Chapter 18 Secret Conversation

Chapter 18 Secret Conversation
Kaelen

I shouldn’t be sneaking around like this, trying to run into Sierra any chance I can take. Long ways around, detours through unprecedented hallways, every avenue I can find to be in the same space as her, to breathe the air she breathes. A quiet warmth beneath my ribs grows, steady and insistent, like a heartbeat that isn’t mine but knows my name.

The pull tightens the moment I spot her. She’s kneeling in the eastern gardens, the late afternoon sun filtering through the trellised vines overhead, catching in her hair and highlighting her skin. It doesn’t rush me forward. It anchors me. Roots me to the flagstones as if the ground itself wants me still.

She senses me—of course she does—and looks up. Our eyes meet, and the world narrows. There’s a flicker of surprise, quickly masked, then something else that mirrors what I feel, too–recognition.

“Lord Kaelen,” she says, starting to rise.

“Don’t,” I reply too quickly. “Please. You don’t need to—”

She’s already on her feet, already composed, guarded again. I hate that I’m the reason for it.

“I was just finishing here,” she says, gesturing to the basket of trimmed vines at her feet.

“I wasn’t sent,” I say. The truth lands between us, fragile and exposed. “I just… needed air.”

Her brow creases slightly.

“I find it helps to be near growing things,” I say. “Reminds me that not everything is decaying.”

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

The words sit there, heavier than they should be. No one asks me that without an agenda. No one expects an honest answer.

Except her.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “But it always is.”

I don’t realize I’m moving until I’m closer—too close for propriety, not close enough to touch. The air between us tightens, charged. I can feel her breath shift. I hear her swallow.

The pull hums.

“Walk with me,” I say. It’s not a command. It’s a plea disguised as one.

She hesitates only a moment before nodding.

We follow the narrow path that winds beyond the formal gardens, past the places servants frequent, into a stretch of wooded solitude. The sounds of the estate fade behind us, replaced by leaves and distant birdsong.

Here, the pack can’t hear us. Here, I can breathe.

We stop near a fallen tree, moss creeping along its length, half reclaimed by earth. Sierra’s foot catches on a root or vine, and she squeals as she begins to fall. I reach out and grasp her forearm, steadying her. The contact surges through my fingertips, tingling all the way into my core. Her eyes widen and she looks up at me, our gaze connecting and everything else falling away.

The pull surges. I take a step back before I do something reckless, before I close the physical gap between us and risk embarrassing myself–or worse. I let go of her arm, assuring her stability, and we both look around us, composing ourselves.

“This place,” I begin, then I falter. “I’m meant to inherit it,” I say finally. “The pack. The legacy. My father’s way of ruling.”

Sierra glances at me, seeming to scan me for answers to whatever question she’s thinking. “And you don’t want to.” It’s not a question.

“I don’t want to be him.” The words are bitter. Old. “I don’t want a future built on fear and bloodshed and the constant promise of annihilation.”

She watches me closely now, listening with her whole body.

“He believes cruelty is strength,” I continue. “That survival means eliminating anything that might threaten us. Entire packs, bloodlines.” I don’t say yours. I don’t have to.

Sierra’s jaw tightens. Her voice is steady when she speaks, but I hear what it costs her. “And if you refuse?”

I drag a hand through my hair. “That’s not an option–it’s the pack’s way or the highway. As long as he is Alpha, no one will support me opposing him. And I worry it will be too late once I’m Alpha. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I believe in it–his strategy, his leadership, and endangering our pack and others.” Silence stretches. Not empty. Heavy with shared knowing.

“I understand having an Alpha as your father and not agreeing with his choices….”

I turn to her fully now.

“Mine didn’t even consult me before making decisions for me. I had no idea they were considering sending me here, but even before that, my father and I could not see eye-to-eye on what was right for us, our pack, or for me.” Her voice wavers for the first time. She steadies it with effort.

The ache in my chest sharpens. I fight the instinct to reach for her, to pull her close.

“I miss them,” she says quietly. “Even after everything. I miss my people. The way we moved together. The way we knew each other’s rhythms.” Her eyes meet mine. A glistening of tears forms, but it quickly changes–hope buried beneath grief.

“I don’t know who survived,” she adds. “If anyone did. But if they did, they have to be out there, somewhere.”

“Out there?” I repeat. “You mean the remnants?”

Her breath catches. Just slightly. “I mean whoever ran,” she says carefully. “Whoever learned to disappear.”

I study her then—not as a Draven, not as an heir, but as one wolf who recognizes another. “You’re looking for them,” I say.

“Yes.”

“And you think the Dravens will find them first.”

“I know they will,” she replies. “Unless someone doesn’t want them to.”

The implication settles between us. Dangerous. Intimate. I shouldn’t say what comes next. I shouldn’t offer anything that binds me to her further. But the pull tightens, wraps around my spine, demands truth.

“I don’t want their blood on my hands,” I say. “And I don’t want yours anywhere near them.”

Her lips part. She looks startled. We’re standing too close now, presumably gravitating subconsciously. I can feel her warmth, the quiet hum of her presence aligning with mine like two notes finally finding harmony.

“I shouldn’t be here with you,” I say.

Her gaze lifts. “Because I’m a servant?”

“No.” The word comes out rough. “Because I’m not supposed to want this.”

“Want what?” she asks, softly.

I laugh under my breath. It’s humorless. Tired. “You.”

The honesty costs me something. I feel it tear loose, raw and unguarded. She doesn’t recoil, doesn’t look away. Instead, she exhales. Slow. Steady.

“I don’t know what this is,” I admit. “But it’s stronger than fear.”

She lifts her hand slowly, giving me time to stop her. When her fingers brush my wrist, it’s like something ancient settles into place.

“I feel it, too,” she whispers. “And that terrifies me.”

“Good,” I murmur. “It should.”

Our foreheads rest together, not quite a kiss, not yet. Just connection. For a moment—only a moment—the world allows us this. Then the forest shifts, distant sounds creeping back in, and reality presses close once more. We pull apart reluctantly, already changed.

“I’ll help you,” I say quietly. “However I can.”

She searches my face, weighing the cost.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding more resolved than relieved.

We turn back toward the estate together, knowing neither of us can undo what’s begun.

And knowing—deep in our bones—that fate has already chosen sides.