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He frowns. “For what?”

“For letting it be my choice.”

His expression turns fierce. “It will always be your choice, Elsie.”

I believe him.

By dinner, the sun is sinking and the heat beneath my skin is growing stronger.

Pyrce makes pasta and garlic bread. He sets the table, pours my drink, and pulls out my chair as though this is a typical evening. As though he isn’t gripping his fork hard enough to bend it every time I lick sauce from my lip.

I try to imagine leaving tomorrow.

I could take the clothes he bought me and find a job in the next town. I could rent a room and build the independent life I’ve always claimed I wanted. No parents. No creepy man waiting to own me. No one with the power to hurt me.

No Pyrce either.

The thought hollows me out.

Maybe it is too soon. I’ve known him for only a few days. He could be lying about everything. He could be pretending to be kind until he gets what he wants.

Except I know he isn’t.

A liar wouldn't offer to spend the night in the woods to make me comfortable. A man trying to trap me wouldn’t put a key in my hand and promise to let me walk away. Pyrce doesn’t make me feel owned.

He makes me feel precious.

We clean the kitchen together after dinner. I wash while he dries and puts everything away. It’s such a small, ordinary thing, but I can suddenly picture us doing it tomorrow. Next week. Years from now.

I picture photographs on the empty walls and flowers on the kitchen table. I picture a life here, one built from shared meals, quiet mornings, and Pyrce asking if I’m all right so often that it drives me crazy.

I want it.

I want him.

Pyrce puts the last plate in the cabinet and closes the door. His shoulders are tense. He hasn’t asked about my decision once, but sadness is gathering in his eyes as the room grows darker.

No one has ever chosen me.

I remember him telling me how he grew up. Alone in a cabin, taught that needing anyone made him weak. He found a pack, but sometimes he still looks like a man standing outside in the cold, watching everyone else through the window.

I know that feeling. Maybe no one has ever really chosen him either.

I want to be the first.

I take a deep breath and nod as Pyrce turns toward me.

He frowns. “Do you need something?”

“I’m choosing you too.”

The dish towel slips from his hand.

For one breath, neither of us moves.

Then his eyes flash bright gold. A growl rolls out of him, deep enough that I feel it in my bones, but it doesn’t frighten me.

Pyrce crosses the kitchen in two strides and stops just short of touching me.