Was the Goddess deaf, or was She deliberately ignoring her prayers? Because if the Goddess had heard her, Rosie'd be anywhere but here, walking next to him.

  "For someone who wanted to leave so badly," Luca mused, his tone low, lazy, "you're walking pretty slow."

  See? The man would not leave her alone. She huffed, keeping her gaze forward. "Maybe I like the quiet."

  "That so?" There was amusement laced in his voice, that ever-present hum beneath his words. "Hadn't noticed."

  Oh, he noticed, all right. His gaze had been on her all night, sharp and steady, sinking beneath her skin—she felt like hunted prey under the weight of it. She exhaled, watching the cold steal her breath. "Do you always make a habit of analyzing people this much?"

  Luca didn't miss a beat. "Only when they're trying too hard to pretend I don't exist."

  That stopped her mid-step. Rosie's foot—her stupid, traitorous foot—didn't get the memo. Her feet tangled.

  One moment, she was upright, cold and exhausted but still moving. The next, the world lurched, and gravity betrayed her. The ground was rushing toward her—hard, inevitable—when suddenly, warmth caught her.

  Strong hands. Solid. Unshakable. She barely had time to register the warmth of his grip before her body collided against his, chest to chest, breath to breath.

  Goddess—again? If this happened one more time, she'd have to make it a habit.

  The impact wasn't violent, not in the way she had braced for. No pain, no sudden jolt of agony to her ribs—just heat. A wall of muscle beneath her hands. The scent of pine and earth surrounding her, seeping into her lungs.

  His grip was firm but not suffocating. One arm braced around her waist, the other splayed against her back, his fingers pressing lightly against her spine. A steady hold, but careful.

  For a second—just a single, suspended second—she forgot how to breathe. His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. Slow, steady. Too steady. It ghosted over her temple, stirring a loose strand of hair, and her stomach clenched. Slowly, too slowly, her eyes drifted upward. His gaze was already there, waiting.

  She realized then—he wasn't moving. Neither of them were.

  Storm-gray, unreadable, locked onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. Not from the cold. Her pulse pounded against her ribs, and she knew he could hear it, knew he could smell the shift in her scent by the way his fingers tightened against her waist.

  She told herself she was imagining it.

  Then—finally, too late, too slow—what was left of his grip loosened, he backed away. His hands were gone, and before she could blink, so was he—two steps back, jaw tight, shoulders squared like a man forcing himself to retreat.

  He lifted a hand, running it through his hair in a quick, restless motion before letting it drop back to his side. When he spoke, his voice was lower, rougher.

  "Careful."

  He swallowed in a way that made her wonder at what he'd been holding back. She turned away before he could see the way her breath trembled. Goddess, what was wrong with her?

  "I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own," she snapped, rubbing the place his hand was.

  She swallowed hard, forcing herself to turn away, to keep walking, to pretend like the ground beneath her feet wasn't shaking, pretend like she didn't miss the warmth of him.

  "Next time," he drawled, his voice low, teasing, infuriating, "I'll let you kiss the floor goodnight, yeah?"

  Rosie's glare was useless against the way her body reacted. Her skin flushed, prickling with a burn that had nothing to do with anger. She turned away, but not fast enough to miss the way his gaze raked over her.

  Sure. Because kissing the ground would be so much worse than—

  Oh, no. No. Her mind had not just gone there. She buried the thought before it could take root, before it could unravel her further, but her body leaned closer before she caught herself, before she forced her feet to keep moving. Stupid, traitorous body.

  She casted him a glare. Was he toying with her? Like Briar had? Somehow, she was convinced not. There had been no calculation in the way he looked at her, no cruelty in the way he watched her—like he was waiting for something she wasn't ready to give, figuring her out in real-time.

  So what? The man was attracted to her. Possibly. Maybe. And if he was? That didn't mean anything. He simply didn't have the same loyalty to his mate that she did to hers.

  Everyone has needs. Well, Rosie didn't.

  Sourness coated her tongue. She didn't recognize herself—because she knew this need twisting inside her, sharp and demanding, and it had always been Rowan's to claim. She had never looked at another man, never wanted to, never needed to.

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  Rowan had been the only one. The one who made her burn, the one whose touch left her gasping, whose name had once fallen from her lips like a prayer. So why was she like this now? Why was her body betraying her?

  She had spent years aching for Rowan, but in that kitchen, in Luca's arms—gods. Her breath hitched, shame curling deep in her stomach. It wasn't just hunger. It was the way her body had responded, the same way it had with him. The same sharp pull, the same heat coiling in her belly, the same helpless reaction when his voice had rasped against her skin.

  And that—that—was what terrified her the most. Because it should have been impossible. Rowan was her mate. The only man who had ever made her feel like she belonged to him in both body and soul.

  And yet.

  She swallowed hard, nausea creeping up her throat. Shouldn't she be craving Rowan? Shouldn't she be desperate for his touch, his voice, his presence?

  Not fantasizing about another man's hands on her body, surely.

  "Not thinking about falling in my arms again, I hope?"

  Immediate panic.

  Her fingers curled, nails pressing into her palms. She can't think about what she's actually thinking about. Luca tsked, the sound low and amused. "Better give me a heads-up, will you? At least let me brace myself."

  Rosie forced her expression blank. "I'd rather eat dirt."

