Page 31 of Love At First Roar
They waded toward the bank, water tugging at their calves. Callum offered his hand; she hesitated only a second before slipping damp fingers into his larger grip. He hauled her onto the muddy bank with ease, his touch warm even soaked through.The moment she stood, he released her, returning to that polite distance that frustrated and relieved her all at once.
They trudged along a narrow deer trail that snaked through ferns and jack-in-the-pulpits. Their clothes dripped, leaving dark spots on packed earth. Cora hugged herself, teeth chattering lightly. Callum kept pace, eyes sweeping the forest with practiced vigilance.
“Lake never tossed me like that,” he muttered.
“She might be warning us,” Cora said through a shiver. “Or shaking loose whatever energy built up from yesterday.”
He glanced at her damp form, then stripped off his outer shirt in one motion and handed it over. “Put this on. Your lips are blue.”
She stared. The shirt was dark gray, heavy cotton, soaked but warmer than her thin, clingy tee. “What about you?”
“Lion runs hot.” He lifted a brow, not taking no for an answer.
She slid the garment over her head. It hung past her thighs, smelling of him even wet. The scent wrapped her like a secret, chased away the chill. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, pretending the gesture was nothing, though a faint flush warmed his cheekbones.
A wooden cabin appeared through the trees, tucked against a rocky rise. Smoke puffed weakly from the chimney, evidence of a banking fire left earlier. He pushed open the door, ushered her inside.
The interior was simple, tidy. A river-stone hearth dominated one wall, ember glow spilling across sturdy furnishings. Shelves lined with worn books and bundles of dried herbs hinted at a life of quiet routines. On a side table sat a battered leather notebook, a pencil tucked into its spine. Poetry, she remembered Maeve saying.
“Sit by the hearth,” he ordered gently. “I’ll grab blankets.”
Cora obeyed, settling on a plaid sofa. Heat from the embers seeped into her chilled bones. She peeled off shoes and wrung water from her braid, watching Callum stride to a wooden chest, muscles rippling beneath the thin undershirt he still wore. He returned with two wool blankets, draping one around her shoulders, the other around himself.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please.”
He busied himself at a small stove, filling a kettle. The domestic scene felt surreal—guardian lion preparing coffee for the fae stray he’d sworn to supervise. Cora tucked her feet under the blanket, gaze flicking to the notebook again. Curiosity itched her fingers.
“Do you ever share your poems?” she ventured.
A pause. Water gurgled into the kettle. “Never.”
“Not even with Maeve?”
“Especially not with Maeve.” He faced her, expression unreadable. “Words get twisted once they leave the page.”
She smiled softly. “They can also heal.”
He looked away, tinder snapping under kettle heat. “Some wounds stay.”
She bit her lip, remembering Maeve’s story of Tessa. Pain thrummed behind his calm like buried coal. She wanted to reach across the room, strip away every guarded layer, promise he did not have to hurt alone. Yet her own secrets weighed heavy. How could she ask his trust when she still hid half her truth?
The kettle whistled. He poured coffee into two chipped mugs, added honey to hers without asking. When he handed it over, steam fogged the air between them.
She took a sip, warmth spiraling through her chest. “Perfect.”
He lowered himself into the armchair opposite, mug cradled in big hands. Silence settled, but it felt different now—softer,less crowded by what-ifs. Firelight painted gold across his face, highlighting the curve of his cheek, the steady line of his jaw.
“Thank you,” she said again, voice low. “For everything today.”
He nodded. “Part of the job.”
“Maybe,” she agreed, meeting his gaze. “But you go beyond the job.”
His throat bobbed. “You make that difficult.”
