The third night, I helped him clean up after dinner.
It was a small thing. He had made lemon chicken and roasted potatoes, and I had eaten more than I had eaten in a week. I stood at the sink rinsing plates while he put things back in the fridge. The kitchen was warm. The lake outside was dark glass.
He reached past me to set a bowl on the counter. His arm brushed mine.
The scent hit like a wave.
Dark cedar. Wild honey. Not the careful, held-back version I had been living with for three days. This was the full thing. It rolled through me and settled low in my belly and Sera made a soft, wanting sound inside my head that I had never heard from her before.
Joaquin went still.
I turned to face him. He was closer than I thought. His hand was still on the counter behind me. I could see the leather cord on his wrist where his sleeve had ridden up.
My fingers moved before I decided. I closed them around the cord.
It was worn soft and dark. My braiding was still visible in the pattern — the three-strand technique my mother had taught me the summer I was twelve. Four years he had been wearing this. Four years.
I looked up at him.
"You kept it," I said.
His throat moved. "I never took it off."
His eyes were on my mouth.
My hand slid up from the cord to his wrist to the inside of his forearm. His skin was hot under my fingers. His other hand found my waist, hesitant at first, then firmer when I did not step away.
He bent his head.
The kiss was not gentle. It was not rough either. It was the kind of kiss that had been waiting a long time. His mouth on mine, slow at first, and then the bond snapped between us like a plucked wire and I felt it in my ribs, in my teeth, in the soles of my feet. Sera made that sound again. Somewhere I could not see, another wolf answered — a low, ragged howl that had to be Cain.
Joaquin's hand slid up my back and into my hair. Mine curled in the collar of his shirt. I did not know how long we stood there. Long enough that when he finally broke away, both of us were breathing like we had run.
He rested his forehead against mine. His hand cupped the back of my neck.
"Camila."
Just that. Just my name. Like it was the only prayer he knew.
I closed my eyes. "Tell me."
He did. Quietly. Standing in the middle of his kitchen with his forehead against mine.
"You were sixteen," he said. "You walked across the hall in a green dress and you stopped in front of me. Everyone else had looked past me all night. You said I was stronger than anyone knew. You put this on my wrist." His thumb brushed the cord where my hand still rested. "I did not sleep that night. I did not sleep well for a long time after."
I kept my eyes closed.
"Cain has been asking me to claim you for four years," he said. "I told him you were too young. Then I told him you were promised. Then I told him you deserved better than a man they had already buried alive." A pause. "He did not agree with any of it."
"The night of the ceremony," I said.
"I was already moving," he said, "before you finished your sentence."
My eyes opened.
He was watching me. Careful. Steady. Waiting to see what I would do with all of it.
I slid my hand from his wrist to his hand and laced our fingers together.
"Take me somewhere," I said. "This weekend. Somewhere that is not this house or Ironvale or the ceremony."
His mouth almost smiled. "Anywhere."
"The lake town," I said. "The one with the boardwalk. I mentioned it once, years ago. I do not remember to who."
"To me," he said. "You mentioned it to me."
Of course.
---
The resort town smelled like fried dough and cold water. String lights ran along the boardwalk railings. Couples walked past holding paper cups of coffee. It was the kind of place where nobody knew what a Mate Ceremony was.
Joaquin held my hand.
We were coming out of a candy shop — he had bought me a bag of salted caramels because I had paused in front of the window for two seconds — when I felt Sera stiffen.
*Camila.*
I looked up.
Preston and Phoebe were coming out of the restaurant across the street. Phoebe had a hand on her belly. Preston saw us before I could look away. His eyes went to the moonstone on my hand. Then to the leather cord on Joaquin's wrist. Then back to my face.
He crossed the street. Phoebe followed at half a step.
"Camila." His voice was pitched to carry. A few onlookers slowed. "Settling for a washed-up shadow already? I would have thought a silver wolf could do better than my uncle's leftovers."
Joaquin did not answer him.
He did not raise his voice. He did not shift. He did not even turn his head all the way.
He just let his aura out.
It dropped over the boardwalk like a pressure change before a storm. I felt it in my ears. A woman two tables away at an outdoor café set her wine glass down without looking at it. A man walking his dog stopped in place. Phoebe took a small step backward and her hand went to Preston's arm.
Preston's face went the color of paper.
I watched his wolf cower behind his eyes. I watched him try to hold Joaquin's gaze and fail. His hand came up to his cuff. Straightened it. Straightened it again.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Joaquin still had not spoken.
Preston turned. He walked away too fast, Phoebe hurrying after him, her paper cup slopping coffee onto the boards. The onlookers unfroze in slow, blinking pieces.
I did not watch him go.
I looked up at Joaquin. He looked down at me.
"Salted caramel?" I said.
His mouth almost smiled again.
He took one from the bag.
