It was just a cut. Just a simple wound.

  And yet, her hands still burned where they had touched him. Her pulse still stuttered at the memory of that sound—low, rough, unrestrained.

  She needed to get out of this room.

  The moment she set the needle down, she had felt it—the weight of his gaze, the heat curling low in her stomach, the way her body betrayed her with every careful touch.

  Rosie didn't need to be crushing on an Alpha. She especially didn't need to be crushing on him.

  Her breath came a little too fast, her fingers twitching as she packed away the supplies with more force than necessary. She could still feel him on her, could still sense his presence pressing against the edges of her awareness, thick and consuming.

  She should say something, make some excuse. Put some distance between them and go. But when she risked a glance up, she immediately regretted it.

  He was still seated, still watching her. His sharp, grey eyes were half-lidded, unreadable. But there was something in the way he leaned back slightly, his forearm resting on the counter, fingers curling just a little where she had stitched him—like he could still feel her there.

  Her stomach flipped. She snapped her gaze back down.

  Nope. Absolutely not.

  She moved before she could think better of it, before she could do something really stupid like let the moment stretch too long. Her chair scraped against the stool as she pushed it back, standing quickly.

  "Maybe you should be in charge of the washing from now on."

  His voice cut through the knot in her stomach, freezing her mid-step. He hadn't moved. Still seated, gazed locked on her. His left palm rested against the counter, fingers splayed, like time had stopped since she last had her hands on him.

  His gaze flicked downward, following hers—to the stitched cut. Then, with the faintest hint of amusement, "I think we both agree I can't be trusted with a sponge wherever knives are involved."

  A soft, startled chuckle slipped out before she could stop it. Light, too easy. She immediately bit it back, lifting her chin, shaking her head slightly, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "I guess you can't."

  His lips quirked—just enough to make her pulse trip over itself. Goddess, she needed to leave. But before she could take another step, he moved. Not much, just a shift, a slow roll of his shoulders, a slight tilt of his head—but it was enough. Enough to make her hesitate, to remind her that he was still tracking her.

  "I don't think that's fair, though." His voice was smooth, threaded with something she couldn't quite place. "If I can't be trusted with a sponge, that means you'll have to finish the dishes."

  Her fingers twitched. She'd walked right into that one.

  Luca stood then, slow and deliberate, his presence expanding in a way that made the space feel suddenly, suffocatingly small. She knew what he was doing. He'd seen it, how she'd wanted to retreat. And now, instead of letting her, he was pulling her back in.

  Rosie lifted her chin, forcing her spine straight. "That's fine," she said evenly. "I think I can handle it."

  A soft huff of amusement. He didn't argue, just stepped closer—close enough that when he reached past her, grabbing the sponge from the counter, his arm just barely brushed hers.

  A mistake.

  Or maybe it wasn't.

  Either way, her body reacted before she could stop it, heat skittered down her spine, stomach clenching. And worst of all—he noticed. The subtle shift in his stance, the way his head tilted slightly, the way his gaze settled, heavy and knowing—it was all she needed to confirm it.

  He felt it too.

  "Good." The word was low, satisfied. "Then we better get started."

  He didn't move away. Instead, he placed the sponge in her hand, letting his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary before finally stepping back.

  Rosie swallowed hard, turning quickly to the sink before he could see what that did to her. She passed him, deliberately avoiding his gaze, but—his fingers twitched, just slightly, barely there. A hesitation, like he'd almost reached for her. Like he'd thought about it.

  She hated how that single, absent movement sent something sharp curling low in her stomach. Hated how it made her feel aware of him, like she was waiting, anticipating. Like she wanted him to.

  Goddess, she needed to get a grip.

  She clenched her jaw, focusing on the dishes, willing herself to be unaffected. Normal. But the weight of him—his presence, his gaze, the ghost of almost still lingering between them—made it impossible to ignore.

  She could do this. It couldn't be that hard—ignoring the way her heart was still beating too fast, the way his presence still pressed against her senses, as if he were standing closer than he actually was. It was just dishes.

  Luca leaned against the counter, arms crossed, gaze steady. He stood close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jawline, the way the lantern light caught the sharp angles of his face. Silence stretched, not uncomfortable, not really, but thick with something unspoken curling at the edges. Then—

  "You know," he mused, "you didn't have to stitch it."

  She glanced at him, frowning. "What?"

  The slight catch in her own voice gave her away. He tilted his hand slightly, so she could see her own handiwork. "I heal fast enough. Would've been fine."

