Chapter 7

Rune

The damp smell of the woods was different to the oak and lilies of the Packhouse. Rowan's gaze travelled up the rugged denim that hugged Rune's thighs, to the snug fit of the forest green Henley, and then to his face. "She has a good eye," Rowan acknowledged. "The colour suits you. You look beautiful."

Rune felt the heat in his cheeks. He looked down at the mossy ground. "Thank you. She said it would be practical for the woods."

"It will."

The silence lingered. The wind rustling through the high canopy.

Rune swallowed, forcing himself to meet Rowan's eyes. "About last night," he started, his hands clasping behind his back. "I need to apologise. I shouldn't have pushed things that far. I...let my instincts get the better of me. Seeing Arthur, having him in the same room, it messed with my head. I'm sorry."

"Stop," Rowan lips curved slightly, as if he'd known this would come up. "Look, I know this whole situation isn't normal, I get that. But we aren't playing by the rules of a standard pack dynamic anymore. You don't need to keep apologising for your instincts. Yesterday happened. Today we keep going. We’re mates. This is suppose to happen."

Rowan glanced past Rune into the dense forage of the trees. He gestured toward a narrow, overgrown path winding through the thicket. "Come on. There's somewhere I want to show you."

The path was a narrow break in the briar and oaks. Rowan led the way, pushing aside low-hanging branches, holding them steady so Rune could pass. And when the terrain grew steep or loose stones clattered underfoot, his hand was there to guide.

He paused near some pale, silvery ferns at the base of an overturned oak and crouched. His fingers brushing the delicate fronds. "Silver-weep," he murmured. "Dried and crushed, it can pull the ache out of a scent gland. More so if it gets bruised or overworked during heat or a claiming."

Rune stepped closer to look at the unassuming plant. "I've only ever seen it powdered in apothecary jars."

Rowan pointed a few yards ahead to a patch of tall, blue-stalked flowers. "Weave-nettle. Terrible for Alphas—gives us migraines if ingested—but omegas boil the stems in water to settle the chest when nesting anxiety flares up."

Rune looked at the Alpha. He hadn't realised he knew the soil, the roots, the very things that kept his pack breathing.

"Come." Rowan lifted swiftly, stepping over a thick root. "A bit further."

The dense canopy eventually broke, letting in a flood of golden, late-afternoon light. The space opened up into a secluded hollow. A natural spring cascaded down a mossy stone face into the crystal-clear pool at the centre of the clearing. The grass was vibrant, dotted with clusters of wild white anemones and fragrant purple foxgloves.

But what caused Rune to stop was the massive, thick wool blanket that had been laid out. On top sat wooden boards of spiced cured meats, cheese wheels, dark grapes, sliced figs, and thick honeycomb dripping over fresh bread. A bottle of deep red also sat beside two crystal glasses.

Rune stared at it. He did the math in his head. Rowan had been in council meetings all day. He had to have arranged this beforehand. Had to have commanded someone—likely Jonah, or Thomas?—to hike out here and set this up.

As they approached, Rowan lowered himself down onto the blanket and snagged the bottle of wine. Uncorking it to pour a measure into each glass.

Rune looked from the dripping honeycomb to the crystal glasses. "Did...did Jonah carry all of this out here?"

"Jonah complains if he has to walk up three flights of stairs. No, I had two of the perimeter guards bring it out an hour ago."

Rune took the offered wine glass and sat parallel to the Alpha. He shook his head, his gaze drifting from the vibrant purple foxgloves to the mossy stone face of the waterfall. "How did you even find a place like this? It feels so hidden away from everything."

"I don't leave the territory assessments entirely to the enforcers." Rowan took a sip from his glass. "I prefer to walk the boundaries if I can. You learn more about the health of the pack by looking at the soil and the water than you do reading reports in the study. I found this hollow about five years ago. I usually come here alone. When the politics of the house become too much."

Rune brought the glass to his lips. The wine tasted of sweet dark cherries, warming his chest.

