One year later.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, painting stripes across the tangled sheets. I lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the pack house waking around me—the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the murmur of voices in the corridor, the patter of small feet running past our door.

Luke's arm was draped across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. He was still asleep, his features soft, the hard lines of tension that had once defined his face smoothed away by a year of peace.

A year. It felt like a lifetime and no time at all.

I carefully extracted...