Wyatt’s POV
I was supposed to be preparing to pledge my life to one woman, so why did I keep dreaming about two?
I'd always prided myself on being focused, disciplined, able to compartmentalize my thoughts and emotions for the good of the pack. But lately, I couldn't seem to concentrate on anything except the girl sitting across from me in the archives.
It started with small things. The way Gail tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear when she was deep in thought, the gesture unconscious and somehow graceful despite her usually hunched posture. The focused crease that appeared between her brows when she was sorting through particularly complex records, her dark eyes intense with concentration. The quiet laugh she made when I said something unexpected, not quite a giggle, more like a surprised exhale that transformed her entire face.
I found myself watching her far longer than was appropriate, my own work forgotten as I studied the careful precision of her movements, the way her lips moved slightly when she read silently to herself, the rare moments when she forgot to make herself small and her true intelligence blazed through her careful composure.
"Focus, Sullivan," I muttered under my breath, forcing my attention back to the ceremonial protocols I was supposed to be reviewing the nearing mating ceremony. Near, the word sat heavy in my chest like a stone.
But even as I tried to concentrate on flower arrangements and ritual timing, my gaze kept drifting back to Gail. She was cataloguing a stack of territorial agreements from the 1800s, her handwriting neat and precise as she made notes in the margins. There was something soothing about watching her work, something that made the constant tension in my shoulders ease without me realizing it.
When we sat in silence like this, it didn't feel awkward or strained the way it did with most people. It felt still, settled, like we'd found a rhythm that worked for both of us without needing to discuss it.
I kept trying to convince myself that this growing preoccupation with Gail was just nervousness about the ceremony, pressure manifesting in unexpected ways.
After all, my real attraction was to Red, the mysterious woman who appeared under blood moons and spoke in riddles that somehow made perfect sense.
She was the one who'd awakened this restless ache in my chest, who'd made me question everything I thought I knew about duty and desire.
But the feeling I got when I looked at Gail... it was the same. That inexplicable tug, that pressure in my chest that felt like recognition, like coming home. The way my wolf stirred restlessly whenever she was near, the way time seemed to slow when our eyes met across the archive table. How was that possible?
"The ceremonial altar should be positioned to face the moonrise," Gail said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. "According to this text from 1847, the Luna's blessing is strongest when the couple takes their vows directly under the moon's light."
"Right," I said, though I'd barely processed her words. I was too busy remembering something she'd said three days ago about territorial disputes, how her casual observation had led me to discover a pattern of fraud that could have prevented future conflicts. Details no one else would have noticed, insights that stayed with me long after our conversations ended.
"Are you nervous?" she asked quietly, not looking up from her scroll.
The question hit like a punch to the chest. "Should I be?"
"I don't know. Most people are nervous before their mating ceremony." She glanced up at me then, and I caught something vulnerable in her expression before she looked away again. "It's a big step."
"It's duty," I said quickly, too quickly. "Political alliance. Good for both our families, good for the pack."
I saw her flinch at my words, saw the way her shoulders tensed before she turned back to her work without pushing further. The sight of her pulling into herself, making herself smaller, hit me with unexpected guilt.
"Gail," I started, but she was already focused on her documents again, that careful mask of composure firmly back in place.
I watched her from across the room as she continued filing scrolls with steady, methodical movements. She had no idea how much space she was taking up in my head lately, no idea that I'd started looking forward to these archive sessions more than anything else in my day. She worked with quiet competence, never seeking attention or praise, content to let her actions speak for themselves. But I noticed. God help me, I noticed everything.
The way she handled ancient documents like they were made of glass, with a reverence that spoke to her respect for history and knowledge. The soft humming sound she made when she was particularly absorbed in something. The rare moments when she forgot to hide her intelligence behind careful deference, when her observations cut straight to the heart of complex political situations with startling clarity.
I felt caught between two versions of something I couldn't name. Two different women who somehow inspired identical reactions in me. Red, with her wild beauty and mysterious wisdom, who appeared only under crimson moonlight and made me feel like I could choose my own destiny. And Gail, quiet and overlooked, whose sharp mind and hidden depths made me want to spend hours just talking to her, learning all the thoughts she kept carefully hidden.
Two different girls, two identical pulls. One from the grove, wild and magical and impossible to hold. One from right here in this room, steady and real and somehow just as unreachable.
The mate bond I'd felt with Red had been electric, undeniable, like lightning striking in the darkness. But sitting here with Gail, I felt something equally powerful, a deeper recognition, a sense of rightness that went beyond physical attraction to something that felt like coming home.
I didn't understand how I could feel so strongly about two completely different women. I didn't understand why the thought of tomorrow's ceremony filled me with dread instead of anticipation, why every time I tried to picture my future with Mira, another face kept intruding. Two faces, actually. Red and Gail, haunting me in different ways but with equal intensity.
As the afternoon light began to fade and Gail started packing up her materials for the day, I found myself desperate to keep her here, to extend these quiet moments that had become more precious to me than I wanted to admit.
"Gail," I said as she reached for her satchel.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For all of this." I gestured at the organized stacks of documents, the careful notes, the months of work she'd done to make sense of our pack's complex history. "I know I don't say it enough, but your work here... it matters. You matter." She stared at me for a moment, something raw and vulnerable flickering across her features before she looked away.
"I should go," she said quietly. "Long day tomorrow."
"Yes," I agreed, though the word felt like ash in my mouth. "Long day."
After she left, I sat alone in the empty archive, surrounded by the ghosts of all our conversations, all the moments when I'd felt more like myself than I had in years. Tomorrow will be another day of preparation for my upcoming ceremony with Mira.
But tonight, I couldn't stop thinking about two different women who somehow felt like pieces of the same impossible puzzle. And I was starting to suspect that understanding that puzzle might be the key to understanding myself.