Page 30 of The Alpha's Runaway Mate
“Liar,” I murmur into her hair, even as I roll to the side, keeping her tucked to me. I pull the sheet up around us. The room’s cooler now, sweat drying on my skin, but she’s warm and pliant, one leg thrown over my hip like it belongs there.
She traces a finger along the dagger tattoo on my chest, slow. “What does this one mean?”
That I survived. That there are parts of me I don’t let see daylight. That I’ve done things I don’t talk about. None of those belong between us right now. “It means I earned it,” I say finally.
She hums like she understands more than I said. Her eyes are already drooping, the post-storm calm hitting her hard. She fights it for a second, like she always fights rest, like sleep’s a vulnerability she can’t afford. I curl my palm over the back of her head and guide her cheek to my chest.
“Sleep,” I tell her, softer than I mean to. “You’re safe here.”
Outside, the forest sighs against the windows. Somewhere far off, a branch snaps under the weight of the wind, and an owl calls into the dark. Up here, her breathing evens out, a steady rhythm syncing with the slow beat under my palm where it rests along her ribs.
I study her in the moonlight. The brave tilt of her chin even in sleep. The tiny worry line between her brows that hasn’t smoothed out yet. I rub my thumb across it and it eases, as if her body heard me before her mind could.
Mine,the bear says again, softer now. Not a demand. A vow.
I don’t know what’s coming for us tomorrow, what kind of hell her past might drag to our doorstep, or what the pack will thinkwhen they catch her scent on me, but the quiet in my bones isn’t fear. It’s certainty.
I tighten my arm around her, pull her close until we breathe as one, and let the rhythm of her heartbeat pull me under. The last thing I feel before sleep takes me is the slide of her hand against my side, fingers curling like she’s anchoring me there.
As if I needed anchoring. I already chose.
ELEVEN
JESSICA
The first thingI notice is the quiet. The second is the warmth pressed against my back.
For a long moment, I just lie there, eyes still closed, letting myself drift in the steady rhythm of Nolan’s breathing. He sleeps like he fights, silent, still, completely in control even when he’s out. One big arm is slung over my waist, the weight of it pinning me in the best possible way. His chest rises against my shoulder blades, slow and calm, and I can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through my spine.
The sheets smell like him, cedar, smoke, and something wilder, that clings to my skin now too. My body aches in a way that makes me smile, but there’s a flutter in my chest that isn’t quite peace. Last night feels like a dream I don’t want to wake up from. Except I did. And he’s still here.
Careful not to wake him, I ease his arm off me and roll onto my back. Morning light spills through the window, catching on the rough beams above and the faint curl of wood smoke from the dying fire downstairs. I turn toward him. He looks younger like this, softer. His jaw is dark with stubble, lashes thick againsthis cheeks, lips parted slightly. The hard edges of him are still there, the scars, the muscle, the quiet danger, but sleep smooths everything out until I can almost believe the weight he carries slipped off for a few hours.
My chest does a funny little flip. He’s beautiful. Rugged and scarred and impossible, but beautiful.
I slide out of bed, shivering when my feet touch the cool wood floor. His shirt from last night lies in a heap near the foot of the bed. I grin as I pick it up and pull it on. It’s huge on me, soft and worn, falling to mid-thigh, and it smells like him. The kind of smell that makes me want to do reckless things like bake bread and pretend this place could be home.
“Dangerous,” I mutter, buttoning a few buttons. “Completely dangerous.”
The cabin creaks as I move through it, the kind of cozy, lived-in sound that fits Nolan perfectly. Downstairs, the living room opens into a small kitchen lined with pine cabinets, mismatched mugs, and a stone fireplace still glowing faintly. I find coffee grounds by the pot, eggs in the fridge, and a skillet already on the stove, like he meant to cook but forgot.
“Time to make breakfast,” I murmur, rolling up my sleeves.
The coffee maker sputters to life, filling the cabin with the sharp, rich scent of roasted beans. I hum under my breath, flipping bacon, whisking eggs, letting the domestic rhythm soothe something fragile inside me. By the time the toast pops and the eggs are done, the place smells like comfort, coffee, bacon, and a faint trace of maple syrup I found in the cabinet.
I’m plating the food when a low, rough voice breaks the silence behind me.
“Didn’t know I hired a cook.”
I jump, spinning around. Nolan’s leaning in the doorway, hair a mess, bare chest tanned and marked with ink. He’s wearing only a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, and the sight of him half-awake and barefoot ought to come with a warning label.
“You didn’t,” I say, trying for casual even as my pulse stumbles. “Consider it a thank-you.”
His eyes flick down to the hem of his shirt hanging loose on my thighs, then back up to my face. There’s a slow smile, lazy, lethal. “That my shirt?”
I glance down, pretending to check. “Hmm. Looks like it.”
“Looks better on you,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. “You planning on giving it back?”
