The walk home took three hours.
They could have run it in forty minutes — four wolves and a wolf-who-had-just-discovered-she-was-a-wolf covering ground through familiar territory. But no one ran. The pace was slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial, as if the forest were a cathedral and they were processing down its aisle.
Lucas walked beside Arvella, their shoulders touching, the mate bond humming between them like a tuning fork that had found its frequency. He kept glancing at her — quick, hungry glances, as if he couldn't quite believe she was real, as if he expected her to dissolve back into the nightmare of the past four days.
She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"You're staring."
"I know that too."
"Is this going to be a thing?"
"Proba
