The tea scalds my palms through the ceramic, but I hold the mug tighter anyway, letting the heat anchor me to this moment as I climb the stairs toward the guest bedroom where Ricky rests.
The packhouse has gone quiet in the hours since Sarah's departure. I watched from the window as she loaded a single suitcase into a car that appeared from somewhere in the garage, her movements stiff with humiliation she couldn't quite hide.
No dramatic farewell, no final threats. Just a woman stripped of everything she'd built, driving away into the darkness while the pack she'd manipulated for months slept oblivious in their beds.
Elena left thirty minutes ago, pronouncing Ricky dehydrated and bruised but structurally intact. The words "no permanent damage" echoed through the hallway like a blessing I didn't deserve to receive.
I push open the door with my hip, balancing two mugs of chamomile that steam in the cool air of the corridor.
Ricky sits propped against a mountain of pillows, her wild curls freshly washed and wrapped in a towel that makes her look somehow cute.
The bruises on her face have deepened to purple-black in the hours since her rescue, stark against brown skin that has lost its usual warmth.
But her eyes are sharp, alert, tracking my entrance like she has survived something and needs to understand exactly what that something was.
"You look terrible," she says, accepting the mug I offer with hands that tremble only slightly. "Though I suppose I can't judge, given that I currently resemble a domestic abuse awareness poster."
"Don't joke about that." I settle into the chair beside her bed, curling my legs beneath me and wrapping both hands around my own tea. "What you went through isn't material for humor."
"Everything is material for humor when the alternative is screaming into a pillow until my throat gives out." Ricky takes a careful sip, wincing as the heat touches her split lip. "So. Werewolves. That's a thing that exists, apparently. Would have been nice to know before I watched my best friend leap over my head in wolf form and crash through my back door."
The guilt settles into my stomach like a stone dropped into still water.
"I should have told you months ago," I say, and the inadequacy of the apology makes my voice crack. "I should have trusted you with the truth instead of constructing lies that put you in danger."
"Why didn't you?" The question carries no accusation, only genuine curiosity. "You know things about my past that could get me killed if the wrong people found out. Why was this different?"
I stare into my tea, watching steam curl upward in lazy spirals that dissipate before reaching my face. The chamomile smells like the kitchen at Ricky's café, like ordinary mornings and safety and a life I thought I'd lost forever.
"Because being a werewolf isn't just a physical transformation, Ricky." The words emerge slowly, dragged from somewhere I've been avoiding. "It's an entire world with rules, hierarchies, and expectations."
Ricky nods, processing the explanation with the same analytical mind that helped her disappear from one life and build another from nothing. "What about Paul and Zane? Where do they fit into this werewolf existence you've been hiding?"
The question makes heat rise to my cheeks despite my best efforts to control it.
"Paul is the Alpha of this pack," I begin, choosing my words with care. "He's intense and possessive and has a tendency to make decisions without consulting anyone else. Zane is his brother, the Beta, and he's gentler but no less protective. They're both territorial in ways that would seem excessive if I didn't understand the wolf instincts driving the behavior."
"And they're both in love with you." Ricky's observation lands with the particular accuracy of someone who has been watching carefully. "That much was obvious from the way they hovered while the healer checked me over. Neither of them could look away from you for more than thirty seconds at a time."
"It's more complicated than love." I set down my tea, needing both hands free for the explanation that feels too large for words. "Werewolves have mates—destined partners that their wolves recognize on a primal level. It's supposed to be one mate, one bond, one connection that lasts a lifetime. But apparently, some wolves are capable of bonding with two people, and I'm one of them."
Ricky's eyebrows rise toward her hairline. "Both brothers. At the same time."
"Yes."
"That's either the best romance novel premise I've ever heard or the setup for a very complicated custody arrangement." She takes another sip of tea, her expression shifting into something more serious. "Do they know? That they're both your fated partners or whatever the correct terminology is?"
"They know." The confirmation warms something in my chest that has been cold for too long. "And it looks like they've agreed to share the bond. It goes against every tradition their kind has followed for centuries, but they're willing to do it because I asked."
The silence that follows stretches thin as spider silk.
Ricky studies me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm, her sharp eyes cataloguing every micro-expression, every unconscious tell, every piece of information my face is broadcasting without my permission.
"Let me see if I understand the situation correctly," she says finally, setting her mug on the nightstand with a deliberate click. "You have two gorgeous men who are literally destined to be with you, who just rescued your kidnapped friend, and who have agreed to participate in some kind of dual marking ceremony."
"That's an oversimplified summary, but essentially accurate."
"Then why the hell are you sitting in my guest room drinking tea?" Ricky gestures toward the door with a vehemence that makes her wince. "Sarah is gone but probably plotting revenge from wherever she is. Tonight might be the only night you have, Morgan."
The observation strikes something deep in my chest.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay," I say weakly.
"I'm bruised and traumatized and in need of sleep that doesn't involve nightmares about warehouses." Ricky's voice softens despite her words. "But I'm alive, Morgan. And I refuse to be the reason you miss whatever window is opening for you right now."
'She's right,' Nireya adds, and anticipation threads through her presence. 'The men are waiting. Stop hiding behind concern and go claim what belongs to us.'
"Go." Ricky makes a shooing motion with her hands. "Get those marks. Do whatever weird werewolf bonding ritual you need to do. And tomorrow, when shit hits the fan, at least you'll face it knowing you didn't waste the chance you were given."
I stand from the chair, my legs unsteady beneath me, my heart pounding against my ribs with a rhythm that feels like anticipation and terror and hope braided together into something I cannot separate.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For not running away when you had every reason to."
"I'm not running anywhere." Ricky settles deeper into her pillows, exhaustion finally winning against the sharp alertness she's been maintaining. "Now go. Your mates are waiting, and I need to sleep for approximately seventy-two hours."
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