with his head tilted back and sunlight in his hair. The warmth of coffee. The smell of bread. Peace.
He watches me for a moment, eyes softening. “You look happy.”
“Happy is too small a word to describe what I am, but I’m suspicious of it,” I admit. “I keep waiting for something to explode.”
“Same.”
“But maybe we let it last a while anyway?”
He reaches across the table and hooks a finger under my chin, pulling me forward until our mouths almost touch. “I think we do.”
The kiss is slow. Not possessive. Just a quiet exchange of breath and promise. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever trusted without reason,” he says.
“That’s probably unwise.”
“It’s already too late for wise.”
We stay like that, forehead to forehead, until there’s a knock at the door and the real world remembers us.
“Ronan, you’re not on honeymoon, you’ve got a pack to run,” Mara calls from outside. “You have an hour to get your asses out here, or I’m coming in.”
When we step outside, the snow is melting fast. The pines drip with morning light and the air smells clean.
Ronan walks beside me, not ahead, not behind. The bond thrums steadily, a low pulse under the ribs.
“You know,” I say, “You really don’t have to be afraid of the Voice.”
He glances down at me, his gaze questioning.
“It’s just another part of you. And I know you’d never take advantage of the power it offers.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You used it sparingly even when it was the only way to keep me safe.” I bump his shoulder lightly, “And you’ve never used it to force me to behave.”
He huffs, shaking his head. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“Probably,” I agree. “But I’ll make sure it’s spectacular.”
He laughs again, low and quiet, and slides his hand into mine. His palm is rough, fingers warm, grip certain. For a while, we simply walk. Just two wolves learning how to exist without their claws out.
When the wind shifts, I catch his scent, that deep smoke-and-iron comfort that still hits like gravity. I breathe it in and feel everything in me loosen.
I look up at him. “You’re thinking too much again.”
He glances down, mouth curving. “I’m just trying to memorize this.”
“This?”
“You, in daylight, looking happy.”
I nudge him with my hip. “Careful. You’ll ruin your reputation for stoicism.”
He squeezes my hand. “Worth it.”
The path curves toward the tree line, snow melting in silver streaks. The world feels like it’s exhaling with us.
“Alpha,” I say, just to taste the word.
“Hmm?”
“You’re still not allowed to make coffee before I wake up.”
He snorts. “You seem to be confused about who gives the orders around here.”
“No confusion. I steer you in the right direction and then you do the barking.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t let go.
After that there’s only the steady beat of our bond, and the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be broken.