The silence in the northern wing of the Nightshade Pack House was profound, but for Beta Gareth, it was anything but restful. He stood guard just outside Myra’s room, a sentinel carved from muscle and loyalty. He could hear the faint, steady rhythm of her heart, the shallow intake of breath as she slept—or tried to sleep—in the opulent, secure space Luna Amelia had designated. Every one of his heightened senses was dedicated to her protection, mapping the safety of her immediate sphere.
An hour must have passed when the sounds began.
At first, Gareth dismissed it as the creak of old cedar settling or the low whisper of the Pack House wards adjusting. But the sounds grew clearer, more defined. It was a low, distressed muttering, rhythmic and desperate, laced with a thin, reedy sound that could only be stifled weeping.
Gareth stiffened, his head tilting toward the heavy, paneled door. His wolf, which had been a low, contented purr of presence, surged to attention, a coil of caution and territorial rage tightening in his gut. The sound was wrong. It was pain, deep and ancient, leaking out in the darkness.
He took a careful step closer, raising his massive fist and knocking gently, yet firmly, on the door.
“Myra? Are you alright? It’s Gareth.”
The muttering ceased abruptly. The soft weeping vanished. The silence that rushed in to replace it was sharp and unnerving.
He waited, counting to ten, his ears straining. He heard no reply, only the quickened, panicked drum of her heartbeat beneath the sudden hush.
He knocked again, louder this time, his voice laced with the Beta’s quiet authority. “Myra, answer me. Is there a problem? I need to know you are safe.”
Still nothing. Only the sound of air being held captive in a small, terrified chest.
Gareth did not hesitate further. He grasped the heavy, sculpted handle and pushed the door open, slipping inside the darkened room in one fluid, silent motion.
The expensive room was bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of moonlight filtering through the tall windows. The large, luxurious bed—piled high with soft pillows and thick blankets—stood empty, untouched.
Gareth’s gaze swept across the room and landed on the cold, polished oak floor beside the massive hearth. There, curled tightly against the unforgiving stone, was Myra.
She was huddled into a fetal position, her arms locked fiercely around her knees, her face buried into the wool of her own shirt. She was shaking, a profound, full-body tremor, and the small, distressed noises had resumed—a continuous, broken mantra of muttering, punctuated by soft, involuntary sobs.
“No… don’t leave me… stay… don’t go…”
He had expected her to be wary, maybe guarded, but never this vulnerable, never this broken. The cold floor was an insult to the strength she carried, a stark visualization of the trauma that had defined her existence.
Gareth sank to his knees beside her, his movements slow and careful, a predator approaching a wounded, terrified fawn. He did not touch her immediately. He merely knelt, letting his body heat and the scent of his Pack calm her sphere, allowing the powerful, protective hum of his mate bond to reach her in the darkness.
The muttering did not stop. He spoke her name, a low, husky whisper filled with an overwhelming surge of compassion.
“Myra. It’s me. You’re safe. You’re home.”
When she still didn’t respond, consumed by the terror of her dream, Gareth finally acted. He gently slid one arm under her back and the other beneath her knees. He scooped her into his arms, lifting her easily and carefully. She was impossibly light, stiff and cold from the floor, and she continued to clutch herself tightly even as he carried her.
He placed her tenderly in the center of the warm bed. The softness of the feather mattress seemed to startle her into a sudden, violent awakening.
Myra gasped, her eyes snapping open, wide and wild with confusion and instantaneous threat assessment. Before Gareth could fully withdraw his arms, a surge of raw, cold magic erupted from her, a low-level kinetic push aimed at throwing him back.
Gareth braced, absorbing the unexpected magical strike. He kept his movements slow and predictable, knowing a sudden retreat might trigger a full, self-defense detonation.
“Myra! Stop. It’s me, Gareth. Look at me. You’re in the Nightshade Pack House. You’re safe.”
He held her gaze, not with control, but with deep, resonant sincerity. The magic flickered and died, dissolving into the air. Recognition slowly bled the fear from her eyes, replaced by a devastating wave of mortification as she realized her state. She looked down at herself, then at the empty floor, then back at Gareth.
A low, guttural noise interrupted the emotional tension—a loud, unmistakable growl that emanated not from Gareth's chest, but from Myra’s stomach.
Myra’s face flushed scarlet, the sound of her raw, biological need grounding the entire, chaotic situation.
Gareth gave a soft, understanding chuckle, the sound easing the tension in the room instantly. “It seems we should have addressed your practical needs before your emotional ones,” he murmured. “Stay here. I will be back in two minutes. I promise.”
He left the room and returned with astonishing speed, carrying a silver tray laden with warm broth, fresh bread, and fruit. He sat on the edge of the bed as she ate, the frantic speed with which she devoured the food confirming she hadn't eaten properly in days.
Once the food had brought the blood back into her cheeks, Gareth looked down at the expanse of polished floor and then back at her.
“Why, Myra?” he asked gently. “You were sleeping on the floor. I watched you put everything you had into building those wards, but they were destroyed. Why do you choose the cold ground when you have safety and comfort here?”
Myra picked at the breadcrumbs on the blanket, her voice barely audible. “It’s a habit. It started after… the coven was destroyed. My parents. Everyone.”
She paused, gathering the strength to look at him. “When I was a girl, the wards were strong. My mother told me magic flows best through the earth, the stone. When the Heralds broke through, they came in fire. I hid in the deepest cellar, pressing myself against the stone floor. It was the last thing I felt that was solid and safe. After that night, I couldn’t bear the height or the softness of a bed. I have always slept on the ground, curled tight, hugging myself, because I couldn't trust anyone else to hold me together.”
The image of her, small and alone, year after year, clinging to the cold earth as her only protector, crushed whatever remaining defenses Gareth possessed. The trauma was etched not just in her memory, but in the rigid discipline of her sleep.
He shifted closer, his powerful body radiating warmth. “That is over, Myra,” he stated, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “That solitude ends now. You are in my Pack, in my house, and you are mine. From this moment forward, you will be treated like the last, precious bloodline you are—a Queen, a treasure, a princess.”
He opened his arms, his posture inviting and safe, a gentle wall of protective muscle.
“And you will not have to hug yourself anymore, because I will do it for you.”
Myra hesitated for only a second, then, with a broken whimper that melted the last of Gareth’s Beta facade, she leaned into him. She buried her face against the solid warmth of his chest, and Gareth wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing her against his heart. It was a hug of possession, of comfort, and of an undeniable, life-altering promise: she would never again sleep on the cold floor, alone.