Lucien's doorway smelled like cedar and rain. For a moment I forgot why I had come—only that his presence steadied the frantic tremor beneath my ribs. He stood there in a simple linen shirt, hair still damp, and the sight of him made something ache in my chest I couldn't name.
"Aureia." He stepped back and opened the door wider. "Please—come in."
The house was modest but tidy, shelves of leather-bound books and a single window that let in a square of light. He gestured for me to sit on a low chair by the hearth. I did, though anything but sitting felt natural—anxiety made my fingers restless.
"Why are you here?" He settled across from me, that question soft enough not to wound.
I swallowed. I had rehearsed words for days, turned them over until they were smooth. But now, in the silence between us, they tasted foreign. "I needed to say… I can't be your mate."
His face shifted, but not with the expected anger. Instead, there was an honesty that opened him up like a book: surprise, then a careful kindness. "I thought you might have accepted," he said. "They think it would be… suitable."
"They think a lot," I whispered.
Lucien's hand rested near mine on the chair's armrest—close enough that warmth brushed my skin. I could have moved my hand and taken his; I could have let him reach out, had I wanted to. I didn't. This was not about cruelty or a test. This was about the truth.
"Why not?" he asked, not accusing, only needing an answer.
Because I didn't know who I was. Because there was a hollowness in me that only understanding could fill. Because I felt the world in directions no one else could. "I'm not ready. I don't want to marry someone because it's expected. I don't want to give my life away before I know what it is I'm living for."
His mouth curved, painful and small. "You've always been fierce."
"I'm foolish," I said, though I didn't mean it as an apology. Maybe both were true.
We sat in silence for a time, listening to the small noises of the house—the crackle of embers, the distant clink of something being set aside. Lucien watched me with the kind of attention that made my nerves unravel and knit back together at once.
"I remember throwing mud on you," he said suddenly, and the absurd memory broke the tension like a pin. "You were so furious."
I laughed before I could stop it. "You pushed me in the creek."
"I wanted you to notice me," he admitted, grinning now. The boy-me in his grin softened the lines of the man sitting across from me. "I'm sorry I made you miserable."
"You made me muddy," I teased, though my voice had gone soft. The memory warmed me; it felt like proof that we had been ordinary once, before everyone started cataloguing futures for us.
"You don't have to say yes now," he said after a pause. "Take the time you need."
The shock of his gentleness made my throat twist. He could have been angry. He could have demanded, threatened—the pack would have supported him. Instead he offered patience, and that simple offering was another kind of devotion.
"Do you still want me?" I asked, smaller than I'd intended.
His fingers tapped the armrest, steady and sure. "Yes." Two syllables, honest and whole. He looked at me with an entire world folded into his eyes. "But I won't force you."
"How can you be so… calm?" I asked. It sounded like ingratitude, but curiosity needed to be voiced.
"Because I've always known how you decide." He smiled crookedly. "Aureia, you choose with your whole self. When you're certain, I'll be honored. Until then—" He shrugged, but his shoulders carried weight beneath the casual movement. "I'll wait."
There was something sacred in his waiting. It should have made me feel guilty. Instead it felt like freedom, a strange blessing I hadn't expected.
By the time I left Lucien's house, the sky had slanted toward afternoon, and the sun painted the world in honey. He walked me part of the way home. We spoke of simple things—the weather, our parents, a small joke about a stubborn goat. The closeness between us was comfortable; it felt as though we were folding back into a shared history.
At my gate we paused. For a heartbeat the world narrowed to just the two of us.
"You sure you're alright?" he asked again, quieter this time.
"I will be," I said, but I didn't know if it was a promise or a plea.
He ran his fingers through his hair, a habit he had when he thought too hard. "If you ever—" His voice broke for an instant. "If you need anything at all, Aureia—really—come to me."
"I will," I whispered.
I watched him go. Watching Lucien walk away was like watching the tide pull back—an ache of loss and the knowledge that the sea would return. I shut the door, climbed to my room, and let myself collapse on my bed. My thoughts were a knot of guilt, relief, and an unnameable restlessness.
That night I dreamt of a dark forest and a voice that hummed under the wind. It called my name like a secret. I woke with a start, the linen cool against my skin, the echoes of the voice still clinging to my teeth.
My mother was waiting in the kitchen as if she'd been watching the sun all morning and measuring when to question me next. She had a gentle way of asking, the sort that came from love and an expectation she could not let go of.
"How was he?" she asked as soon as she saw me.
"Fine." I kept my answer clipped, because there was no theatre in the truth. Lucien had been fine; kind, in fact. No scandal left in his wake. That should have been enough.
My mother pursed her lips. "Did you accept?"
"No." Saying it aloud made my chest ache in a completely different way.
She sank into her chair as if punched. My father, who had been silent so far, only tipped his head. His eyes held no blame—only that steady tenderness he had always offered—but my mother's disappointment radiated like heat.
"You don't understand what this will mean for us," she said finally, voice small and sharp. "A Lucien Thorn… the security…"
"I know," I said softly. "I know what it means."
"You have to think of your future," she insisted. "Of the pack."
My father exhaled, and his hand found mine under the table. "We love you, child," he said simply. "Choose what will make you whole."
It should have comforted me. Instead it opened something else: the realization that whatever choice I made, someone would be pleased, and someone would be disappointed. Someone would feel relieved, someone betrayed. The weight of other people's hopes would follow me like a shadow whether I wanted it to or not.
That night, when the house finally settled, I opened my window and stepped out onto the roof. The moon carved silver paths across the fields. I pressed my palm to the cool tiles and listened.
There it was again—a whisper beneath the wind, faint and certain. It sounded almost like a name, or a promise. I breathed it in as if it were air.
Aurelia.
I closed my eyes and let the name sett
le in my bones until sleep, when it came, felt like a promise and a warning rolled into one.