"Good?"

"It's perfect."

Rowan reached toward a woven basket resting near the edge of the spread. He pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle and peeled back the linen to reveal a cluster of golden, flaky pastries. It was a dense, nutrient-heavy bake specifically designed to replenish.

"Loud. The head chef insisted." Rowan picked one up and offered it to Rune. "I assume you've crossed paths with her?"

Rune shook his head, accepting the thick pastry. "No. I've only seen the kitchen...briefly." He took a small, tentative bite. The crust broke immediately, giving way to a warm, impossibly rich filling that made his eyes close briefly. He'd had many pastries before—home—baked ones—like the one's him and his mother used to make in their dainty kitchen. But as much as he hated to admit it, none tasted quite like this.

Rowan watched with a faint, satisfied smile. "She's run that kitchen for over two decades. Fed me when I was a pup, and feeds the entire pack now. Nothing happens in there without her knowing about it. Doesn't miss a single misplaced spoon, let alone anything else."

There was something about the way he said it that made Rune pause.

Rowan caught his eyes, his smile widening. Slowly, he reached back into the woven basket and produced a small, slightly grease-stained card. He held it out between two fingers. "She also asked me to pass this along to you."

Rune wiped his fingers on a napkin and took the card. He flipped it open. The handwriting was atrocious. Jagged strokes that looked like they'd been stabbed into the paper rather than written:

Next time you need liquid courage before a high table, take the cheap gin from the second shelf. The Highland Malt is for my braised ribs. Don't touch my damn malt again. - L

Rune let out a gasp, covering his mouth with the pastry and squeezed his eyes shut. Shit .

He took a couple firm breathes before he lowered the pastry just enough to find Rowan swirling his wine glass. "Did you... did you happen to read this?" He whispered.

"Read what?"

Rune dropped his face into his free hand. "You read it."

"I didn't need to read it," Rowan chuckled. "I could smell it on your breath when you stepped onto the dais."

The tips of his ears burned. "I thought it was tea," he mumbled miserably into his palm. "It was in a glass decanter. Who puts cooking alcohol in a crystal decanter?"

"Who puts tea in a crystal decanter?"

He paused, a frustrated sigh escaped him. "Fair point." He lifted his head. "But how did she even know though? It was one glass. The bottle was practically full."

"Loud measures her ingredients by the millimetre, you could have taken a single drop and she would have known."

"I'm never going back into that kitchen. I'll just starve."

Rowan laughed, a rich, deep sound Rune had never heard before, and a soft, genuine laugh escaped his own. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, the sheer absurdity of the last forty-eight hours catching up to him.

Rowan eventually set his wine glass down on the blanket and leaned on an elbow. His expression sobered slightly as he glanced at Rune's outfit. "There was a reason I told Iris to put you in this today by the way," he murmured quietly. "Something simple. Clothes that pull away easily. Something you wouldn't mind leaving in the dirt."

Rune's mind flashed back to Jonah's stupid comment: Rippable.

Rowan suddenly stood, pulling off his heavy duty jacket and letting it drop onto the grass. His hands went to the hem of his dark sweater and pulled it smoothly over his head.

Rune’s mouth went dry.

He watched as Rowan's muscles shifted, the silver scars across his ribs, the heavy V-line descending into his trousers drew Rune's eyes downward before he could stop himself.

"When I sent the guards to set this up earlier, my entire plan was to bring you out here, sit you down, and try and get you to tell me everything. Every detail about Edinburgh. Every pack that ever made you feel small. But then I realised," he unbuckled his belt, "that forcing you to satisfy my own possessive instincts wouldn't make you feel safe. It would just make me the same as the rest of them. And I don't want you calculating your next exit strategy." He toed off his boots. "So instead, we're running together. As mates. I want to learn you in your second form. As pack."

He looked down at Rune, his eyes briefly pulsed a subtle gold as his inner wolf surged to the surface.

"Will you join me? I'd like to see your wolf."