Now, those same hands mocked me. Every graceful movement of his fingers was another mask, another layer of performance. The gentlest gestures hid the cruelest truths, truths he dared to speak aloud only when he thought I was deaf, truths that reduced me from his Luna to a mere placeholder.
Once, on a night drenched in silver moonlight, I begged Alpha Alaric not to push himself so hard to learn my language.
The desk lamp threw a warm pool of light, sharp angles cutting across his jaw as he signed, brows drawn tight with focus. Beneath his skin, his wolf shifted, restless and alert, its pulse brushing against mine, yet man and beast held just enough control to trace the careful, hesitant movements of his hands.
“You don’t need to do this,” I had whispered, placing my hand over his. “I can adjust. I’m used to it, the silence and all.”