The morning arrives without permission, filtering through curtains I don't remember closing.
I lie still beneath unfamiliar sheets, cataloging the house the way Nireya has taught me—listening for heartbeats, breathing patterns, the subtle vibrations of movement through floorboards.
The skill comes easier now, my senses sharpening with each passing day.
One presence downstairs. Steady heartbeat, controlled breathing, the particular weight of a body that holds itself with authority even at rest.
Paul.
Zane's absence registers as a hollow space in my awareness, his gentler energy no longer balancing his brother's intensity. The house feels tilted without him, weighted toward something I'm not sure I'm ready to face alone.
'He's making breakfast,' Nireya observes, and amusement threads through her presence. 'I can smell bacon. The man is trying to seduce you with pork products.'
I spent the night thinking instead of sleeping, turning possibilities over in my mind until they wore smooth as river stones.
Nobody disturbed me—no knocks on the door, no attempts at conversation, no demands for decisions I wasn't ready to make.
By the time darkness gave way to gray pre-dawn light, I had my answer.
I will stay here until the child is born or until Ricky tells me to leave. This is not pack territory, and I will not be driven from it by men who think proximity equals ownership.
If Paul wants me back at the packhouse, he can present arguments that don't rely on possession or protection or any of the other words that really mean control.
I dress in borrowed clothes, armor myself with determination, and descend the stairs ready for battle.
The kitchen stops me cold.
The table holds more food than two people could reasonably consume—eggs arranged in a careful spiral, bacon glistening on a ceramic plate, toast stacked in a basket lined with cloth napkins, fresh fruit cut into precise cubes.
A pot of coffee steams beside a pitcher of juice, and the morning light catches everything with golden warmth that feels deliberately staged.
Paul stands at the counter, looking utterly wrong in this domestic setting.
The most powerful Alpha in the northern territories, sleeves rolled to his elbows, transferring butter to a small dish like he does this every morning of his life.
'Well,' Nireya drawls, 'he can certainly be persuasive when he wants to be. I'm almost impressed by the audacity.'
I don't join him at the table. Instead, I lean against the doorframe with my arms crossed, maintaining distance that feels increasingly inadequate against the warmth radiating from that ridiculous breakfast spread.
"This won't work," I say flatly.
Paul turns to face me, and the smile that curves his mouth sends heat prickling across my skin despite my best efforts to remain unmoved.
The expression transforms his severe features into something almost boyish, almost approachable, almost devastatingly beautiful.
I want to bite him.
The urge surfaces from somewhere primal and entirely unhelpful.
"I'm just offering breakfast." He gestures toward the empty chair across from his place setting. "But if you'd prefer to have this conversation hungry and standing, I won't stop you."
"Where's Zane?"
"Performing his Beta duties back at the packhouse." Paul's smile doesn't waver.
"Someone needs to manage pack affairs while the Alpha is absent, and my brother drew the short straw. He sends his regards, though I suspect he phrased them more eloquently than I'm remembering."
The information settles into my understanding with complicated weight.
Part of me is relieved—one brother is easier to resist than two. But another part mourns the balance Zane's presence provided, the buffer between Paul's intensity and my own treacherous responses.
"Sit down, Morgan." Paul pulls out the chair with deliberate courtesy. "Let's discuss what happens next like civilized people."
I hesitate for another moment before crossing to the table and lowering myself into the offered seat. The breakfast smells amazing, and my stomach betrays me with an audible growl that makes Paul's smile widen.
"I'm staying in this house until Ricky tells me to leave," I announce, ignoring the plate he slides toward me. "This is her sanctuary, and she trusted me with it. I won't abandon it just because you've decided you'd prefer me somewhere more convenient."
"The packhouse offers medical care, security, and community support." Paul settles into his own chair with casual grace. "None of which this suburban safe house can provide for a pregnant wolf."
"This suburban safe house kept me alive for weeks without pack resources." I meet his gaze without flinching. "I'll manage."
"Morgan—"
"How exactly do you imagine this return working, Paul?" The question cuts through his reasonable tone like a blade.
"I come back to the packhouse and resume my position as what? A slave? A servant girl who scrubs floors and fetches tea for your confirmed Luna? Or perhaps you're picturing something more intimate—a mistress tucked away in a guest room, available when convenient but invisible when company arrives?"
The words land harder than I intended, and I watch Paul's expression shift through surprise, hurt, and something that might be shame.
While he searches for a response, I press forward with the truth I've been carrying since I fled.
"I found proof of my innocence." The statement drops into the silence like a stone into still water.
"I didn't poison my mother, and I intend to clear my name and reclaim my birthright as the daughter of Alpha Richard, which means I need to determine who actually committed the murder I've been blamed for since I was twelve years old."
Paul's confusion is genuine—I can see it in the furrow of his brow, the way his hands are still against the table. "What proof are you talking about?"
Elena kept that secret, at least.
The realization shifts my understanding of the pack doctor's loyalties, adding complexity to a relationship I thought I had already categorized.
The temptation to tell him everything rises like bile in my throat.
Sarah did it. Sarah killed my mother and framed me and has been tormenting me ever since, and the lover she sent to murder me in the forest is currently rotting somewhere.
But I force myself to think through the consequences before the words escape.
If I tell Paul about Sarah, he might annul their bond. The treaty would collapse. War would resume, and bodies would pile up on both sides while I watched from whatever safe distance I managed to find.
Or he might choose peace over justice.
He might ask me to stay silent, to swallow the truth for the greater good, and I know that I would comply if he pressed hard enough.
My fantasy proved that—the version of Paul who apologized received instant forgiveness because I am weak around him in ways I cannot afford to acknowledge.
"It's something I need to handle myself," I say finally, and the pivot feels like swallowing glass. "This is a family business. Nothing that concerns Blood Ridge directly."
Paul studies me for a long moment, and I see him weighing whether to push. Something in my expression must convince him to let it go, because he leans back in his chair and exhales slowly.
"I missed you." The confession comes without preamble, stripped of strategy or manipulation. "Every day you were gone, Morgan. Every hour. I missed you in ways I didn't know I was capable of missing anyone."
The tears spring up before I can stop them, burning behind my eyes with pressure I refuse to release.
I stand abruptly, nearly knocking my chair backward in my haste to create distance. "Thank you for breakfast. I need to go upstairs now."
I make it three steps before his hand closes around my wrist.
Paul spins me to face him, and then his mouth is on mine.
________________