Chapter 31: Hey buddy

Chapter 31 (Lenora POV) I look at the sleeping Cameron. It’s become our weekly ritual—putting him to sleep with one of Nana’s concoctions. Bitter tea laced with roots, herbs, and whatever else she won’t name. She says they help him delve deeper into his subconscious, get closer to his wolf. I just nod and help him drink it. He slips into this dream-world, this liminal space where his wolf waits, curled deep inside. Every time, I sit beside him in silence. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I hum. Sometimes I just watch his chest rise and fall—slow, too slow. Nana warned me to shake him occasionally, just enough to remind his body it’s still alive. Because sometimes... sometimes it forgets. His heart slows, his breath shallows, and I panic. Every time. But I do what she said. I touch his arm, whisper his name, ground him in this world. Still, I wonder—what happens in there? *** (Cameron) It’s this bloody foggy cave again. Same mist. Same damp stone. Same oppressive silence pressing against my skin like invisible hands. I walk in, step after slow step, until I find it. The wolf. Massive. Black as midnight. Coiled like a beast carved from obsidian and shadow. When I first saw it, I nearly pissed myself. It didn’t move, didn’t growl, but it didn’t need to. It radiated power, raw and ancient. Like something out of a legend—or a nightmare. And that thing, apparently, is me. Or... part of me. I still don’t understand. They keep saying the wolf is me. That we’re the same. That he’s not some separate entity haunting my dreams, but a reflection—wild, primal, waiting to be accepted. But it doesn’t feel that way. It doesn’t feel like me. Still, I’m trying. I walk toward it. Carefully. Respectfully. Like approaching a wild animal that might eat me for looking at it wrong. "Hey, buddy," I say quietly, the word echoing in the cave like an awkward joke. Nothing. As expected, it doesn’t acknowledge me. Hasn’t since that first night, when I panicked and bolted and the whole dream collapsed around me. Now? It just sleeps. Curled in on itself, breathing slow and deep, like the world doesn’t exist. I sit down beside it, my back against its thick flank. Its fur is warm, surprisingly so. Solid. Real. "I’m sorry," I say softly, not sure what else to offer. "Sorry for being afraid of you. For pretending you weren’t real. For ignoring everything I didn’t understand." The silence hums. "I didn’t know how to deal with any of this," I continue, staring out into the fog. "The wolf thing. The mate thing... It’s a lot." Still nothing. The wolf breathes in and out, steady and unbothered. "You can’t stay in here forever, you know. Lenora’s out there. She misses you. Us. Don’t you want to see her?" I wait. No answer. "Don’t you want to go hunt something? Chase rabbits? Scare Ronan?" A low chuckle escapes me at that last one. The image of Ronan running from a giant black wolf is oddly satisfying. Still, the beast doesn’t stir. "I’m trying," I whisper. "I really am." My words fall flat. I exhale and rest my head against its side. "We’re supposed to be one, right? That’s what they keep saying. You and me, same soul, same body. I just... I don’t know how." The wolf shifts. Not much. Barely a twitch. But enough to send my pulse spiking. I freeze. Its ear flicks. I lift my head, slowly. "Was that a yes? A maybe?" Still no reply. But I don’t move away. I stay close, silent now. Listening to the rhythm of its breathing, willing myself not to panic. Not to screw it up again. Minutes pass. Or hours. Time is weird here. * I open my eyes and—of course—Lenora’s there again. Same chair. Same stubborn set to her mouth. Same ridiculous commitment to sitting by my bedside all night like I’m made of spun glass. I sigh quietly. She’s slumped, chin tilted down, arms crossed over her chest. Her white hair spills over her shoulder like moonlight, her breathing slow and even. I’ve told her a dozen times she doesn’t need to do this. That I’m fine. That I won’t drop dead in my sleep from one of the witch’s potions. But she doesn’t listen. I shift gently and slide out of bed. My body feels like it’s moving through syrup—residual grogginess clinging to my limbs. Still, I’ve done this enough times now to move with care. I crouch in front of her and sigh again. "Stubborn woman," I mutter, before hooking one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back. She stirs but doesn’t wake as I lift her. Her head falls softly against my shoulder, a quiet breath escaping her lips. She melts into me like she belongs there. I carry her to the bed and ease her down onto the mattress, gently arranging her in the same spot I’d just been lying in. She curls in unconsciously, chasing my warmth. I tuck the blanket around her, then hesitate, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Sleep," I whisper, even though she’s already halfway there. Then I grab my laptop and step out into the main room of the cabin. The air is crisp, pine-scented and laced with woodsmoke. I settle at the table near the window and boot up my computer. My inbox immediately explodes. Calls. Emails. Meetings. Slack pings. Apparently, the narrative Simone spun was that I’d had a stress-induced breakdown from overwork, and the Netas consolidated that rumor. So now everyone thinks I’m somewhere in the Swiss Alps recovering from capitalist burnout. I join the video calls. Smile when expected. Nod when necessary. Deliver just enough logic and charm to keep everything afloat. But after two straight hours of meetings, I snap the laptop shut and bury my face in my hands. I hear the rustle before I see him. When I look up, Eamon is watching me from the doorway with a complicated look on his face. "Eamon?" I say, and he straightens, schooling his face into something more neutral. "Come. It’s time for our training." I groan immediately, my shoulders sagging. My whole body feels like it’s been steamrolled, every muscle sore from the last session—and the one before that—and the one before that. "Seriously?" But he’s already turned away, walking off without waiting for a reply. I drag myself after him, grabbing a shirt, then tossing it aside halfway to the clearing. No point. I’ll be rolling in the dirt again in two minutes. The air outside is brisk and pine-scented, sunlight filtering through the trees. It would be peaceful if it wasn’t for the physical beatdown I know is coming. We face each other. I brace myself. Breathe. Eamon doesn’t give warning—he never does. One second I’m upright, the next I’m flat on my back, the wind knocked out of me. I suck in a breath, teeth gritted, humiliated. I push myself up, face burning—not just from impact, but from frustration. I’m not this bad. I know I’m not. I used to box. Kickboxing, a bit of judo. Weekend training, gym circuits, nothing elite—but enough to hold my own in a fight. Enough that I shouldn’t be getting dropped like a ragdoll every single morning. This time I manage a jab—barely—and he swats it away like I’m a toddler trying to slap an adult. I’m in the dirt again. He clicks his tongue. "You’re still thinking." "I’m trying not to," I growl, wiping the sweat from my face. "You’re trying too hard not to think. Same thing." He circles me slowly. "You’re calculating every move. Hesitating. You’re not trusting your body." "Let your instincts take over," Eamon continues. "React. Don’t plan." Sure. Easier said than done. My entire life has been planning. Overthinking. Anticipating every possible outcome. It’s how I survived my family. It’s how I built a billion-dollar company. It’s how I kept control. I breathe heavily and brace again, sweat beading along my spine. I move in again. Quicker. Sloppier. And again, he dodges. He doesn’t even move—he glides. And then I’m on the ground a third time. "Stop thinking like a man," he says simply. "You’re not one anymore." I look up at him, panting, dirt in my mouth. My ribs ache. My pride is bleeding. "You want to move like a wolf?" he adds. "Then stop dragging your mind around like dead weight. It’ll get you killed."