Chapter 47
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of silence that crept into your chest and refused to leave.
Hardin sat alone in the living room, the last embers of the fire flickering low. His mind was restless—half on the pack, half on Rhianna, and mostly on the uneasy stillness that had settled over everything since Sebastian and Brittany left for the healer’s ward.
The door creaked.
He turned—and froze.
Rhianna stood there in a loose cream sweater, hair falling in messy waves down her shoulders. Her eyes were tired, rimmed with red, like she hadn’t slept in days. There was something raw in her expression—something that made his chest ache before she even spoke.
“Can I come in?” she asked softly.
Hardin blinked once, then nodded. “Of course.”
She stepped closer, folding her arms like she was trying to keep herself from breaking apart. “I just—” Her voice faltered. “They haven’t come back yet. Sebastian and Brittany. And I didn’t want to stay in that empty room alone. It feels… loud. Even when it’s quiet.”
Hardin rose slowly from the couch. “You can stay as long as you want.”
Her lips curved into a weak smile. “You always say that.”
He smiled faintly, but there was worry behind it. “And I always mean it.”
For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them charged and silent. The firelight danced across her face, painting her skin in gold and shadow. She looked fragile, heartbreak wrapped in skin.
Rhianna took a deep breath, her gaze flickering up to his. “Do you ever wish things were simple again? When we were kids—before all of this?”
He chuckled softly. “When all we had to worry about was sneaking berries from the kitchen before my mother caught us?”
She laughed quietly, but it died almost as soon as it came. “Back then, you always protected me. Even when you didn’t have to.”
“I still do,” he said gently.
That made her look away, blinking fast. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned back toward him. “Then why does it feel like I’m slipping away, Hardin? Like no matter what I do, I’m… fading.”
He took a step closer, instinctively, his voice low. “You’re not fading, Rhi.”
“You don’t know that,” she whispered. “Sometimes I wake up and it’s like my body’s just… tired of me. Like it’s giving up.”
Her voice cracked then, breaking through his chest like a knife.
Before he could think, he reached out—his hands finding her shoulders. “Hey,” he murmured. “You’re still here. You hear me? You’re still here.”
Her gaze lifted, trembling with tears, and something in her broke. She surged forward, kissing him—desperate, hungry, trembling. It wasn’t graceful; it was pain and longing and everything she’d kept locked away for too long.
Hardin froze for a moment, her lips soft against his. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The scent of her filled the air—wildflowers, salt, and something purely her.
Then slowly—gently—he broke the kiss.
Her breathing hitched. “Don’t… don’t stop,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Please. I’m tired, Hardin. I’m tired of feeling empty. Just—let me feel something.”
He cupped her face in his hands, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Rhianna…” His voice was rough, pained. “If I touch you now, it won’t be because you want me. It’ll be because you’re hurting—and I’d rather die than take advantage of that.”
Her lips trembled. “I’m not fragile.”
“I know you’re not,” he said, voice breaking slightly. “That’s why I can’t. Not like this.”
She tried to speak again, but he didn’t let her. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then guided her gently toward the bed.
“Lie down,” he said softly. “You need rest.”
“Hardin…” she whispered, weakly protesting.
He lay beside her—not too close, not too far—and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. She turned to face him, eyes still glassy with tears. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her cheek. Then, without another word, he wrapped an arm around her and drew her closer—close enough that her head rested against his chest.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
She didn’t respond. But slowly, her body relaxed, and her breathing evened out against his heartbeat.
Hardin stared at the ceiling, wide awake. His hand brushed her back softly, almost absently, as if trying to reassure himself she was still there.
Why does it feel like she’s slipping away, he thought, his chest tightening.
Even when she was right there, warm in his arms—
—it felt like she was already halfway gone.