Page 77 of Primal

I don’t need his scent. Or his voice.

I know.

Rennick.

My breath catches, lodged somewhere between my ribs and my throat, like breathing alone might have the power to erase him. To make the dark, daunting shape vanish into smoke and float away in the cold breeze. That maybe I’ve finally snapped under the strain, and this is my mind playing some cruel, desperate trick on me. That the empty space where the bond used to live is still raw, bleeding, and it’s been screaming for him for days. Maybe it got loud enough to conjure him.

I blink once. Twice. Three times.

He doesn’t fade. Doesn’t flicker or disappear. He’s still there, solid, unmoving, a massive shape carved out of the shadows, with those pale eyes I know too well. And the way he’s watchingme, quiet and unblinking, I almost wonder if he’s questioning my reality the same way I’m questioning his.

It isn’t until I finally let go of the breath I’ve been holding hostage that he moves.

And that’s when I know he’s not a fragment of my imagination.

I don’t let myself wonder how or why he’s here. The fact that he is, is already too much.

His gaze softens. His head dips, and the sharp points of his ears ease back, not pinned in aggression, just angled low in something that feels like caution. The shift in his posture is subtle, but the energy around him changes. There’s no threat in the way he moves, only soundless tension, like even he’s nervous to be here. Unsure of how I’ll react.

He lifts a massive paw—I’m not being dramatic when I say it looks like it’s as big as my face—and takes a step toward me. It’s hesitant. Cautious. Measured in a way that doesn’t match his size.

I sit like a piece of stone.

He moves like I might bolt. Every step careful and deliberate like he knows one wrong move could send me running. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I should be afraid. I should feel the urge to turn and get as far away from him as possible.

But I don’t.

The wolf inside me, still bound, still pressing against the thinning walls of whatever spell my mom used to trap her, doesn’t want to run. She’s alert but not panicked. Not warning me to flee from him.

She’sreaching.

I feel her straining forward with something between desperation and joy. Like she knows the creature in front of us didn’t break us—hedid. The man inside. The one who was too consumed by his sense of duty to choose us.

She knows him and she wants this. Wants him. Always has.

Because even if my memories of Rennick were altered, some part of her never forgot him. She longed for him, kept her distance from other men, loyal in a way I didn’t fully understand until now. Loyal to the man. Loyal to the wolf. Always.

I can't tell if Rennick is in control of what’s happening right now, or if his wolf has taken the reins completely. Is he just along for the ride, his wolf taking the lead while he hangs back from somewhere deep inside? Did he surrender control willingly, or did his wolf take it from him?

If this animal in front of me staged a coup against Rennick, I swear to the Goddess, how will I ever be strong enough to stay away from him myself?

But the thought fades as he steps over the low hedge that separates us, his huge frame cutting through the space with careful grace. It shouldn't be possible for someone built like him to move so delicately. He approaches slowly, not once breaking eye contact, until he’s standing right in front of the lounge chair where I’m curled up like something fragile and fading.

Up close, he’s even bigger than I remember. I wonder, if I were to stand up, would our eyes be level? I’d bet money on it. I’ve mostly been around omegas and she-wolves for years. My wolf’s very obvious and sometimes visceral reaction to the male population influenced me to keep my distance. I must’ve forgotten how large alpha males really are when they shift. Or maybe it’s justhim.

He holds my gaze without flinching or yielding, but there’s no pressure in it. Just quiet patience. The choice is mine, and he won’t take it from me. When I don’t move, still locked in place and unsure how to breathe, he releases a low, almost pleading whine. The sound hits somewhere beneath my ribs, striking a place that’s already too exposed to protect. Then, slowly, he lowers his head and rests it in front of my crossed legs on thecushion like an offering. Like he’s waiting to be accepted and willing to wait forever if he has to.

Still, I don’t move. I want to, but the uncertainty coursing through me has me hesitating.

So, he shuffles forward, closing more of the space between us, and nudges my shin with the tip of his nose. A touch that’s gentle, tentative. A question that doesn’t need words to be asked.

My hand trembles as I pull it free from the warm cocoon of my pants pocket. The cold hits instantly, sharp and biting, like it’s punishing me for leaving the comfort of warmth behind. My fingers hesitate, stiff and unsure, curling in toward my palm before slowly stretching out again.

I don’t know what I’m expecting—rejection, maybe, even in this form—but the stillness of him, the quiet patience, nudges something in me that I can’t keep ignoring.

So I give in.

I let my hand settle gently on top of his head, fingertips slipping into the thick fur between his ears. It’s warm. Dense. Softer than I imagined. My fingers twitch, overwhelmed by the simple contact. Before I can fully register what he feels like beneath my touch, he makes a sound that steals the air from my lungs.

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