This time around, Luca wore a shirt. Thank the Goddess.

  Wet strands clung to his forehead, resisting the wind, the earlier scent of sweat washed away as he led her down the dirt path. But his damp hair—his presence—dragged her straight back to the morning. To the feel of him, soaked and solid, pulling her against his chest as the water threatened to swallow her whole.

  She swallowed hard and looked away, fixing her gaze ahead, mirroring his stance.

  He hadn't spoken since they'd left the seamstress's shop. The quiet settled between them, pressing into her ribs, crawling under her skin.She couldn't tell if he was mad, merely annoyed, or if she was reading too much into it, and he simply didn't care.

  If only she could get a glimpse inside his head—then maybe the tightness in her throat would ease.

  More than anything, she needed to know—how much had he heard before interrupting?

  Rosie had no problem embarrassing herself on her own—she didn't need Briar's help making it worse. If Briar had dug the grave, Rosie had already picked out the coffin.

  Yet, Luca had sensed it. Even back at the training grounds, he had picked up on whatever game Briar was playing. And something told her he hadn't wasted a second before pulling her out—before Briar could bury her any deeper.

  As if on cue, he cleared his throat.

  "I'm sorry about Briar." His voice was even, measured. But he still wouldn't look at her.

  Rosie blinked. What exactly was he apologizing for? Dragging her to the training fields? The seamstress? Neither seemed offense-worthy.

  No—she knew what he meant. He was apologizing for Briar's matchmaking.

  Which meant he had heard. Everything. Shaina's promise to make her irresistible. Rosie's insistence that she wasn't trying to seduce anyone. And Briar's not-so-subtle remarks about her unfulfilled needs.

  Rosie would bet her life Briar had known Luca was there all along.

  "It's fine." The wind carried her whisper, and she hoped he'd take the hint. Drop it. Let her die in peace.

  But Luca wasn't reading between the lines. Maybe if he looked at her, he'd see that she'd rather be six feet under than be reminded of her so-called 'needs' with him anywhere near.

  "I asked her to show you around," he said finally, gaze still fixed ahead. "But I should've known Briar never does anything without her own agenda."

  Rosie said nothing. It was a strange agenda to have—trying to match one's own brother with a rogue.

  No, this had nothing to do with her. This was about the phantom mate.

  Briar probably thought Luca just needed to get over her. Find someone new. No strings attached. And Rosie? She was just convenient.

  She had no intention of touching that dangerous thread. Not even with a ten-foot pole.

  Small cabins passed by as they followed the path, the chant of song thrushes threading through the trees. Each cabin was different—some newer, some worn with time—but all were made of wood, blending into the forest as if they had always been there. She could almost picture the families inside. A warm supper on the table. A child spinning in the living room, laughter echoing. Just as she once had.

  Luca mistook her silence for something else. "She can be stubborn when she sets her mind on something," he muttered, filling the quiet. "And noisy. Don't let it get to you."

  "I won't," she said. But she already had.

  "Good." He nodded slightly, still not looking at her. "Kira will take care of you for the rest of the afternoon. She's the Beta female." Milton's mate, then. "After that, you should rest. It's been a long day. I'll have someone bring you dinner."

  Rosie nodded, though she doubted he even noticed, still determined to keep his eyes anywhere but on her.

  The dirt path narrowed, winding into a small clearing. Nestled among the trees, a cabin stood bathed in golden light, its windows flickering with warmth, stretching shades across the clearing.

  And in front of it, standing as still as statues, were her shadows. Broad and Stern.

  Rosie halted before she could stop herself. They were already here? She knew Luca had assigned them to her—wherever she went, they followed. Unless dismissed... just like Briar had done this morning. But how did they always know when to return?

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A quick glance at Luca confirmed it—he had given the order.

  If the guards had any reaction to her arrival, they didn't show it.

  Luca, however, didn't hesitate. He strode to the door and pushed it open with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

  "Kira."

  The Beta female emerged from a door on the left, a wooden spoon in one hand, a knife in the other. The air shifted with the unmistakable—and deeply concerning—smell of sugar, garlic, and... vinegar?

  Her gaze flicked to her visitors, from Luca to Rosie, her expression sharp, calculating. Assessing. Luca exhaled slowly, as if bracing himself.

  "This is Rosie."

  He shifted slightly, as if the introduction was more for formality than necessity. No doubt Kira already knew who she was—Rosie the rogue. But he pressed on, for appearance's sake.

  "She's—" A pause. Just a fraction of a second. "New here."

  Rosie resisted the urge to scoff. New here. That was a very polite way of saying rogue trespasser currently undecided about.

  "I thought you might make her feel welcome."

  Kira's brows lifted, amusement sparking in her eyes. Slowly, her lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. Rosie had the distinct feeling Luca was about to deeply regret this request.

  "Oh, I can do that."

  Luca gave a curt nod, looking vaguely relieved—until Kira's smirk widened.

  "Now, off you go."

  Before Rosie could process the words, Kira spun him toward the door, guiding him out with the effortless ease of a woman who had spent a lifetime dismissing men.

