Chapter 40 LUCIAN
LUCIAN’S POV
The cottage has never felt this small.
I’ve lived here before—spent weeks hunting from these woods, hiding from politics and blood and responsibility. Back then, the silence had been a comfort.
Now it presses in on me from every direction.
I stand at the sink longer than necessary, staring at nothing while the kettle cools beside me. I can still feel her presence behind me in the bedroom—like a physical pull in my chest, low and constant.
The heat has begun in earnest.
I can smell it now.
It’s subtle, but it’s there—woven into Aria’s natural scent, blooming like something newly awakened. Honeysuckle, warm and sweet, threaded with something deeper, heavier. Not cloying. Not sharp.
Inviting.
My wolf lifts his head instantly.
Mate.
I grip the counter until the wood creaks faintly beneath my fingers.
“Easy,” I mutter under my breath.
This is exactly what Orion warned me about. The early phase is deceptive—soft, slow, almost manageable. It lulls you into thinking you’re in control.
You’re not.
I force myself to move, to busy my hands. I clean a mug that’s already clean. I check the pantry again, counting supplies I’ve already counted twice.
Anything but going back into that room too soon.
Still, I don’t stay away long.
I never can.
When I return, Aria is sitting on the bed, knees drawn up, wrapped in one of my sweaters. It hangs off her shoulder, exposing skin that looks flushed, too warm.
She looks up when she senses me, eyes bright but uncertain.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I reply, softer than I intend.
I keep my distance, leaning against the doorframe. “How are you feeling now?”
She shrugs. “Restless. And emotional. I cried because the tea was too hot.”
That shouldn’t make me smile.
It does.
“That tracks,” I say gently.
She hesitates, then asks, “Is it… bad?”
I choose my words carefully. “It’s noticeable.”
Her cheeks darken. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say immediately. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Nyra stirs faintly in my awareness—hers reaching for mine in a way that’s instinctive, curious.
I shut that door firmly.
“I need to be honest with you,” I say.
Her shoulders tense. “Okay.”
“I spoke to Orion before I came back,” I continue. “He gave me something that might help later—only if things get overwhelming for you.”
Her brow furrows. “Help how?”
“It can help you sleep. Take the edge off when it gets too intense.”
She studies my face, then nods slowly. “That sounds… good. I think.”
“But,” I add carefully, “we don’t use it unless you want to. This is still your body. Your choice.”
Her expression softens. “Thank you.”
Silence stretches between us again, thicker now.
I feel it then—the shift. Not dramatic. Not sudden.
Just… closer.
My wolf presses harder against my restraint, senses sharpening, instincts screaming at me to close the distance, to touch, to claim.
I step back instead.
“I’m going to check the perimeter,” I say, voice rougher than I like. “Make sure everything’s secure.”
She nods, though disappointment flickers briefly across her face. “Okay.”
Outside, the cold air hits me like a slap—and I welcome it.
I pace the edge of the clearing, forcing my lungs to fill with pine and earth instead of honeysuckle and heat. I remind myself why we’re here.
She trusts me.
She’s vulnerable.
This isn’t about what I want.
It’s about protecting her—especially from myself.
By the time I return, the sun has dipped lower, painting the cottage in gold. When I step inside, I hear soft movement from the bathroom—water running.
I freeze.
Her scent intensifies, warm and damp, curling through the house with renewed strength.
My vision sharpens painfully.
Mate, my wolf growls again, louder this time.
“No,” I whisper. “Not like this.”
When she emerges, hair damp, cheeks flushed, wrapped in a towel, I turn away instantly.
“Lucian?” she asks, uncertain.
“I’m here,” I say, staring very hard at the wall. “Just—give me a second.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “I didn’t mean to make it harder.”
I turn then—slowly, deliberately—meeting her eyes.
“You didn’t,” I say firmly. “This is just… part of it.”
Her gaze flicks over my face, lingering on my clenched jaw, the tension in my shoulders.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” she says quietly.
The words hit harder than any accusation.
“I know,” I reply. “But I have to be steady.”
She nods, understanding more than she should.
That night, we don’t sleep.
Not really.
She dozes in restless intervals, waking often, emotions spilling over without warning. I sit beside her, offering water, grounding words, my presence—nothing more.
When she cries, I hold her hand.
When she trembles, I anchor her with my voice.
When the heat surges and her body arches instinctively toward mine, I turn my face away and breathe through it.
By dawn, exhaustion weighs heavy in my bones.
But she’s still safe.
And I’m still standing.
For now.