Scottland – After the Storm
The house was quieter than it had ever been.
The threat had passed. Roger had left. His wolves, too. The pack had returned to their homes, their families, their routines.
But Scottland?
She was still standing in the quiet clearing inside herself, replaying the moment Roger turned away.
Not with a fight.
But with silence.
She had stood up to him. She had spoken—loudly, clearly, as someone who mattered. Someone who wasn't owned. And for the first time in her life…
She had won.
But healing, she was learning, didn't come from just one moment of victory.
It came in pieces.
In breath.
In stillness.
Grant – Letting Her Be
He hadn't gone to her right away.
Not after Roger left. Not after the crowd dispersed. Not even that evening.
He'd wanted to.
Every cell in his body had urged him to wrap her in his arms and never let go. To tell her how proud he was. How deeply he felt her courage in his bones.
But he knew better.
Some silences weren't meant to be filled with words.
Some wounds didn't need to be bandaged by anyone else.
They just needed time.
So he waited.
Not far.
Just outside.
Present.
Still.
Wren – The Visit
It was Wren who came to Scottland's room the next morning.
She carried tea and two warm muffins, sitting quietly on the bed while Scottland leaned against the window.
"You don't have to talk," Wren said. "I just wanted to be with you."
Scottland looked down at the tea. "Do you think I was… cruel?"
Wren blinked. "Cruel?"
"For what I said to him. For challenging him like that."
Wren laughed softly. "Scottland, what you did wasn't cruel. It was powerful. It was true. There's nothing unkind about refusing to be broken."
Scottland felt the heat rise in her chest.
"Then why do I feel… hollow?"
Wren reached over, took her hand.
"Because you carried pain for so long, and now you finally set it down. Your arms don't know what to do without the weight."
Scottland breathed in deeply.
And for the first time that day, she smiled.
Grant – The Invitation
Later that afternoon, Scottland found Grant in the garden.
He was kneeling by a flower bed, gloves on, dirt under his nails. She watched him work for a moment, admiring the way sunlight gilded the brown in his hair and lit up the blue in his eyes.
He looked peaceful.
Grounded.
She cleared her throat softly.
He looked up, startled—but then smiled.
"Hey."
She walked to him. "What are you planting?"
"Lavender and honeysuckle. Your favorites."
Her chest fluttered.
"Would you… walk with me?"
Grant stood slowly, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Anywhere you want."
They walked in silence, moving through winding trails and gentle hills, past wildflowers and the scent of pine. The pack lands stretched out around them—safe, warm, alive.
After a while, she spoke.
"I feel like I don't know who I am without the fear."
Grant glanced at her.
"You're still becoming."
She looked up at him.
"Is that okay?"
He stopped.
Turned toward her.
"Scottland," he said gently, "you don't have to be anything other than what you are. Not now. Not ever."
Tears stung her eyes—but she didn't let them fall.
Instead, she reached for his hand.
And held it all the way home.
Scottland – Her Room, Her Rules
That night, she opened her closet and pulled out every piece of clothing that had come from her old pack.
Dresses chosen for her.
Colors forced on her.
Necklines too tight. Sleeves too long. Material meant to hide or restrict.
She folded each one carefully, then carried the pile to the fire pit.
Grant found her there, watching the flames lick at the fabric.
He didn't say anything.
He just stood beside her, the firelight reflecting in both their eyes.
When the last of the fabric was gone, she whispered, "I want to wear yellow."
He smiled.
"Then yellow it is."
Wren – Small Joys
Two days later, Wren took Scottland into town.
Not for strategy.
Not for politics.
Just to shop.
Scottland tried on every sundress that caught her eye—pastels, florals, frills. She twirled in the mirror. She laughed until she snorted. She clutched a pair of silver shoes to her chest and declared, "These are mine now."
The clerk didn't flinch at her rank. Didn't look at her with pity. Just smiled and said, "You've got great taste."
Scottland blinked.
And almost cried right there.
Because she was seen.
Not as a possession.
Not as a wounded thing.
But as a girl.
Living.
Grant – His Heart in Her Hands
When she came home in her new dress—soft yellow with lace sleeves—Grant nearly forgot how to speak.
"You like it?" she asked, turning slowly.
"You're… breathtaking."
Her cheeks went pink.
"I want to show you something," he said, holding out his hand.
She took it.
He led her past the garden, down a small path he'd carved himself. Through trees. Past a stream. Until they reached a little clearing.
A cottage stood there.
New wood. White trim. A porch swing. A blue door.
Her heart stuttered.
"What is this?"
He looked down at her.
"It's for you. For us, if you want. Not now. Not soon. But someday."
She stepped toward the cottage slowly.
Inside, it smelled of pine and sunshine.
There were no locks on the doors.
No chains on the walls.
Just light.
Space.
Hope.
She turned, eyes shining.
"I do want it," she said softly.
"Not because I need shelter."
He smiled. "Because you want a home."
She nodded.
And he pulled her into his arms.
Scottland – The Nearing of the Bite
That night, lying on the couch beside him, Scottland curled under a warm blanket and whispered into the silence.
"Do you ever think about it? The bond? The bite?"
Grant's whole body stilled.
"Yes," he said honestly. "But I don't let myself want it more than I want your comfort."
She turned to him.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"I know."
"I just need time."
"You have all of it."
She placed her hand over his heart.
Felt it beat steady beneath her palm.
And whispered, "Someday."
That word again.
But this time, it felt less like a promise.
And more like a heartbeat of its own.
Final Scene – A Quiet Morning
The next morning, Scottland woke before the sun.
She made tea in the big kitchen, her yellow dress brushing her knees, bare feet against warm stone.
She stood on the porch, mug in hand, as birds started to sing.
Not for the first time—but maybe for the most honest—
She realized she felt safe.
Not because someone else kept her that way.
But because she believed in the safety of her own life now.
The quiet wasn't empty anymore.
It was healing.
And she welcomed it like a long-lost friend.