The estate smelled like dust and old books and something darker I couldn't quite place—woodsmoke, maybe, or cedar left too long in the rain.
Zyaire didn't give me time to unpack.
"Kitchen's through there," he said, gesturing vaguely toward a doorway without looking at me. "You'll find what you need. Dinner at seven."
I blinked. "You want me to cook?"
"That is generally what household attendants do, yes." He turned a page in whatever book he was reading—something dense and leather-bound that looked older than both of us combined. "Unless you'd prefer to catalog my collection of eighteenth-century territorial treaties. I can arrange that instead."
I stared at him. He didn't look up.
"Dinner," I said slowly. "At seven."
"Correct."
I walked into the kitchen and stood there for a full minute, trying to decide if I was angry or relieved or just too numb to tell the difference. The cold hollow in my chest throbbed faintly. I pressed my hand to my neck—the mark was still there, still empty—and then I made myself drop my hand and look around.
The kitchen was a disaster. Not dirty, exactly, but chaotic in a way that suggested someone who cooked only under duress and cleaned up even less willingly. Spices were shoved into cabinets with no organizational logic. The knives were good quality but stored in a drawer like afterthoughts. There was a cast-iron skillet that had clearly never been seasoned properly.
I rolled up my sleeves.
By six-thirty, I had produced roasted chicken with herbs I found growing wild near the back door, mashed potatoes, and green beans that I'd had to wash three times to get the grit off. It was more food than two people needed. I knew that. I also knew I couldn't stop my hands from moving, couldn't sit still, couldn't let the silence settle long enough for my thoughts to catch up.
Zyaire appeared at exactly seven o'clock.
He looked at the table—set with actual plates, actual napkins I'd dug out of a drawer—and raised an eyebrow.
"This is excessive," he said.
"You said dinner."
"I said dinner. Not a production."
I sat down across from him and said nothing. He served himself without comment and began eating. I watched him take the first bite, then the second. His expression didn't change. He ate methodically, precisely, like someone performing a necessary task.
After five minutes of silence, he said, "The seasoning is slightly off."
I looked up sharply. "Excuse me?"
"The chicken. You used thyme, but the ratio is incorrect. It overpowers the rosemary."
My hands tightened around my fork. "The chicken is fine."
"It's edible. That is not the same as fine."
I stared at him. He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. Reached for his water glass. Did not look at me.
Something hot and sharp flared in my chest—not quite anger, but close enough that I recognized the shape of it.
"If you don't like it," I said quietly, "you can cook your own dinner tomorrow."
"I didn't say I don't like it. I said the seasoning is off."
"That's the same thing."
"No," he said, finally meeting my eyes, "it isn't."
We stared at each other across the table. His gaze was steady, dark, unreadable. My wolf stirred faintly—just a flicker, barely there—and then went still again.
Zyaire finished his plate. Every bite. Then he stood, carried his dishes to the sink, and walked out of the kitchen without another word.
I sat there alone, staring at the half-eaten food on my own plate, and realized my hands had stopped shaking.
---
The blanket appeared that night.
I'd retreated to my quarters after cleaning up—a small room at the back of the estate with a narrow bed, a chair, and a window that looked out over the dark forest. I hadn't unpacked my bag. I'd set it by the door and then sat down on the floor with my back against the wall, because the bed felt too exposed, too vulnerable.
The cold mark on my neck pulsed faintly. I pressed my fingers to it and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, there was a blanket folded on the chair.
I stared at it. I hadn't heard anyone come in. The door hadn't opened. But the blanket was there—thick, soft, the kind of warmth that felt deliberate.
I stood up slowly and touched it. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something darker I couldn't name.
I pulled it around my shoulders and sat back down on the floor.
I cried for exactly fifteen minutes. Quietly. The kind of crying that doesn't make noise because you've learned not to let it. Then I stopped, wiped my face with the edge of the blanket, and made myself breathe.
I was done waiting to be saved.
---
The next morning, I reorganized Zyaire's bookshelves.
They were a disaster—volumes stacked sideways, subjects mixed together with no logic, books that clearly belonged in a series separated by three shelves and a potted plant that was half-dead. I pulled everything down and started sorting by subject: history, law, fiction, reference.
It took me four hours.
Zyaire walked in at noon, stopped in the doorway, and stared.
"What," he said slowly, "did you do."
"I organized your books."
"You destroyed my system."
"You didn't have a system. You had chaos with delusions of order."
He walked to the nearest shelf, pulled out a volume, and held it up like evidence in a trial. "This book was acquired in 1847. It belongs next to the treaty collection from the same year. You have placed it with modern legal theory."
"It's a book about legal theory. That's where it goes."
"It goes where I put it."
"Then you put it in the wrong place."
We stared at each other. His jaw tightened. My wolf flickered again—stronger this time, curious—and I felt my own spine straighten in response.
"Fix it," he said.
"No."
His eyebrow rose a fraction. "No?"
"If you want it organized by acquisition date, do it yourself. I'm not your archivist."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he set the book down on the nearest surface, turned, and walked out.
Twenty minutes later, I found every single book back in its original chaotic position.
I stood in the doorway and laughed—a short, startled sound that surprised me more than it should have.
Then I went to make coffee.
---
The coffee was terrible.
I discovered this on day three, when I walked into the kitchen at dawn and found Zyaire already there, pouring himself a cup of something that smelled burnt and vaguely hostile.
I watched him take a sip. He did not flinch.
"That's undrinkable," I said.
He looked at me over the rim of the cup. "Your opinion is noted."
"It's not an opinion. It's a fact. That coffee is objectively bad."
"Then don't drink it."
"I'm not going to. But you shouldn't either. It's a crime against beverages."
He took another sip. Deliberately. "I've been drinking this coffee for five years."
"That explains so much about you."
His mouth twitched—just barely, just enough that I saw it before he turned away.
"If you're going to criticize," he said, setting the cup down, "you're welcome to make it yourself."
"I will."
"Good."
"Fine."
We stood there in silence. His scent—dark amber and woodsmoke—curled around me, and my wolf stirred again. Not violently. Just a quiet, persistent awareness that hadn't been there before the rejection.
I made myself look away first.
That afternoon, Zyaire found me in the kitchen and handed me a pair of running shoes.
"What are these for?" I asked.
"Scent acclimation," he said. "For diplomatic research purposes."
I looked at him. He looked back, expression utterly neutral.
"Diplomatic research," I repeated.
"I need to catalog the behavioral patterns of an unfamiliar she-wolf's scent. For territorial documentation."
I waited for him to elaborate. He did not elaborate.
"You're making that up," I said.
He handed me the shoes. "Tree line. Dusk. Don't be late."
He walked out before I could argue.
I looked down at the shoes in my hands. They were my size. Exactly my size.
My wolf stirred again—stronger now, curious and awake in a way she hadn't been since the rejection.
I laced up the shoes and went to meet him at the tree line.
