Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Y ede pressed his forehead against the stone wall outside the kitchen, fighting the urge to step inside. The sounds of Gemma and Liam’s morning routine drifted through the doorway—metal spoons clinking against bowls, Liam’s infectious giggle, Gemma’s warm voice explaining something about numbers.

He clenched his fists as memories from the previous night replayed in his mind—the softness of her skin, the way her lips had felt against his, the way her slender body had fit so perfectly against him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the images. He shouldn’t be here. He should walk away before it was too late. He ignored the uneasy suspicion that it was already too late.

“And then you add this much flour,” she said from within the kitchen.

“Can I stir?” Liam asked.

“Careful now, not too fast or it will?—”

A loud clatter was followed by peals of laughter. Despite himself, his lips twitched upward.

“What a mess!” she exclaimed, but he could hear the laughter in her voice.

His feet carried him one step closer to the doorway before he caught himself. What was he doing? He’d built these walls around himself for a reason. The contract had been meant to maintain those boundaries, to keep them at arm’s length. Yet here he was, hovering outside his own kitchen like a lost cub, drawn to their warmth like a moth to flame.

He ran a hand through his mane, growling softly at his own weakness. The rules he’d set seemed to crumble more each day. Every smile from Gemma, every eager question from Liam, chipped away at the careful isolation he’d constructed.

“I smell something burning,” Liam announced.

“Oh no, the first batch!”

The scent of scorched food reached his sensitive nose, and his protective instincts immediately flared. He burst into the kitchen, ready to confront the danger, but found the room intact. A faint haze of smoke hovered in the air, but the only thing that seemed damaged was a tray of blackened pastries that sat smoking on the counter. Flour dusted almost every surface, including Gemma’s hair and Liam’s clothes.

His heart clenched as she looked up and smiled at him—the warm smile that made his chest ache. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing the delicate curve of her forearms as she kneaded a fresh batch of dough. Liam bounced on his toes beside her, sneaking pinches of dough. The boy also gave him a wide grin as soon as he spotted him.

“Yede! Look what we’re making!”

His walls crumbled a little more. He took another step forward, drawn by their joy, their easy acceptance of his presence. The kitchen felt warmer, brighter somehow, filled with life in a way his home hadn’t been in years.

“Need some help?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes!” Liam grabbed his hand, tugging him towards the table. “Mama’s teaching me to make sweet rolls, but I made a mess.”

“We both did,” she laughed, gesturing at the disaster around them. “I decided I might as well wait until we were through before cleaning up.”

Her eyes sparkled, and he found himself moving closer, powerless to resist the pull of their shared happiness. He cleared his throat.

“I could… assist. If you want.”

“We’re making treats for Longest Night,” she explained, pushing a bowl toward him. “Though I admit, my first attempt ended up more crispy than I planned.”

The scent of burnt sugar hung in the air, but beneath it lay hints of familiar spices that triggered memories he’d buried deep. His mother had used them in the winter treats she’d bake for the Festival of Stars.

Liam pressed dough into his hands.

“Like this, see? Mama says you have to fold it just right.”

He carefully worked the delicate dough, just as he had as a child.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, watching him.

“On my world, we celebrate midwinter with sweet breads shaped like stars.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. “My mother would spend days preparing.”

“Ours are usually round but I like the idea of shaping them like stars. Can you show us how?”

He found himself demonstrating the intricate folds. She worked beside him, her arm occasionally brushing his, while Liam attempted increasingly creative variations on the traditional design.

Their laughter filled the kitchen—Liam’s bright giggles, her soft laugh—and the warmth that spread through his chest had nothing to do with the heat from the oven.

The scent of baking sweets filled the kitchen and for the first time in years, the memories of home brought more comfort than pain.

“May I talk to you for a moment?” she asked quietly, leading him away until they were out of earshot of Liam, carefully watching the pastries through the oven window.

“I know this wasn’t part of our agreement, but I’d like to make this holiday special for Liam. After everything at the mine…” She glanced at her son. “He deserves some joy.”

His chest tightened at the sight of the boy, so small and so determined.

“It’s a good idea,” he admitted. “There should be a celebration.”

“Thank you.” She gave him that bright smile again, and his heart ached with the longing to have her smile at him that way all the time. “If you don’t object, I’d like to find a few things to make it special.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Just some simple decorations, maybe a few small gifts.” She gave him a hopeful look. “I understand if it’s too much to ask.”

He should say no. Should maintain the boundaries he’d set. Instead, he heard himself say, “You should be able to find what you need in the main storeroom. Take whatever you want.”

“But the contract?—”

“The contract doesn’t matter,” he said gruffly, then softened his tone. “Use anything you find useful.”

The smile she gave him made him forget his walls, made him forget everything but the way her face lit up when she looked at him.

Before he could stop himself, he added, “I’ll help.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, and his heart soared.

Later that night, he lingered in the doorway of the bedroom, watching Liam sleep with the careless abandon of childhood. Just as Davi had done so long ago.

“Join me?” she asked softly, pulling him back from the past.

He nodded abruptly and followed her back to the living area. They sat on the couch just as they had the night before, but this time she sat right next to him, her warmth seeping through his fur where their bodies touched. He waited for the usual urge to pull away, to retreat. It didn’t come. Her presence felt right, natural—and that terrified him more than any storm or crash landing ever had.

They stared into the flames in silence for several minutes before she turned to face him.

“Tell me about your family,” she said softly.

He opened his mouth to refuse but the understanding on her face made him reconsider.

“My mother died when I was about Liam’s age,” he said slowly. The first loss.

“I’m so sorry. It was hard enough to lose my mother as an adult. I can’t imagine what it would be like for a child.”

“It was, although my father did his best. He served in the military but he immediately retired so that he could care for me. The first few years were hard but we adjusted. He worked as a mechanic and I used to help him. We were happy enough. Then when I was twelve he decided to remarry.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“Yes—I made sure everyone knew how unhappy I was,” he said ruefully. “But Kaela was very patient with me. She was a wonderful female and I grew to love her like a mother. She and my father had a child, a son. Davi.” His throat threatened to close, and she reached over and put her hand on his arm. “From the time he could crawl he would try to follow me around.”

“Did you mind?”

He should have done—what young male wanted a child toddling after him—but he shook his head. “No. I loved him.”

She didn’t say anything, just waited patiently, stroking his arm.

“When I was eighteen I joined the military. I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps.” He took her hand in his, seeking comfort in her touch. “My people can be territorial, but I don’t think I ever thought I would be serving in a war. A minor skirmish erupted between two outlying provinces, and it escalated. By the time the fighting ended, my family was gone. My father. Kaela. Davi.”

He stared into the fireplace, the flames blurring before his eyes. “I wasn’t there to protect them and they died.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Can’t I?” he said bitterly. “I swore to protect them and I failed. I failed them all.”

For a long time neither of them spoke, but she continued to hold his hand. It was the first time he had spoken of his family since their death and the words left him raw and aching.

“What did you do then?” she asked finally.

He shrugged.

“Stayed in the military. I had nowhere else to go. I took on the missions that no one else wanted to take because I didn’t care if I lived or died. Somehow I managed to live anyway. When there were no more combat missions, I volunteered as a remote scout. It suited me well enough, but when I crashed here I realized I had no reason to try and return. I decided to stay.”

“By yourself.”

“It is easier that way.”

“Not always.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “I’ve been thinking about last night.”

“I shouldn’t have?—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him. The touch sent electricity coursing through his body.

“I want to do it again,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the pink creeping across her cheeks.