Page 7 of Falling for My Shifter Defender

Willow.

I bolt upright, scanning the unfamiliar room. Sunlight filters through curtains I don't recognize, illuminating a patchwork quilt and wooden furniture that isn't cheap motel standard. The memories rush back—the gala, Eli Greystone, his cabin in the woods.

And Willow is gone.

I'm out of bed in seconds, not bothering with shoes as I rush from the room. My heart hammers in my throat as I follow the sound of voices, skidding to a stop at the entrance to a small, rustic kitchen.

The scene before me is so startlingly domestic it stops me in my tracks.

Willow sits at a wooden table, her legs swinging freely, a plate of pancakes in front of her. She's laughing—actually laughing—asEli flips another pancake with a dramatic flourish. He's barefoot, wearing a faded t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, looking nothing like the imposing figure from last night's gala.

My breath catches as I take him in—broad shoulders stretching the worn cotton of his shirt, strong forearms exposed where he's pushed up his sleeves, hair still rumpled from sleep. There's something devastatingly attractive about him like this—relaxed, unguarded, a warm smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The morning light filtering through the windows catches on the stubble along his jaw, highlighting the sharp angles of his face in a way that makes my stomach flip unexpectedly.

"Higher!" Willow demands, and he obliges, sending the pancake spinning through the air before catching it neatly on the spatula.

"Morning," Eli says when he spots me, his voice casual, as if finding me wild-eyed and panicked in his kitchen is perfectly normal. "Coffee's fresh."

Willow turns, her face lit with a smile I haven't seen in months. "Grace! Mr. Eli is making pancakes shaped like animals! Mine was a wolf!"

I stare at the half-eaten pancake on her plate. It does, vaguely, resemble a wolf.

"I—" My voice catches. I'm still trying to process the scene, to reconcile the knot of fear in my chest with the utter normalcy before me. "You should have woken me up."

Eli slides the newest pancake onto a waiting plate. "She only got up about twenty minutes ago. Seemed like you could use the sleep."

There's no judgment in his tone, but heat rises to my cheeks anyway. I'm not used to sleeping deeply enough that someonecan remove a child from my side without waking me. It feels like a failure, a dangerous lapse in vigilance.

"I was careful not to wake you," Willow says, as if reading my thoughts. "You looked so peaceful."

I force my breathing to slow, crossing my arms over my chest. I'm suddenly very aware that I'm wearing the same clothes from yesterday, rumpled from sleep.

"Hungry?" Eli asks, nodding toward the stove. "There's plenty."

My stomach growls traitorously, and Willow giggles. "Grace's tummy says yes!"

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. "I guess that's my answer."

Eli gestures to the empty chair beside Willow. "Sit. I'll bring it over."

I hesitate, then comply, sliding into the chair. The kitchen is small but cozy, with worn wooden countertops and mismatched mugs hanging from hooks. It feels lived-in, personal in a way that makes my chest ache with something I can't name.

Eli sets a plate in front of me—two pancakes vaguely resembling rabbits—followed by a steaming mug of coffee.

"Cream and sugar are on the table," he says, turning back to the stove.

I stare at the mug, then at the pancakes. It's been so long since someone cooked for me that I'm not sure how to respond. "Thank you," I manage, the words stiff and formal.

Willow kicks her feet happily, completely at ease. "Mr. Eli says we can stay as long as we need to," she informs me, syrup dripping down her chin.

I tense, darting a glance at Eli's back. "We'll figure something out today," I say firmly. "We won't impose on Mr. Greystone any longer than necessary."

Eli turns, leaning against the counter with his own mug of coffee. "It's not an imposition," he says simply. "And it's just Eli."

I take a bite of pancake to avoid responding, surprised by how good it tastes. Willow chatters away, telling me about the different animal shapes Eli has made, seemingly oblivious to the tension in my shoulders.

"Do you need to shower?" Eli asks after a moment. "Bathroom's down the hall. Clean towels in the cabinet under the sink."

The offer of a hot shower—a real shower, not the lukewarm trickle of budget motels—is almost too tempting to resist. But accepting feels like sinking deeper into the quicksand of his hospitality.

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