Chapter 103

I couldn't stop thinking about the orphanage.

Not the building itself, but the way it had smelled in the mornings. Burnt toast and hand soap. The way Ms. Callum used to tuck one blanket corner extra-tight at night. The sound of my own laughter, back when I hadn’t yet realized I was something less than wolf. Something that would always make me second guess how I took up space.

By noon, I had floated the idea. “I want to visit the orphanage.”

Richard didn’t hesitate. “Then we will.”

The car ride was longer than I remembered, the road winding past villages I hadn’t thought of in years. As we neared, I saw the familiar stoop, still cracked in the corner from when I had tripped racing inside on my ninth birthday.

Children were already gathered near the windows. They recognized me. Or maybe they didn’t, not really, but someone had told them I was important. They crowded around when I stepped out of the car, a dozen small arms wrapping around my waist, my legs, my hands. Laughter spilled out of the doorway as Ms. Callum herself appeared, older and softer, but still her. Richard hung back at first, letting me have the moment, but one of the kids immediately pointed at him.

“Is that your husband?”

I choked on a laugh. “Not exactly.”

Richard raised an eyebrow, bemused. “Yet.”

The press was there too, trying to stay out of the way but not really succeeding. Cameras clicked, a few shouted questions about the visit, but the children did the rest of the work. One girl asked if I was a princess now. Another said I looked like someone from the news but nicer. I knelt to hug her, and felt my throat tighten.

Inside, everything smelled the same. Someone was baking. Dust still collected in the corners of the windowsills. Ms. Callum took my hand and squeezed it without saying a word. Richard stood in the doorway with a strange expression on his face, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be awed or heartbroken.

After a tour, after sitting cross-legged on the common room floor with a four-year-old clinging to my side, Ms. Callum pulled me aside.

She didn’t speak until we were in her office, the door shut quietly behind us.

"I’m not supposed to have this, " she said, opening a locked drawer. She handed me a thick envelope. “It was buried deep in the archives. From when you arrived. I only found it after you left.”

I stared at it. My name was written on the front, in handwriting I didn’t recognize.

“I thought you should have it, ” she said.

My hands didn’t shake until I tucked it into my bag.

Outside, across the street, I spotted someone leaning against a lamppost. Big hat, dark glasses, phone to her ear. She didn’t wave. She just turned and walked the other direction.

Jenny.

She was reporting back to Elsa. I knew it like I knew my own name.

That night, after we returned to the Pack House, a gossip blog leaked a blurry photo of a page from my journal. Not a recent one. The handwriting was mine, undeniably, but the content wasn’t scandalous. It was vulnerable. It spoke of feeling like a ghost in a world that demanded a roar. It was raw and small and real.

The internet did not turn against me. If anything, it turned toward me.

Reporters started shouting questions when I passed. One of them called out, "Are you taking Luna lessons?"

I smiled over my shoulder. “I’m learning to sit up straighter. The spine matters.”

It went viral within the hour.

That evening, I found Richard in the kitchen and started rifling through the fridge for a drink.

He closed the fridge door gently and leaned his hip against the counter. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“I have to, ” I said. “Not for the press. Not for the Council. For me.”

He didn’t argue. Just watched me for a while, then nodded.

Later that night, I met Simon and Emma at a bar downtown. We hadn’t done anything like this in months. I wore jeans and a borrowed jacket and let myself disappear into the music and noise. The drinks came too fast, and I let them. Emma danced with strangers. Simon flirted badly. I laughed more than I had in weeks.

Three drinks in, I said, “I think I’m never going to feel worthy. No matter what I do.”

Emma whispered, “I think maybe it's time to call it a night.”

When Richard arrived to pick me up, I spotted him from across the room. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression tight. Not his usual quiet worry, not amusement. This was something sharper.

He didn’t come straight to me. His eyes scanned the booth, then landed on the half-finished cocktail in my hand. Then on Simon, who sat a little too close, his fingers resting near my thigh like they might have moved there by accident. They hadn’t.

Simon caught Richard’s stare and dropped his hand.

Richard walked over slowly, every step precise. I stood too fast, swaying on my feet.

“Hi,” I said, trying to smile.

“You said one drink,” he said flatly. “That looks like four.”

“I lost count,” I said, and tried to laugh. It didn’t land.

Emma stood too, gently touching my back. “She’s okay. We were watching her.”

Richard’s jaw flexed. “You can’t see her shift when something’s wrong.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. That landed, and it was fair.

“I just wanted a night off,” I whispered. “I wanted to feel normal.”

He exhaled, long and slow. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for me.

I went to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my face into his shoulder. He smelled like leather and wind and something green.

“I missed you,” I mumbled.

“I was gone for three hours.”

“I still missed you.”

He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. He bent and hooked his arm under my knees, lifting me into his arms. I pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, slow and open-mouthed, not caring who was watching.

Behind us, Simon looked away.

Richard carried me through the bar and out into the night. When the door shut behind us, he didn’t move to the car. He stopped beneath the awning and stared at me.

“You can’t do that,” he said. “You can’t disappear into a bottle just because the day was hard.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “I won’t again.”

He studied me, searching my face for sincerity. I didn’t look away.

Then he kissed me.

It was rough and breath-stealing and hungry. His tongue swept into my mouth like he was claiming it, like he needed me to feel the way I’d shaken him up. I clung to him, moaning softly into the heat of it.

“Richard,” I whispered, shifting in his arms so my legs tightened around his waist. I could feel him hard through his jeans, feel the way his body reacted just from holding me like this.

He growled softly, low in his throat, and pressed me against the wall of the alley, the bricks cold through my shirt. His hand slid beneath my jacket, fingers splaying across my back.

“I should be mad at you,” he said into my mouth.

“You are.”

“I am.”

“But you still want me.”

“I always want you.”

I kissed him again, dragging my fingers into his hair, pulling until he groaned. His hand moved down, cupping my ass, pressing me into him so I could feel just how badly he did. I rocked against him once, slow and deliberate.

His breath caught. “You’re a menace.”

“You like it.”

“I do.”

He kissed me again, deep and slow, and when he finally pulled away, we were both panting.

“Home,” he said, then paused, his mouth still inches from mine. "Doing it in the office is one thing, but this is a little too public."

I smiled against his lips, teasing. "So take me home."

His breath hitched. "If we were just two people, with no titles and no cameras, I’d fuck you right here in this alley."

When we got back to the Pack House, he didn’t turn on the lights. He kicked the door shut behind us and set me down gently, kissing me again with a heat that said he was barely holding it together.

I tugged off his shirt and he helped me out of my jeans, both of us rushing now, frantic in a way that made me dizzy. He didn’t tease. Just kissed me hard, guided me to the wall, and slipped his hand between my legs like he already knew what I needed. When his fingers found me wet and ready, he groaned against my neck.

He touched me with the kind of focus that unraveled me fast. Two fingers deep, his thumb working slow circles, he swallowed every sound I made, his mouth never leaving mine for long. I clung to him, nails digging into his back as I shook apart in his arms.

I rested my forehead against his, both of us breathing hard.

Then he lifted me into his arms again, this time slower, more deliberate.

"We’re not done," he said, voice rough with promise.