Chapter 22 22
Marigold POV
Of course, the gods just had to ruin the one decent night of sleep I’ve had in weeks. I’d finally gotten comfortable—wrapped in Gregor’s ridiculously large shirt that smelled way too good for my peace of mind—when the damn growling, howling, blood-splattering show started at dawn.
I shot upright so fast I nearly toppled into the fire. Nonna was already clutching her spoon like it was a holy relic, muttering prayers and curses in the same breath. And me? I was pressed into the corner with her, staring wide-eyed at the scene unfolding.
Gregor—well, his wolf—was tearing through intruders like they were warm bread rolls. Blood, fur, weapons, snapping bones—it was a nightmare ballet, and he was the star performer. And let me tell you, the front row seat was not as glamorous as it sounds.
“Mother of—Nonna, I swear, if one of those ears flies in this direction, I’m out!” I hissed, pulling her spoon-wielding self tighter into the corner.
“Stay down, girl,” Nonna snapped, though she herself was peeking over my shoulder like a gossiping old crow at market day. “The Alpha’s in his element.”
“In his element?!” I yelped. “That’s murder, Nonna! There is blood everywhere! I mean—look at that! He just bit a guy’s arm clean off. That is not what I’d call an ‘element.’ That’s—oh gods—OH, EW, HE’S SHAKING IT LIKE A TOY!”
But...
I don’t know how long I sat on the floor clutching his shirt to my chest—maybe minutes, maybe hours. Time was slippery after the knives and the howls. My fingers trembled so badly the fabric stuttered in my grip. It smelled like him: storm and smoke and something that felt like danger stitched with safety. The shirt had soaked up more than his scent. It had soaked up my fear and the echo of his killed men and now it was the only thing between me and the hollow place inside my ribs.
Nonna fussed with a flannel and some herbs, but it was quieter than usual, her hands moving like someone whispering a prayer into the wound. Her voice was softer when she spoke to me, the old woman’s rasp full of both scolding and gratitude. “You are stubborn, ragazza,” she said, muttering as she dabbed at a cut on my arm. “But you are not dead. You have fire.” Then, firm as bread, “Eat. Drink. You will need strength.”
Gregor’s wolf—massive, terrifying, fur streaked red—lifted his head then and howled. The sound shook the walls of the cottage. My insides turned to jelly. Not because I was scared. No, not me. Pfft. I was… startled. Extremely, violently startled.
When it was over—just a heap of mangled intruders littering the balcony like bad décor—he turned those glowing, feral eyes on us. For a split second, I thought, well, this is it, I’m breakfast.
So naturally, I did the most logical thing possible: I threw a log at him.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that!” I shrieked, hugging Nonna tighter, both of us now covered in soot and panic. “You don’t just go all bloody-wolf-mode and then make eye contact like we’re supposed to have a heartfelt moment afterward. No! Absolutely not. Go wipe your face or something!”
His wolf blinked. Tilted his head. Then—of course—he padded closer, muzzle dripping blood like some kind of medieval horror painting.
“Oh hell no, you’re not coming in here like that!” I waved my arms furiously. “Stay outside! Use the river! I am not scrubbing werewolf gore off this floor, Alpha or not!”
Nonna, goddess bless her bold old heart, just smacked me with her spoon. “Shut your mouth, girl. He saved our hides.”
“Yeah, but does he have to look like a scene from Game of Thrones while doing it?!” I snapped. “Some of us haven’t even had coffee yet!”
And then he shifted back. Right there. Just—boom. Naked Gregor, covered in blood and scratches, standing on the balcony like some kind of murdery, grumpy demigod. My jaw dropped. Nonna’s spoon clattered to the floor.
“You’re welcome,” he growled, low and dangerous, chest still heaving from the fight.
“Welcome?!” I shot back, gesturing wildly at the carnage. “You ruined my morning nap, nearly gave me a heart attack, and tracked blood into the house! Do I look thankful?!”
But I was.
I wanted to tell him how small I felt, how terror had been my most reliable companion for years. I wanted to tell him how every bark of laughter or sideways look from my family had scraped a little more of me away. I wanted to tell him how the quiet I’d been living in felt like armor until someone shaved it blunt off. Instead I said, “I won’t be a burden.”
He barked a humorless little laugh. “You are not a burden.”
The truth of that was part comfort and part a new kind of tether. I could feel—vaguely, like a thread taut between us—the edges of something binding tighter: responsibility, anger, purpose. The idea of moving as a unit, of answering violence with a plan rather than with fleeing, made my throat close with both fear and a dangerous sort of exhilaration. Someone had tried to make us expendable; we would not be convenient for them.
Nonna groaned, muttering something about young fools and mate bonds, while I yanked Gregor’s stupid shirt tighter around me. The infuriating part? Even covered in gore, scars, and naked arrogance, he still looked like sin. And I hated that my heart was thundering for more than just fear.
“Ugh,” I muttered, dragging Nonna toward the kitchen. “Next time, Alpha, warn a girl before you go full National Geographic in her living room.”
I swear, the bastard smirked.
But, I know I could count on him.
A plan.
There it was—plan. Action. The small, solid thing to hold onto. Even fear made me feel useful now.
I smiled then, an ugly little thing, and marveled at the ridiculousness: the way his shirt hung on me, the way Nonna fussed over mine and his wounds as if dressing us were the same as sealing an alliance, the way the world outside still had teeth but inside the cottage there was a stubborn flame.
Tomorrow we would move. Tomorrow we would run. Tomorrow we would fight. Tonight, I let myself fall into the thin, dangerous comfort of a shirt that smelled like a protector and the knowledge that I had a man who would—if needed—tear the world open to keep me breathing.
It was not romance. Hell no!
Not even civil. Not yet. It wasn’t even friendship. It was a fragile and furious kind of trust that tasted like iron and garlic and something else I couldn’t name. I hugged his shirt until it smoothed under my chin, and when the first light finally slid through the shutter, I was still awake, ready, and cowardly brave all at once.