Page 64 of Primal

It’s a mix of stubbornness and pure emotional exhaustion that keeps me frozen in place. And physical exhaustion, if I’m being honest. But mostly…mostly I’m just scared. Like a kid hiding under the covers, eyes shut tight, convinced the monster can’t see them if they just stay still.

But I can’t cling to that kind of childhood naivety, even if I wanted to.

So, I brace myself for whatever he might say, whatever possible hurt he might drop in my lap next. But it never comes. Instead, I feel the brush of his arm against mine, barely there, but enough to have my body snapping tight with tension, and then something warm settles over my shoulders.

My eyes fly open.

He’s wrapped an unzipped hoodie around me, soft and worn-in, the sleeves long enough to swallow my hands if I were to stick my arms in. It’s the unmistakable scent, the one I’ve been spared from today, thanks to thelovelyside effects of rejection, that seeps from the dark green fabric and confirms it’s his. It’s too close to miss now, too strong to pretend I don’t notice. My body reacts before my brain can stop it. Like someone shocked back to life, something inside me jolts. A spark. The faintest hope of survival.

And just as quickly, I flatline.

Because all it takes is one heartbeat, one instinctive reach for the thread that used to tether me to him, and coming up empty, to remember that scent is no longer meant to symbolize“home”. It’s loss.

I’m too stunned to move.The cold is still biting, but the warmth of the hoodie is already seeping into my skin, curling around the part of me that misses the bond like it’s a phantom limb.

“You’ve been shivering all day,” he says quietly, gently. Like if he speaks any louder, I’ll bolt. “It’s too cold out here for you right now.”

Something tightens in my chest.

There’s an innate part of me, a weary, soft part, that wants to melt under the weight of that concern. That wants to lean into the comfort he’s offering. But another part, the smarter part, the burned and scarred part, rears back, blinking at him in disbelief.The audacity of this man…

“You don’t have to pretend you care about my well-being now, Alpha,” I say, the title sharp as broken glass on my tongue as my hand, as if of its own volition, clutches the open lapels of the hoodie and tightens the weighted fabric that smells of him around me. If he notices he doesn’t say anything. “I think we’ve moved past that, don’t you?”

His reaction is instant. He jerks back like I’ve slapped him, expression cracking. And for the first time today, I reallylookat him—don’t just flick my eyes in the direction of his face. I take him in and note the matching dark circles and the grim set of his mouth. He doesn’t look like the man who eviscerated me and then left me bleeding.

He looks like he’s also bleeding.

Like whatever damage he did to me, he carved it into himself just as deep. And maybe that’s supposed to make me feel better—like some twisted form of justice—but it doesn’t. All it does is make the air between us heavier. Sadder.

“I…” he starts, like he might argue, might defend himself, but something in his expression closes itself off. His jaw flexes, then tightens. I catch the way his lips part slightly before he exhales and shakes his head, like he's trying to shake away the line of thinking he’d just fallen down. Straightening, his shoulders squaring, he looks at me with practiced composure. “I want to know what you’re doing with omegas,” he says, even-toned. “And why people would know to send them to you for help.”

My spine stiffens instantly, something combative twitching inside me. Every protective instinct I have coils, ready to strike. My first thought isnoand my first instinct is to tell him to go straight to hell. That he doesn’t get to ask me questions. Not about that. Not aboutthem.

But then, his voice softens.

“Please,” he rasps, sounding a little bit like a man who’s drowning. “I want to know how you were able to help Siggy when I couldn’t.”

That one fucking word.Please.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does. It’s him asking—pleading—not commanding. And that, more than anything else, deflates my fight. With a sigh that scrapes across my dry and tender throat, I lean heavier against the railing.

It’s bullshit, really. That I’m about to offer him the explanation he didn’t extend to me before deciding I was expendable. Before deciding that our bond, my heart, was an acceptable sacrifice for a political arrangement he doesn’t even want. One he was backed into out of desperation.

Still, I give it to him.

Not in full. Not with every sacred detail. But enough.

“From what I’ve learned from Rhosyn and Canaan, it sounds like we want the same thing.To protect and help omegas,” I tell him.“We’re just going about it differently.” That last part? It’s a knife I mean to twist. I don’t even try to conceal my intentions for that one.

He flinches. Subtle, but it’s there. The color drains slightly from his sun-kissed skin, a tell he probably doesn’t realize he’s giving away. He knows that Iknow. Knows I’ve been told enough to connect all the dots—the omegas, the deal, the alliance,her. I see it all now. And maybe he thought that would make it easier somehow. It doesn’t. It just makes it hurt with sharper edges.

He stays quiet.

So, I explain. I tell him that after my mom and I left Pack Fallamhain, Thalassa used her healer background and dedicated it to the designation that was constantly targeted. That she saw and heard too many stories about omegas being battered, hunted, used, and she wanted to help where she could. Describeto him how I helped her build and shape it, but explain that Mom was the reason it is what it is today.

She used her vast connections to spread the whispers, to build the network that created the safe haven.

I keep the witches vague. A passing mention. Enough to draw his attention but not enough to break the trust of the tight-lipped Ashvale Coven. He listens, stone still. His eyes widen, just barely, when I state how many omegas we’ve taken in. How many we’ve rehabilitated. How many we’ve saved.

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