A car accident, sudden and senseless. One moment I'd had a family, people who cared about me, a place where I belonged. The next, I was twenty-one and alone again, standing in a farmhouse that felt too empty, too quiet.
The farm had gone to their biological children—adults I'd met maybe twice, who lived in cities far away and had no interest in rural life. They'd sold it within six months. I'd used my small inheritance to buy this property, this cabin, this chance to build something that couldn't be taken away.
That had been five years ago.
I turned back and faced my garden, my sanctuary, my proof that I could survive alone. That I didn't need anyone's help or pity or promises that might evaporate the moment things got difficult.
But Garrett's words kept echoing:What if someone just wanted to help because they respected what you were doing? No expectations, no strings.
"There are always strings," I said aloud to the empty air. "Always."
My mother had wanted strings—wanted to trap an Alpha into staying through me, through obligation. When that failed, when the strings didn't hold, she'd cut me loose rather than figure out how to exist without them.
The orphanage had been full of strings—behavior requirements, rules, the constant awareness that you were only there because nobody else wanted you. Even kindness came with the string of gratitude, of being properly appreciative.
Margaret and Tom had been different, but even they'd had strings, hadn't they? They'd needed help on the farm, needed someone to pass their knowledge to. Their love had been real, I believed that. But it had also been practical. Purposeful.
And when they'd died, the strings had been cut again, leaving me adrift.
So I've learned to live without strings. To build a life where I controlled everything, where nobody could surprise me with abandonment because, I’d made sure, nobody was close enough to leave. It was lonely sometimes—I wasn't so stubborn that I couldn't admit that—but it was safe. Predictable.
Until a blue truck had rumbled down my road, carrying an Alpha with an easy smile and patient eyes who seemed to see more than I wanted him to.
I headed back inside as the afternoon sun began its descent, casting long shadows across my garden. My hands were dirty from the greenhouse work, my knees grass-stained from kneeling in the soil. I felt grounded again, more myself.
But as I washed up at the kitchen sink, I caught sight of the empty coffee mug Garrett had brought, still sitting onmy counter. I'd meant to return it to him before he left, but somehow I'd forgotten.
Or maybe I'd held onto it on purpose.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. It was just a travel mug, nothing special. But keeping it meant I had a reason to see him again, beyond our arrangement about the apple trees. Keeping it meant acknowledging that some part of me—however small, however reluctant—wanted that connection.
"Friday afternoon," I reminded myself. "For the trees. That's all."
But as I set the mug aside instead of washing it immediately, as I found myself already thinking about what I'd say when I saw him again, I knew I was lying to myself.
The walls I'd built were still there, still strong. But Garrett had found a crack, however small. And despite every instinct telling me to seal it up, to protect myself, to remember all the times I'd been left behind—I was curious about what might grow in that crack if I let in just a little light.
Just a little.
Not enough to be dangerous. Not enough to hurt.
At least, that's what I told myself as I prepared dinner in the gathering dusk, as I moved through my evening routine, as I finally climbed into bed with a book I couldn't seem to focus on.
But deep down, in a place I usually kept locked tight, I knew the truth: it was already dangerous. It already hurt. Because wanting something, even just a little bit, meant giving it the power to disappoint you.
And I'd been disappointed enough for one lifetime.
I turned off the light and stared at the ceiling, listening to the familiar creaks of my cabin settling, the distant call of an owl in the woods. This was my life. My choice. My carefully constructed peace.
I just hoped I was strong enough to protect it when Garrett and his pack inevitably wanted more than I could give.
Because they would. They always did.
That's what the strings were for.
Chapter Eleven
Daphne