  Rosie snorted, flicking her gaze back to the soapy water. "Sure." She scrubbed a plate a little harder than necessary. "But it would've been messy."

  She hated how he was right. Why had she rushed to tend to him? Maybe because he had let her.

  "Messy," he repeated, like the word amused him.

  She rinsed the plate and set it aside, turning to face him fully. "Yes. You'd get blood everywhere."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  His quiet chuckle was a little too satisfied, making heat crawl up her neck. She swallowed, gripping the edge of the sink, embarrassed, and knowing Luca hadn't stopped watching did nothing to help. She could feel the weight of his attention, peeling back layers, unraveling things she didn't even know she was giving away.

  Rosie pressed her lips together, focusing on the last of the dishes. "It was just stitches," she muttered.

  "I know."

  Something in his tone made her fingers twitch.

  "Don't read too much into it," she added.

  "I'm not."

  Liar.

  He wasn't just making conversation, he was studying her. And Goddess help her—she let him.

  She didn't let herself breathe again until the dishes were almost finished. She rinsed the final plate, drying it with a cloth, relieved to have something to focus on. Then, without thinking, she turned and handed it to him.

  His fingers brushed against hers as he took it, lingering. Rosie stilled. She got the distinct impression he was doing it on purpose. Her breath caught, and Luca's lips curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. But the knowing look in his eyes?

  Dangerous.

  She liked Briar's games better.

  Rosie stepped into the living room, pulse still slightly offbeat, the warmth of the kitchen clinging to her skin like an unwanted memory. She inhaled deeply, forcing her shoulders to ease, her expression to smooth, the heat curling low in her stomach to disappear.

  Act normal. It shouldn't be hard.

  The others were already sprawled across the couches, the conversation light, familiar. The fire crackled, filling the room with the scent of woodsmoke, laughter curling in the air like the scent of something warm and safe.

  It should have been grounding—if only she could shake him off her.

  She refused to acknowledge it, keeping her steps measured, controlled, as she slipped toward the nearest safe space—Kira, perched on the arm of Ailey's chair, fingers idly twisting a braid in her hair, her sharp green gaze following the debate Ailey and Emlyn had started over some old pack story. A distraction, just what she needed.

  Rosie sank into the nearest open space, tucking her feet beneath her. Normal. Just blend in. Ailey, predictably, noticed nothing. She was too caught up in her retelling, gesturing wildly as she tried to recall some long-winded story about an ancestor's duel with a rival Alpha. "—and that's when he realized it wasn't even their wolf. It was a—" She paused, snapping her fingers, brow furrowing. "What's the word? Not a fox, but—"

  "Coyote," Emlyn supplied flatly, but his eyes twinkled at his mate.

  Ailey lit up. "Yes! Coyote! He dueled a coyote, thinking it was his enemy the whole time."

  Rosie almost smiled. Almost. But Kira's eyes flicked to her then—too quick, too knowing. Fighting the instinct to stiffen, she let her shoulders fall. Too late—Kira had noticed something. The small, suspicious smirk curling at her lips said as much.

  Damn it.

  But before Kira could press, another voice cut through the room.

  "You cut yourself?"

  Rosie looked up too fast. Milton.

  The Beta was lounging at the end of the couch, one arm draped over the back, legs stretched out in front of him, looking entirely too comfortable. His attention, however, was not on her. It was on Luca. More specifically—Luca's stitched hand.

  The slight twitch of his lips sent warning bells through Rosie's skull, but she couldn't stop herself from glancing over, just for a second.

  Luca, still near the doorway, lingering in her peripheral, shot his Beta a slow, unimpressed look.

  A silent, shut up.

  Milton, entirely unfazed, only raised an eyebrow, flicking his gaze between them. Then, the smirk, a slow, knowing one. Heat prickled at Rosie's skin as her fingers curled tighter around the fabric of her dress. Oh no.

  "What happened?" Milton mused, stretching, voice far too entertained for her liking. "Slip with a knife?"

  Luca's eyes darkened. "Something like that."

  She did not have to look to know his attention had shifted to her.

  "Clumsy," Milton drawled. "You'd think an Alpha would be better with his hands."

  Rosie bit down on her tongue. Those hands seemed more than capable to her.

  Luca exhaled slowly. The kind of slow that meant he was debating murder. Ailey perked up. "Oh, did you actually cut yourself?" she asked, true concern lacing her brows. "You should be more careful, Luca."

  Luca didn't even look at her. "Noted."

  Emlyn, settled beside her, gave a long-suffering sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. "Ailey, please."

  "What?" Ailey frowned at him, clearly confused. "What did I say?"

