Page 93 of The Cuddle Clause
But what if she left? What if she looked at me and didn’t see a partner, but a liar? What if I told her the truth and lost her before I even got the chance to love her out loud?
My claws dug into the ground.
She deserved a choice. She had to know what she was walking into. And I’d rather her walk away freely than stay because she didn’t understand the consequences.
The thought of her choosing someone else made my chest burn. But forcing a bond, rushing it because Lucien wanted a fucking photo op?
No. I wouldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t.
I opened my eyes. I was calmer now. Grounded. The dirt. The cold. My heartbeat had finally taken on a steady rhythm instead of slamming against my ribs like a warning bell.
Maybe I’d stay like this a little longer. Maybe it was the only way to keep from falling apart before I told her the truth.
Tomorrow was coming whether I wanted it or not. And I still didn’t know how to say the words that might shatter everything.
But I had to try.
Because I loved her.
And no part of me ever wanted to love her with a lie.
The ward-strength trackerhummed in my hand, its pale-blue readout hovering just above baseline. This was my first timehaving to use it. Thankfully, we had a large enough pack that I only occasionally had to do patrols.
I’d been making slow loops around the property since before sunrise, boots crunching over the frost-stiff grass, the sky a dull gray that promised a clear day if you were patient enough to wait for it.
The readings were steady, nothing special.
Then I caught the faintest hint of flowers and warm skin on the breeze.
I turned, and there she was. Maggie. Top knot messy like she hadn’t even looked in a mirror, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, the hem brushing her thighs over leggings. And underneath it all… she still smelled like me from last night. My mouth went dry.
She lifted a paper bag in greeting, the corners of her lips curving. “Figured you could use breakfast.”
My chest tightened. Not in that pack-duty way. In the other way. The dangerous one.
I glanced at the tracker. The numbers spiked. Jumped. A clean, bright surge in the readout, like the ley lines had just gotten a shot of pure adrenaline. I blinked, tapped the side of the device, checked again. Still high.
“Ran into the other guy on patrol,” she said, coming closer, voice casual. “The one who talks like he’s narrating a history podcast? He pointed me this way.”
“Tyson,” I said absently, watching the numbers hold steady as she closed the space between us.
When she reached me, she handed over the bag, and the smell of fresh bread and coffee joined the scent of her, dizzying and warm. The tracker pulsed brighter. My pulse matched it.
“You didn’t have to—” I started, but she shook her head.
“I wanted to.”
The words landed low in my chest, unknotting something inside me. Just like that, the static I carried—the constant hum in my bones—smoothed out.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I cupped her cheek, my thumb brushing the soft line of her jaw. She leaned in, eyes steady on mine. The first brush of her mouth against mine was slow, testing. I slid my hand into her hair and deepened the kiss, tasting her, savoring the quiet. No audience. No performance. Just her.
When we broke apart, she smiled up at me, and I found myself saying, “Thank you.”
And I didn’t mean just for breakfast.
I looked down at the tracker again. Still climbing.
It’s just the magic trying to push us to bond.That had to be it. I pushed that from my mind.
