Page 83 of Primal

The black-and-gray wolf with those pale, ghost-like eyes. The weight of him curled around me. His warmth pressing into my body, bleeding into the cold places I didn’t think I could ever reach again. I remember how my fingers moved through his fur like I’d done it a hundred times before. I remember the way my chest stopped aching for a little while.

I’d felt like…me.

Whole.

And I still feel that way, even now as I slowly release my hold on unconsciousness. Which is more alarming than anything.

Curious, maybe even a little wary, I reach inward—toward the wolf bound inside me. I expect to find her withdrawn and listless, just as she has been. She’s quiet, still, but not in the mournful way I’ve grown used to. I find her just…calm.

It makes no sense. Not after everything. Not with how sick I’ve been. My eyes snap open before the confusion can fester any further.

I’m in my room. Which is expected and somehow completely not, because I don’t remember coming back inside. The last thing I recall is wrapping myself in layers—his hoodie included—dragging two heavy blankets downstairs, and slipping out into the backyard. The cold had felt like a balm then, the only thing that matched the numbness inside me. I remember lying on the outdoor lounge chair beneath the heavy sky, letting the quiet settle in. Letting it all go.

And then…

The wolf had come. Not just any wolf. Him.

Rennick.

It comes back all at once. The way he stood there, unmoving, like he was waiting for permission to exist near me. The press of his body as he curled around mine. That low, impossible purr. My fingers in his fur, his heat soaking into my frozen bones and filling the aching void within my chest.

I sit up fast, air rushing into my lungs like I’ve been underwater.

That wasn’t just a dream.

He was here.

Inside me, my wolf is still basking in him. She’s thrilled, as if everything is right again just because he showed up. But I can’t follow her into that feeling. I can’t forget the truth. Rennick didn’t choose me. He chose the alliance. He made his sacrifice. And I was it.

So what’s changed?

I scrub a hand through my hair, my breath hitching in my throat. The question twists and knots until a soft noise breaks through them. A shift, a breath, the creak of a chair. Something alive in the stillness.

I’m not alone.

My gaze swings toward the window.

And there he is.

Rennick Fallamhain, slouched in the cream boucle chair that looks like it might give out under the weight of him. He’s too big for it, muscular arms awkwardly folded across him, head dipped toward his chest like he tried to stay awake but lost the battle. He’s out cold. In my room.

I stare for too long, heart thudding against my ribs, caught between two truths. My wolf who wants to crawl into his lap and never leave, like that is where she lives now, and the part of me who can still remember what it felt like when the bond was forcibly ripped from me.

He doesn’t belong in that chair. He doesn’t belonghere.

But Goddess help me, something about himfeelslike he does. And that’s the part I don’t know what to do with.

I give myself one more minute, maybe two, sitting there with the sheets gathered around me, eyes locked on him. He’s so still, so unguarded, and I want to absorb every detail before he wakes.Like if I look long enough, I’ll be granted some kind of access, a small detail, that he keeps hidden from everyone else. Part of me hopes that it’ll be something that’ll make me understand him better.

His face doesn’t soften in sleep the way most people’s do. His brow stays furrowed, mouth drawn like he’s still thinking, still worrying. Like even in unconsciousness, the burden doesn’t leave the weight of everything he bears as Alpha still pressing down on him.

My gaze drifts lower, greedy in a way I’m not proud of, but too invested now to stop it.

His chest is bare, the golden tan of his skin highlighted by the mid-morning light streaming in through my windows. Every strong and sculpted line of his toro is on display, his abs are defined, pecs rising with every slow and steady breath. Shame nips at the edges of my thoughts for letting my gaze roam the way it has. But another part of me—my wolf, I think—is delighted that we are getting this chance to drink him in like he’s still ours.

My attention on the waistband of his sweatpants. They’re the familiar gray ones we keep stocked in different sizes for new omega arrivals. They’re not meant to accommodate an alpha’s size and stretch over his thick thighs and ride up at the ankles.

A quiet huff slips out, part breath, part laugh. This has to be Seren’s doing, how else would he have gotten into the cellar to get them? I can almost picture her tossing the sweats at him with some kind of muttered threat and a glower. The image is strangely comforting.

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