  Kira, of course, picked up on it immediately. She leaned toward Rosie, nudging Rosie lightly with her knee. "You patched him up, then?"

  Rosie's stomach turned. She kept her eyes locked on the fire, like she could pretend none of this was happening. Normal. Act normal. She shrugged. "Just some stitches."

  Kira hummed. "Uh-huh."

  Rosie hated how much she sounded like she didn't believe her. Milton chuckled, tilting his head toward Luca. "I can't remember the last time I saw stitches on you."

  Luca rolled his shoulders, unimpressed. "It's a cut, Milton."

  "Sure is," Milton murmured, shifting his attention back to Rosie, too amused. If the couch could swallow her whole, that would be fantastic. She didn't have to look at them to feel the conversation stretching between the them—Luca, unbothered, but bothered enough to glare at his Beta. Milton, highly entertained. Kira, enjoying this far too much.

  And Ailey—still entirely out of the loop. At some point, she had started plaiting Emlyn's hair, her expression one of deep concentration as she carefully smoothed down sections. Emlyn sat motionless, resigned, his arms folded over his chest like he had long since accepted his fate. His sharp eyes, however, flicked between Milton and Luca, as if weighing whether or not it was worth getting involved.

  It wasn't.

  Rosie, however, was done. She could feel Kira watching, waiting for a slip, a telltale reaction, a confirmation of whatever she already thought she knew. Not happening. Rosie inhaled, steadied, forced the thoughts of the kitchen, the stitches, the way her body had betrayed her deep, deep down. And then she turned.

  "So," she said, cutting through the tension like a blade, "what were you saying before?"

  Ailey, bless her, lit up immediately. "Oh, right! So, after the whole coyote debacle, he thought he was going to be challenged, but then—"

  The conversation shifted. She laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right places, even managed to pretend she wasn't aware of every time Luca moved, every time his attention lingered.

  Eventually, finally, the night began winding down. Kira stretched first, yawning as she nudged Emlyn. "Alright, I'm done for the night. Some of us need sleep."

  Ailey groaned. "You always say that before forcing us all to bed like we're children."

  "You are a child," Emlyn muttered, dodging the pillow Ailey threw at him.

  A murmur of agreement followed, chairs scrapping as conversations dissolved into casual goodbyes.

  Her chance. Rosie moved before she could think better of it, slipping off the couch, already edging toward the door, to that escape.

  She turned—too soon. Because Luca was already standing, right there. She barely stopped herself from walking straight into him.

  And then—his hand.

  Or rather, not quite.

  It hovered just over her lower back, close enough that she could feel the warmth of it, the ghost of pressure where it would have touched. But he didn't. He just let it linger there—not quite touching, not quite gone.

  A strange, sharp thing unraveled in her stomach. It felt more electric than if he had just touched her outright. More deliberate. And worse—somewhere deep, buried beneath layers of instinct and stubbornness—she realized she was disappointed.

  Her breath hitched as Luca didn't move, didn't close the distance, didn't pull away. Just kept his hand right there, hovering, like he was daring her to lean into it.

  "I'll walk you," he said smoothly.

  Not a suggestion. Her spine snapped straight. "That's—"

  She hesitated—because everyone was watching, but also because she was at war with her body. The traitorous thing wanted to lean in.

  Milton's smirk was back. Kira's eyebrows were raised so high they might hit the ceiling. Even Emlyn had looked up. Not fully invested, but watching. Taking in the moment, the way he always did.

  Ailey, however, was beaming. "Oh! That's so nice of you, Luca." She clasped her hands over her belly, nodding like she had just declared it so.

  Rosie wanted to die. She exhaled sharply, weighing her options. Refuse and look like she was running. Accept and deal with the fact that she would have to survive the walk back. Luca, meanwhile, just tilted his head slightly toward the door, feeling her hesitation.

  And then, just to make it worse—

  He leaned in. Just enough so that only she could hear him. "Unless," he murmured, voice far too low, "you'd rather stay here?"

  The air crackled as Rosie shoved past him.

  "Fine," she muttered, already heading for the door. She could survive this. Probably.

  Behind her, she could hear Milton chuckle under his breath. Kira, biting back something far too smug. Emlyn, letting out a bored sigh before muttering, "This is exhausting."

  And Ailey—voice laced with her usual bliss. "That was sweet," she said, still smiling.

  Luca followed—far too satisfied. And Rosie hated that she noticed.

  She sent a prayer to the Goddess, stepping into the night.

  Sweet. Sure. Like a rose before its thorns drew blood.