© Schuyler Rhys 2025

I wait until Jordan and my parents are out of my path to the front door. My dad is showing Jordan around the house. When they step out onto the back patio, I sneak out the front door.

I don't tell my parents where I'm going. There are only a few places I go. It will not take my dad long to find me.

Aster's house is two blocks away. I keep my head down as I walk through the neighborhood. The front door is unlocked, so I let myself in. I sit at my spot on the couch, enjoying the silent house—at least until someone notices my presence.

Aster finds me in his living room. He joins me on the couch, sitting close but not close enough to touch. My eyes don't leave their spot on the wall.

"Is your cousin here?" Aster asks. "How did it go? Did you meet her? Does she want the position?"

When I give no response, Aster gets the message. He shifts closer, pressing his hip to mine. He slings his arm over my shoulders, and I lean into his side. Just like that the house is silent again.

We don't move from that position until Aster's sister enters the room. I glance up when Cassia's footsteps stop in front of us. Her dark eyes hold amusement as she looks between us.

"How surprising," Cassia says with sarcasm. How many times has she seen us like this? She walks past us, disappearing into the kitchen.

Aster chuckles, and I turn my attention to his identical dark eyes. He is smiling despite the blush coating his warm-toned skin. His arm moves to run his fingers through my hair. I lean into the touch as pleasant shivers run down my spine.

"I think you're spending too much time here, Cedar," Aster teases. His soft petting pauses. He ruffles my hair, tangling the thick, black strands.

I pull back and give him a dark look that says I will continue to do whatever I want.

Aster lets out another chuckle. The corner of his lips lifts into a smirk.

I return to the house late at night. My parents are asleep at this time. I'm sure my cousin is asleep too.

I push the front door open in a silent stroke. I pause at the threshold, listening and watching for movement. When I sense nothing, I slip inside, shutting the door behind me.

My gaze lifts from the floor only to lock with a pair of blue eyes. They're not pure blue; there's a ring of brown around the inside of the iris. I have never seen anything like them.

The eyes are set in a pale face with freckles sprinkled across the ridge of the nose and along the cheekbones. The face is framed with waves of light brown hair.

My lips part in shock. Her beauty is striking. But there's something else about her that's holding my attention.

I tilt my head, my eyebrows pulling together in confusion. I realize too late I'm staring at my mate.

Her shock is less obvious. The only evidence is the widening of her eyes.

I wait for her reaction. Her eyes harden. Her jaw clenches. Behind those eyes is a little sadness and a lot of confusion. Despite the emotion on her face, I'm surprised when she turns her back on me and walks away.

I expected her to insult me—reject me. Instead she walked away without saying a word. What did that mean?

My eyes burn. My throat tightens. My footsteps are quick and quiet up the stairs and down the hall.

Tears cloud my vision. A silent sob passes my lips. I hide in my bedroom, my back pressed to the wall in my closet.

I don't know if it's the rhythm of my gait or the way I close my bedroom door, but my dad knows. He always knows.

Like a cloud too heavy with water, the tears run down my face. My breathing quickens. My thoughts are out of control.

My dad appears beside me, pressing me to his chest. I see a shadow—my father watches from the doorway.

"What happened?" my father asks my dad.

"I don't know," my dad cries, hysteric with worry. "I don't know."

I can't tell them Jordan is my mate. I can't tell them she doesn't want me. I can't tell them I don't know why.

I fall asleep to my dad combing his fingers through my hair. Then I'm somewhere else.

Darkness shrouds me except for the moon brightening the sky like a beacon of light. Before me is a woman. Her black hair shines silver in the moonlight, matching her gray gaze.

"Hello, Son," she says. There is a soft look of longing in her eyes. As I approach, she opens her arms to receive me.

"Hi, Mom," I whisper in her warm embrace. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears filling the space behind them.

She lets out a sigh—a sound of relief—a sound of contentment. But I imagine sadness remains in her heart just as it does in mine.

She pulls back and cups my face. Her eyes follow as she draws her thumb over the bottom of my left cheek where four vertical scars travel from my jaw to my collarbone. The lines are overlaid with smaller scars—created by puncture wounds in the pattern of teeth.

"Why doesn't she want me?" I ask my mom.

Her sad eyes meet mine. She brushes away my tears with the pads of her fingers. "Why don't you ask her?" my mom suggests.

"You know it's not that easy for me."

"I can make it easier."

"Then do it," I say. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My mom's touch disappears. Her presence fades.

When I open my eyes, I am in the entryway of the house, my back to the front door. Jordan stands in front of me. There is regret in her unique blue-brown eyes.

I take a few more deep breaths, trying to find my voice. Her stare is too intense; I aim my gaze at the wood flooring to escape it.

I harden my resolve. I prepare myself for the answer. I need to ask this question. I look her in the eye.

"Why don't you want me?" I ask her.

"I do want you," she says.

"Then why did you turn your back on me? Why did you walk away?"

"Because you're too young. I don't want to pressure you into something you're not ready for."

I furrow my brows. She thinks I can't feel the bond. "Why didn't you ask me what I wanted instead of making a decision for me?"

Jordan's eyes move back and forth across my face as if she is scrambling for a response. It makes me wonder if she can see the scars marring my skin. Dreams are unpredictable that way—dangerous because I have no control over how others see me.

When she doesn't find an answer, I do it for her. "You're afraid it will make you look bad."

"Yes," she breathes. The guilt on her face intensifies.

She is afraid of what people will think about the fact her mate is a fourteen-year-old pup. She is afraid of what people will say about the fact her mate is her cousin—even if it's not by blood.

I should be angry. But I understand. Such rumors would tarnish the reputation of the Stevenson family, and after all they have done for me, that is the last thing I want to do.

"You should talk to me," I tell her.

"I will," she promises. "Eventually. I don't feel ready yet."

"Don't wait too long."

"I know you'll be angry."

"Then don't dig yourself into a deeper hole."

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