Stephen watched her from the third story window, his hands clasped behind his back in a grip that would have crushed bone. Below, in the overgrown courtyard of Blackwood Manor, Alina was kneeling by a cluster of frost bitten hydrangeas. She moved with a quiet, unhurried grace, her fingers brushing the dead leaves away as if she were tending to something precious rather than a graveyard of summer blooms.
He was avoiding her. He had spent the last three days mapping out the manor's corridors like a tactician, ensuring their paths never crossed. He took his meals in the library; he walked the grounds only after the sun dipped below the tree line and she had retreated to her quarters. It was a deliberate, calculated silence. To look at her was to acknowledge a shift he was not prepared to name, so he watched her from the shadows instead—a predator observing a mystery he could not afford to solve.
The most unsettling part was the silence. Not the silence of the house, but the silence within his own blood. For fifteen years, the curse had been a low, vibrating hum at the base of his skull, a jagged, snarling thing that clawed at the backs of his eyes. Since the night in the library, that noise had faded into a dull, manageable thrum. His senses were sharper, stripped of the static of constant pain. He could smell the incoming rain from miles away and the scent of cedar on her skin from across the grounds, yet he felt no urge to lash out. His control was a fortress, more stable than it had been since his father's death.
He told himself it was the change in weather. He told himself it was the seasonal lull of the moon. He did not allow himself to think of her as a remedy, for to accept a remedy was to admit to a sickness.
Alina felt the weight of the house pressing against her, though it was not a heavy sensation. It was more like an invitation she did not know how to answer. She straightened her back, looking toward the gray stone face of the manor. She knew he was there. She could not see him behind the reflective glass of the upper floors, but she felt the prickle of his gaze like a static charge on her skin.
The distance Stephen maintained was a physical thing, a wall he had built between them the moment he had threatened the elders for her sake. She did not understand the logic of it. One moment he had been an Alpha defending her with a terrifying intensity, and the next he was a ghost haunting his own halls.
She looked down at the silver pendant resting against her collarbone. It remained cool now, but she could still feel the phantom echo of the heat it had radiated in the library. This land should have felt alien to her; she was a girl from the valley with no ties to these rugged, unforgiving mountains. Yet, as she traced the iron gates and the ancient oaks, a sense of recognition settled in her marrow. It was a feeling of returning to a room she had seen in a dream long ago. She was not afraid. Even the shadows under the trees, which seemed to move with a life of their own, felt like old friends waiting for her to remember their names.
"You are standing very still, Stephen."
The voice was raspy, like dry leaves skittering over pavement. Stephen did not turn. He knew the scent of woodsmoke and old leather belonged to Silas. The elder was the only one who dared enter the main house without a formal summons, especially after the violence of their last meeting.
"I am thinking," Stephen replied, his voice a clipped baritone.
"You are watching," Silas corrected, stepping up beside him. The old man looked down at the girl in the courtyard, his eyes narrowing. "The air is different since the library. The younger ones feel it. They say the woods have gone quiet. They say the Alpha's temper has cooled like a winter brook, but they do not know if it is peace or the calm before a slaughter."
Stephen's jaw tightened. "Her presence is a temporary necessity. Nothing more."
"The pack is talking, Stephen. They see you chose a stranger over the counsel of your elders. A girl with no scent of our kind, yet she walks through the wards as if she owns the dirt. They want to know if you are keeping her as a guest or as a prisoner of your own madness."
"I am the Alpha," Stephen said, finally turning his head. His eyes were cold, the amber depths swirling with a metallic warning. "I do not answer to the curiosity of the pack. She stays until the Fruit is understood."
Silas tilted his head, his cloudy eyes searching Stephen's face. "Your control is remarkable today. Usually, at this point in the cycle, you would be tearing the upholstery from the walls. If she is the reason for this peace, you should be careful. Peace is a dangerous thing to get used to when it is built on a foundation of secrets and magic."
The necessity of the manor's upkeep eventually shattered Stephen's self imposed isolation. A leak in the cellar's secondary pantry had threatened the winter stores, and as the master of the house, Stephen was forced to oversee the inventory. Alina, tasked with the organization of the household, was already there when he descended the stone stairs.
The cellar was cool and smelled of damp earth and stored apples. Alina was standing on a low stool, reaching for a crate of jarred preserves to move them away from the dripping ceiling.
"Leave that," Stephen said. The words came out sharper than he intended, echoing off the low slung beams.
Alina jumped slightly, her hand slipping. Stephen was across the room in a blur of motion, his hand catching the crate before it could tip, his other hand steadying her elbow. For a heartbeat, the distance vanished.
She was small beneath his touch, her skin radiating a heat that felt like a localized sun. The silence in his head became absolute, a vacuum of peace so profound it was terrifying. He could see the pulse in her throat, the way her eyes widened not with fear, but with a searching, intense curiosity.
"I can do it," she whispered. Her voice was a soft friction against his nerves.
"It is too heavy," he replied, his voice clipped and strained. He did not let go of her arm immediately. He could not. His fingers seemed to have forgotten how to release her. The air between them felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension that made the hair on his arms stand up. He saw her gaze drop to his mouth, and for a fleeting, insane moment, he wanted to lean in and see if the peace would become even deeper.
He wrenched his hand away, stepping back until his spine hit the cold stone wall.
"Finish the inventory," he commanded, his eyes fixed on the shadows behind her. "Then return to your room. Do not come to the kitchens tonight. I will have your meal sent up."
"Stephen," she started, her brow furrowed. "Did I do something wrong? You have been hiding for days."
"Just do as you are told, Alina."
He turned and strode out of the cellar, his boots thudding against the stone like a funeral march. Inside his study, Stephen locked the door and leaned his forehead against the cool wood. He was shaking.
His restraint was weakening, fraying at the edges like an old rope under too much weight. He had spent his entire life preparing for the curse to take him, building walls of iron and ice to keep the beast at bay. He had accepted a life of solitude because he knew that hope was a poison. If her presence interfered with the curse, it meant she was a variable he had not accounted for. He reminded himself of the laws of his blood: he could not afford to believe in miracles. To claim the wrong person was to invite ruin.
As the sun disappeared, Alina walked back to her room. The moment she stepped away from the main wing, the air felt colder. Behind her, in the woods, a branch snapped with the force of a gunshot. A low, guttural howl ripped through the night, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing through the underbrush.
Stephen sat in the dark, his fingernails digging furrows into the mahogany of his desk. The hum in his head was returning, louder and more vicious than before, a cacophony of teeth and hunger. He realized then that the distance was not protecting him anymore. Every inch he put between them only made the eventual collision more violent. He was not avoiding a storm; he was simply delaying the moment the sky fell.
Distance was no longer a shield. It was only a stay of execution.