Damien gathered her into his arms with a father’s ease, coaxing her gently. “Ayla, it’s me. I’m your father. Say it—Daddy.”
But she only stared at him, lips pressed into a thin line, pulling on my tunic like she was begging me to save her.
He tried again, voice dipping into softness. For a moment, I almost saw the wolf I once loved.
Then she remained silent. And his patience cracked.
His voice sharpened. “Selene, now that you’re here, when are you planning to return?”
My brow lifted. “Return? To the cave in the eastern pass? The one you called a ‘safehouse’? The one that flooded when the river swelled and nearly drowned us both?”
He flinched.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “I was waiting for the right time. The manor is crowded. Diplomats. Warriors. There’s no room right now. Once the east wing is repaired, I’ll—”
“No.”
My voice turned to frost. “You think I’ll let you stash us away again? Hide us like a scandal? Ayla and I lived on scraps and rainwater. We chewed bark. Slept in trees. If not for a wandering rogue with herbs and mercy, we’d be bones by now.”
“This Pack has dozens of halls, Damien. Hundreds of beds. But no space for your mate and daughter?”
I saw it now—how blind I had been.