  Oh Goddess, was that attitude? She had not seen that side of her for years. And by the tug on his lips, the annoying man liked it.

  "That can be arranged," he mused, but she doubted it'd taste as good as him—

  Oh, no. No, no, no. Goddess, make. it. stop. Her own thoughts turned against her, coiling around her like a noose. She scoffed, quickening her pace, but Luca matched her step for step.

  "Come on," he drawled. "What's got you thinking so hard?"

  Nothing. Everything. You. She needed to stop thinking about him, to bury whatever had just crawled up her spine, whatever heat still lingered in her stomach. Needed a different distraction.

  So instead, she said, "Has the Goddess ever answered your prayers?" Let him make sense of that.

  But Luca, as always, saw too much. His brow furrowed—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in real thought. Like the question mattered, an answer in itself. And that, more than anything, unsettled her.

  A flicker of something shifted in him. A tension, a tightening in the set of his shoulders, as if the very thought of prayer carried weight, as if it pulled at something inside him she couldn't see.

  He didn't scoff. He didn't smirk. He just... considered.

  And that hesitation—Luca wasn't hesitant. He was decisive, deliberate. But right now, he looked like a man who was turning over something fragile in his hands, something sharp-edged and dangerous. His usual confidence, the lazy arrogance in his stride—it was still there, but quieter, more controlled. And that silence pressed against her, pressing like fingers on bruised skin.

  "That depends," he said at last, his voice quieter than usual.

  Rosie glanced at him, but his gaze stayed ahead, fixed on the moonlit path winding through the trees. "Depends on what?" she asked, her tone guarded.

  Luca walked like he owned the ground beneath him. She walked like she didn't trust it to hold her weight. Still—his strides slowed, but not for her.

  Finally, he exhaled, running a hand over his temple, as if trying to scrub away the thought before it could settle. "On whether you believe silence counts as an answer."

  Something in his voice made her throat tighten and she became painfully aware of the stillness pressing on them. It was the kind that stretched too long, that rang in your ears. That made you realize you had been speaking into the void all along.

  How could silence be an answer? But then—"And if it is?"

  Luca sighed, long and slow. His fingers flexed at his sides—just slightly, like they wanted to clench into fists but didn't. Then he dragged a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose.

  "Then I guess She did." His voice lowered. "Once."

  He turned his head slightly, just enough to let his gaze settle on her. The teasing was gone. The warmth of earlier, the way he had enjoyed needling her, the smug amusement that always curled at the edges of his mouth—all of it had vanished.

  Rosie had never wanted it back so badly. Maybe she liked his games, after all.

  "But it's never in the way you ask for."

  The words scraped against her. She frowned, something uneasy curling in her chest. Never in the way you ask for. Something about that statement—it settled wrong inside her.

  She hesitated, watching him from the corner of her eye. There was something different about him now—not softer, not weaker, but heavier. She should leave it alone.

  Her mouth opened before she could stop it. "Then why do we still pray?"

  His lips twitched, a flicker of something almost resembling a smirk—except it wasn't. For a second, something flickered across Luca's face. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

  "Hope," he murmured, eyes dark, unreadable.

  She thought of all the times she had begged the Goddess for something—anything. A sign. A reprieve. A miracle.

  And she thought of all the times she had received nothing in return.

  Maybe silence was an answer. Or maybe... it was just a delay before the answer you didn't want to hear. Rosie let her gaze slip to the night sky. Was that what this was?

  Was the silence of the Goddess to her prayers an answer, then? Had she not intervened because Rosie's place was here, in this pack—for now? Because Luca would help her? Her mind lifted to the training. To the feel of her body learning, moving, adapting. It sure was looking in the right direction.

  But then, her thoughts drifted—to another prayer. One she had whispered over and over for so many years she lost count. One that had never been answered. Or maybe—it had. Maybe she should read an answer into that, too.

  "Here."

  They had arrived.

  She cursed the way her body immediately sensed his absence as she climbed the steps. Turning over, she found him watching her from below, leaning casually against the railing, making no move to follow. It dawned on her. "You don't live here."

  Luca tipped his chin toward the forest. "I have a cabin."

  She nodded. Of course he did. "Goodnight, then."

  "Yeah, goodnight."

  She resumed her climb, ever conscious of what she was not hearing—steps falling away. "Oh, and Rosie?" Her damned name on his tongue.

  She stilled mid-step, but refused to turn again.

  "Tomorrow at six."

  Her eye roll was immediate. She could hear the smirk in his voice, because he wasn't asking—he already knew she'd be there. Her footsteps echoed, a little too quick as she pushed forward, leaving him behind. But not really. Because even when he wasn't there, he was—etched into the space beside her, lingering in the air like his scent, pressed against her thoughts like a weight she couldn't shake.

  Rosie scowled at herself, at her traitorous body, at the heat still curling in her stomach from the moment his hands had caught her.

  Damn him.

  She told herself it was exhaustion. That was why he was still there. That was why she couldn't shake him.

  She reached her door and, of course, was not surprised to find Stern there. He blinked at her in silent greeting, massive and unbothered, as she slipped past him into her room.

  Maybe tomorrow, she'd be stronger. Maybe tomorrow, she wouldn't let him get under her skin.

  Or maybe, tomorrow, she'd fall again.