Chapter 36 LUCIAN
LUCIAN’S POV
The hardest part of restraint isn’t the wanting.
It’s the waiting.
I learned that long before Aria ever walked into my life—learned it through years of command, of holding lines that others tested daily. Alphahood taught me discipline. Pack politics sharpened it. Loss tempered it.
But none of that compares to sitting across from my mate while her heat hums beneath her skin like a living thing, while instinct roars in my blood and demands I take what is freely offered.
I don’t.
Because wanting her isn’t the same as deserving her.
Aria sleeps on the couch, curled in on herself, blanket clutched to her chest. Her breathing is even—thanks to the sedative Orion gave me—but there’s tension even in her rest. Like her body is braced for something it doesn’t fully understand yet.
Varos watches her with me, quiet for once.
She’s stronger than she knows, he says.
“She shouldn’t have to be,” I reply.
That’s the thing that knots my chest. Aria has survived by being strong. By enduring. By adapting. Every instinct in me wants to take that weight from her—to be the one standing between her and the world for once.
But protection isn’t possession.
I move quietly, adjusting the blanket when it slips from her shoulder. The scent of honeysuckle drifts up, richer than it was yesterday. Sweet. Warm. Alive.
My jaw tightens.
Cold shower, Varos suggests dryly.
“Already had one,” I mutter. “Didn’t help.”
He chuckles, low and knowing. You’re not broken. You’re bonded.
“That doesn’t make this easier.”
No, it doesn’t.
I retreat to the kitchen and busy myself with pointless tasks—cleaning a counter that’s already spotless, rearranging supplies I meticulously stocked last night. Orion wasn’t exaggerating when he said this would take stamina. Or patience.
I have both.
What scares me is whether that will be enough.
My phone buzzes.
Darius.
I step outside before answering.
“Report,” I say.
“Malrik’s still quiet,” he replies. “Too quiet. No movement since last night. But I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” I say. “Stay close. Don’t engage unless necessary.”
“And you?”
I glance back through the window, where I can see Aria’s sleeping form. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”
There’s a pause. Then, softer, “You sure you’re okay?”
I consider lying.
“I’m scared,” I admit instead. “But I won’t fail her.”
“You won’t,” Darius says without hesitation. “You’re not the man you used to be.”
“No,” I agree quietly. “I’m better.”
We end the call, and I remain outside a moment longer, breathing in the crisp forest air. The cottage sits at the edge of the pack’s borders, secluded and still. Safe.
Or as safe as anything can be right now.
When I return inside, Aria is awake.
She’s sitting up slowly, eyes glassy but aware. Her gaze finds me immediately, relief softening her expression.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
“I didn’t go far,” I say, moving closer—but stopping a careful distance away. “How do you feel?”
She frowns, thinking. “Like my body is buzzing. Not painful. Just… loud.”
“That’s normal,” I tell her. “Orion said the early stages can feel like that.”
She nods, then hesitates. “I don’t like feeling out of control.”
“I know,” I say gently. “But you’re not alone in it.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “You’re really staying?”
“As long as you need me,” I answer. No hesitation. No conditions.
Something in her chest seems to loosen at that. She exhales slowly, then pats the space beside her.
“Sit with me?”
Varos perks up instantly.
I sit.
Close enough to feel her warmth—but not touching. Not yet.
We talk about small things. About the cottage. About her friends. About nothing at all. The sound of her voice calms something primal inside me, grounding instinct with reason.
At some point, her words trail off.
Her head tips sideways, resting against the back of the couch.
“She’s drifting,” Varos notes.
“I know.”
I watch her fight it—eyelids fluttering, fingers curling into the blanket like she’s afraid sleep might steal something from her.
Before she fully slips under, she whispers, “Thank you… for not pushing.”
My throat tightens.
“Always,” I promise.
She sleeps again, deeper this time.
I don’t move.
Hours pass like that. Me keeping watch. Her resting. The world holding its breath.
This isn’t weakness.
This is choosing her—again and again—over instinct, over fear, over everything that tells me to take instead of wait.
And when she finally stirs again, eyes clearer this time, the first thing she does is smile at me.
Not shy. Not scared.
Just… warm.
Maybe that’s what hope looks like.