“You growled at a pack medic. I think we’re past promises.”
She laughed. It came out broken—half sob, half genuine amusement—and she tucked her face against his neck. She was hiding her tears against his skin because she trusted him to hold them.
He held them.
The medic finally got access to the wounds. Lumi supervised. Aggressively.
“That needs more pressure.”
“I’m a trained?—”
“MORE pressure.”
Kael caught Zeir’s eye. Mouthed: Perfect.
Outside, the wind pressed in—cold, dark, the harbor breeze carrying dust through the broken skylights. Inside, a rogue lay defeated, a pack secured the perimeter, and a woman who’d told himI’m hereleaned against the man she’d chosen and refused to let go.
Thirty minutes ago, she’d been beside him on a Midtown sidewalk, ordering him coffee, teasing him about his caffeine intake. Thirty minutes from now, the medic would finish, Nyx would file the report, Kael would coordinate the transport. The machinery of aftermath would grind forward.
But in this moment—cold warehouse, warm contact, her pulse steady against his wrist and her tears drying on his skin—the distance between them had closed to nothing. Not the physical distance, which had been shrinking for months. Theother distance. The one she’d maintained with humor and self-reliance and the carefully constructed independence of a woman who’d learned the hard way what happened when you let someone close.
That distance was gone.
She’d erased it on a concrete floor with blood on her skin and his name in her mouth and a growl that would become pack legend before the week was out.
He closed his eyes. Let the medic work. Let Lumi supervise. Let the warehouse settle into silence.
She’d chosen him. Not the mate bond. Not biology. Not instinct.
Him.
THIRTY-SEVEN
LUMI
The testimonies dropped on a Tuesday.
By Wednesday, Harlan Cray’s documentary deal was dead. By Thursday, his speaking engagements had been cancelled—every single one, including a keynote at San Diego Comic-Con that had been announced three months earlier to applause and industry excitement. By Friday, the Comics Journal ran the full story: timestamped archives, Nyx’s digital trace linking fabricated sketches to Tessa’s scanner, depositions from two former mentees in Portland and Chicago, and Mika’s 2021 selfie with early Sable character sketches visible in the background.
The selfie. Of course. Mika’s drunk selfie, taken to show off highlights that hadn’t survived the year, had become the single most important piece of evidence in the case. Lumi had promised to frame it. Mika had demanded it be printed on a mug.
She sat in her rebuilt loft—new locks, new security system, Nyx-approved—and watched Harlan’s reputation dismantle itself in real time on her phone. Industry social media was ruthless. The same voices that had been cautious three weeks ago, hedging about “both sides” and “waiting for the full story,”now competed to be loudest in condemnation. Everyone had always known, apparently. Everyone had always suspected.
Where were you when I was drowning, then?
The thought arrived without bitterness. She’d expected bitterness—had braced for it, the way you braced for a wave you could see forming. Instead, what arrived was quieter than expected. Grief, maybe. Not for Harlan. For the version of him that had existed before she saw what he was.
Mika sat beside her on the couch, scrolling through the same feeds, providing running commentary that oscillated between triumphant and profane.
“His agent dropped him.” Mika held up her phone. “His AGENT. The woman who called you a ‘disgruntled former student’ on a podcast six months ago released a statement about ‘troubling revelations’ and ‘zero tolerance for creative misconduct.’ The audacity. The sheer brass-plated audacity.”
“She’s protecting her business.”
“She’s protecting her ass. There’s a difference.” Mika scrolled. “Oh, the Portland colorist—Dana—her thread is going viral. Twelve tweets. Names, dates, the exact piece he stole from her. She’s magnificent. I’m sending her flowers.”
Lumi studied the ceiling. Moriarty the pothos hung above her in a macrame planter, looking slightly judgmental. As usual.
“You won,” Mika said. Quieter now.
