To heal a Rogue

BONNIE

I watched him carefully, bracing myself for disappointment, for that flicker of suspicion that would tell me he thought I was simply running from him again, finding new excuses to keep him at arm’s length.

Instead, something in his face softened entirely.

”Of course,” he murmured, lifting my hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to my knuckles, right over the faint healed scar. ”There is no rush, Bonnie. Whatever it is, it will keep until tomorrow. And you are right... today has taken enough from both of us already.”

Relief crashed over me, stealing my breath. I hadn’t known how heavy the burden was until it eased, even if just for a few hours.

”Thank you,” I whispered.

”You don’t need to thank me for patience.” He released my hand, though his eyes lingered on me a moment longer before he finally glanced down at his plate. ”Finish your soup. You’re freezing.”

”I am not.”

”Your hands were like ice a moment ago.”

”That’s just circulation.”

”Mm. Suspicious circulation.” He picked up his fork again, though I noticed he kept glancing at me between bites, as though checking that I was still there, still real, still choosing to stay.

We finished the rest of the meal with easier conversation, the kind that asked nothing more of either of us than to listen and occasionally smile. He told me about Lily of the Valley, filling in the gaps where my memories of the place had worn thin. He spoke of the lake a short distance from the pack house, where he used to swim as a boy, back when his days had been simpler and the future had held something other than crowns, political games, and the deaths of kings. I listened, grateful for the distraction, but even more grateful for the glimpse he offered me of a life that had existed long before duty had shaped him into the man sitting across from me. For a while, I could almost picture him there, younger and carefree, with nothing heavier on his shoulders than the weight of his own childhood.

By the time the Omega returned to clear our plates and offer dessert, neither of us felt inclined to linger. Lysander declined with a polite smile and thanked him for the meal before rising from his chair. He came around the table to pull mine out, waiting for me to stand before offering his hand.

”Shall we call it a night?” he asked.

I slipped my hand into his. ”I think we should.”

The corridors felt changed from earlier, quieter, the portraits on the walls watching us with less judgment now that the day’s worst had passed. Lysander kept my hand in his, his thumb brushing my knuckles as if to reassure himself I was still there.

When we reached the room, it was warm and dim, lit by the low fire already burning in the hearth. I sat on the bed’s edge, slipping off my borrowed shoes, while he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a chair—so unlike the stiff, formal man from dinner just an hour ago.

When he settled into bed beside me, I moved closer without hesitation, curling against his side until my head rested on his chest. His arm came around me, drawing me into the warmth of his body, and I let myself relax against him.

His fingers slipped into my hair, stroking it in a slow, absent rhythm. The simple tenderness of it eased the tension I hadn’t realized I was still carrying, and before long, my eyelids began to grow heavy. Beneath my ear, his heartbeat remained steady, while the mate bond hummed quietly between us, a welcome change from the restless pull I’d grown accustomed to. For tonight, at least, I could leave tomorrow’s worries where they belonged.

”Goodnight, Bonnie,” he murmured into my hair, his voice softening as sleep caught up with him.

”Goodnight,” I whispered.

I stayed where I was, listening as his breathing gradually settled into an even rhythm. His fingers continued to move through my hair, growing slower until they eventually stilled. Beyond the bed, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, its fading warmth the only thing stirring in the darkness.

I closed my eyes, holding on to the quiet for as long as I could. Tomorrow would bring its own demands, its own decisions, and consequences I wasn’t sure I was ready to face. For now, I let myself rest in his arms, hoping that when morning came, I’d find the strength to face whatever waited for me.

After a while, I opened my eyes again.

Lysander lay beside me with his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even, though something in the faint tension around his mouth told me he hadn’t quite surrendered to sleep. He was close, hovering somewhere between wakefulness and the oblivion that would soon claim him.

I lifted my head slightly to look at him.

There was something unfair about how beautiful he looked when he wasn’t paying attention to anyone. The firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, softening them in ways I rarely noticed when he was awake. My gaze lingered on his mouth, and before I could talk myself out of it, I raised a hand.

My finger hovered just above his lower lip. I could feel his breath ghosting against my skin, warm and impossibly close. All I had to do was close the distance, just enough to discover whether his lips were as soft as they looked.

The temptation was ridiculous, and I knew it.

Still, it took more restraint than I cared to admit to pull my hand away. I lowered it beneath the covers and settled against him again, pretending my heart hadn’t quickened over something so insignificant.

Would sleep at last pull me under? And if it did, would my father return to that uncanny dreamworld, ready to spin his tale through my thoughts and smother the goddess’s truth, or perhaps her propaganda? Who could say what the truth even was?

Fuck... I was coping. Part of me knew it. No... plenty of me did know it.

But the thoughts made sleep feel considerably less inviting. But regardless, it had to happen.