  "We don't need you."

  Luca stiffened. "Kira—"

  The door shut in his face.

  Rosie blinked.

  Her guards did not blink.

  Had she just witnessed the Beta female kicking an Alpha out of his own pack member's house?

  The decisive woman vanished through the same door she had materialized from, leaving Rosie standing in a stranger's home, uncertain what to do next. A beat of silence followed before a quiet voice rose from her left.

  "You should go in."

  Broad.

  Rosie's gaze snapped to him. Had she imagined it? Or had he actually spoken? No time to dwell on it—behind the door, something clattered, the sound of metal crashing against—well, she wasn't sure exactly what—, echoing loudly in the otherwise silent house.

  "Come on," Kira shouted from inside the room.

  Rosie eyed the door warily. Burning. She could smell burning. Goddess help her.

  She stepped inside.

  "I'm making supper," Kira called over her shoulder the moment Rosie appeared in the doorway. "Well, attempting to. Normally, that's Ailey's domain, but she's as big as the moon now. Won't be long before Emlyn gets payback for all the torture he's put us through."

  Rosie stepped forward cautiously—into what could only be described as absolute culinary carnage.

  A pot on the stove boiled furiously, foam teetering on the edge of overflowing. A cutting board lay on the counter, the site of an onion massacre, uneven slices scattered like fallen soldiers. A plate, smeared with something unidentifiable, balanced dangerously on the edge of the sink.

  And in the middle of it all stood Kira—knife in one hand, raw potato in the other, looking deeply unimpressed.

  "I hope he doesn't get a wink of sleep when the pup arrives. Ailey should, of course. She's earned it."

  She set to work peeling the potato—or at least, hacking at it like it had personally wronged her.

  "They're expecting, then?" Rosie asked, eyeing the disaster on the counter warily. At least it was enough of a distraction to keep her from focusing on the knot tightening in her stomach.

  Kira nodded, flicking a half-mangled chunk of potato into the sink. "It'll do the pack good to have more pups running around. We don't get many these days. Too many mateless wolves."

  She reached for an onion, grabbed a knife—and held it completely wrong. Rosie frowned, momentarily pulled from the conversation. "Don't—"

  Kira barely looked up. "What?"

  Rosie exhaled, gingerly prying the knife from her grip and turning it the right way. "Like this."

  Kira huffed. "I hate cooking. Why does it require so much work?" She chopped once—far too aggressively—sending a piece of onion flying. Rosie tracked its descent to the floor.

  She inhaled slowly. This was going to be a disaster.

  "Why?" she asked instead, trying to focus on something other than Kira butchering the vegetables.

  "Traveling restrictions." Kira grabbed another potato and resumed attacking it. "Ah—fetch me more of these, will you?"

  A sack of potatoes, previously safe at the foot of the cupboard, was now placed on the counter—far enough away that Kira wouldn't accidentally send them rolling while she talked.

  "Too many rogue attacks in the last ten years," Kira went on, swiping the back of her wrist across her forehead—unknowingly smearing onion juice in the process. "We had to limit travel outside the packs for safety. They still pass scents around through trade, but it's not the same. Takes time to find a mate that way. We don't have agreements with all packs, only the ones along the Southeast border."

  She checked the pot on the stove, grimaced, then grabbed a random handful of salt and tossed it in.

  Rosie was almost certain that was sugar.

  Kira sighed, staring at the mess in front of her like it had personally betrayed her. "Goddess, I have no clue what I'm doing."

  Rosie hesitated. "You could... start by peeling the potatoes."

  Kira waggled her knife in the air with absolute confidence. "Isn't that what I'm doing?"

  "Not really." Rosie gestured toward the discarded pile of skins. "Then boiling them. That would be a good place to start."

  Kira looked at her like she had just spoken the language of the Gods.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were a cooking expert?"

  "I'm not—"

  "You're a lifesaver." Kira clapped her on the back—hard enough to nearly send her into the counter. "If you're helping, then you're eating too."

  Rosie stiffened. "Oh, no need. My dinner's already taken care of."

  She kept her tone light, but the weight of the words lingered. A rogue breaking bread with the Beta couple? Rosie knew her place, and it was not at that table.

  Kira stilled mid-motion, then exhaled sharply. "Oh no, none of that."

  She grabbed another knife and pointed it at Rosie—not as a threat, but as an absolute declaration. "Life's too short to be eating alone."

  Kira beamed clearly convinced she'd just delivered a a masterpiece of wisdom. Rosie wasn't so sure, but she still hesitated. "I'm supposed to rest tonight."

  "Says who?"

  "Luca."

  Kira snorted. "Oh, don't listen too much to him. He's so stuck-up sometimes."

  A startled giggle slipped past Rosie's lips before she could stop it. Did she just say that?

  Kira, unfazed, kept going. "Tell you what—help me get this disaster under control, then go rest upstairs. I'll fetch you when they're about to arrive. Win-win."

  Rosie wasn't sure she was winning, but Kira certainly was.