Chapter 6: Burned Offerings
The scent of blood lingered for days.
It seeped into the wood grain of the floor where Kade had lain, a stubborn copper tang that resisted Nico’s frantic scrubbing. It hung in the air of the cabin, a ghost of violence that mixed uneasily with the smells of pine and woodsmoke. More persistent was the tension, a wire pulled taut between the lodge and the rest of the pack, vibrating with unspoken questions.
Theron knew. He had to. The Alpha’s silence was a pressure all its own. He didn’t summon Kade, didn’t comment on the clumsy, obvious stitches under his enforcer’s shirt, or the slight stiffness in his movement. He simply watched, his pale eyes missing nothing during pack gatherings, lingering on Kade’s guarded posture and the shadows under Nico’s eyes. The approval for Nico’s video ruse had been implicit in his lack of punishment. The waiting was the price.
Kade healed with a speed that unnerved Nico. By the third day, the angry red around the sutures had faded to pink. By the fifth, he was moving without a wince, though he forbade Nico from removing the threads. “Another day or two,” he’d grumble, swatting Nico’s probing hands away. “Let the skin remember it’s whole.”
Nico’s nerves were fraying. Every snap of a twig outside was a Selene pack assassin. Every distant howl was a victory cry over damning footage. He jumped at shadows, his sleep fractured by dreams of green-tinted night vision and silent, watching lenses. The cabin, once a refuge, felt like a glass box in a hostile forest.
He tried to keep busy. He organized the few belongings they had into fastidious order. He attempted to read, but the words swam on the page. The silence between him and Kade, usually comfortable, became a dense thing, filled with all the fears they weren’t voicing.
On the sixth evening, the silence broke in a unexpected way.
Kade, who viewed cooking as a utilitarian fuel-gathering exercise, was standing at the small counter, frowning at a haphazard pile of root vegetables and a chunk of venison. The fire was built high, casting a warm, dancing light that softened the hard lines of his face. A pot simmered, emitting a smell that was more aggressive than aromatic.
“What are you doing?” Nico asked from the couch, where he’d been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes.
“Making stew.”
“It smells like you’re declaring war on the vegetables.”
Kade shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. “It’s food. It’ll be fine.” He aggressively diced a potato, each thunk of the knife final. “You need to eat something that isn’t anxiety.”
“I’m not anxious,” Nico said automatically, his knee bouncing a rapid rhythm.
“You’re vibrating the floorboards.” Kade dumped the potatoes into the pot with a splash. A long, awkward quiet settled, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the bubbling stew. Kade stirred, his broad back tense. Then, without turning, he spoke, his voice deliberately light. “Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”
Nico blinked. “What?”
“Why don’t skeletons fight each other?” Kade repeated, still staring into the pot.
“I… have no idea.”
“They don’t have the guts.”
Nico stared at the back of Kade’s head. The words hung in the smoky air, so profoundly absurd, so utterly divorced from the man who had nearly bled out on this floor days ago, that Nico’s brain short-circuited.
A snort escaped him. Then a choked giggle. Then a full, helpless laugh burst out, raw and unexpected, scraping his throat. It was a terrible joke. The kind a bored dad tells on a long car ride.
Kade turned, a tentative, crooked smile on his face. “What do you call a fish with no eyes?”
“Oh, god, no more—”
“Fsh.”
Nico doubled over, clutching his stomach. The laughter was hysterical now, fueled by sleeplessness and terror and the surreal image of Kade Blackwood, werewolf enforcer, telling blind fish jokes. Tears streamed down his face. “Stop! It’s not funny!”
“You’re crying,” Kade pointed out, his smile widening into something real, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The amber in them was warm, like the firelight.
“It’s painful! You’re weaponizing dad humor!” Nico gasped for air, his ribs aching. The immense, coiled tension of the past week snapped all at once, leaving him giddy and unmoored. He stumbled up from the couch, still laughing weakly, and crossed the room. He didn’t stop until he collided with Kade, his forehead thumping against the solid muscle of Kade’s chest.
He slid down, his laughter dissolving into exhausted, silent shakes, until he was sitting on the floor, his back against the cabinets, utterly spent. Kade looked down at him, his expression softening. He shifted, lowering himself with a slight, careful grunt to sit beside him on the worn plank floor, their shoulders touching.
The stew forgotten, its aggressive aroma filling the cabin. The fire popped. Nico’s breathing slowly evened out, the aftershocks of laughter leaving him hollowed out and calm.
“That was awful,” he mumbled, leaning his head against Kade’s shoulder.
“I have more.”
“Don’t you dare.”
They sat in silence for a while, the simple contact a balm. Nico focused on the solid heat of Kade beside him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the faint, clean scent of his skin under the smell of woodsmoke and dubious stew.
“I keep waiting for the sky to fall,” Nico said quietly, to the flames. “Every second. It’s exhausting.”
Kade’s arm came around him, pulling him closer. “I know. But the sky hasn’t fallen yet. The card is in their hands. Your story is in their hands. We have to live in the ‘yet.’” He rested his chin on top of Nico’s head. “And right now, in the ‘yet,’ I’m trying to make you stew. And tell you jokes so bad they short-circuit your fear.”
Nico closed his eyes. The simple, ridiculous truth of it sank in. This was the defiance. Not just the secret missions and edited footage, but this. Sitting on a dirty floor. Burning dinner. The worst jokes imaginable. It was a claim staked on normalcy, however fragile.
“The stew is definitely burning,” Nico murmured.
Kade sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Probably.”
They didn’t move. The moment was too fragile, too newly built from the wreckage of their nerves. Nico traced a finger over the fabric of Kade’s shirt, where the stitches lay beneath. A testament to survival, however messy.
A heavy knock sounded at the door.
The calm shattered. Nico jerked, his heart slamming against his ribs. Kade’s body went rigid, his arm tightening protectively. The air left the room.
Kade stood first, moving Nico gently behind him as he rose. His expression was neutral, wiped clean, but his eyes had bled to a wary, stormy grey. He opened the door.
It was Rylan. He stood on the threshold, his face its usual granite mask. He didn’t enter. His gaze flicked to Nico, then back to Kade.
“Well?” Kade’s voice was flat.
“Scout just reported back from the southern border,” Rylan said, his words clipped. “Selene’s pack is pulling back. Their patrols have retreated a full mile. No heightened alerts. No mobilization.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “They’re acting like they wasted a month on a dead-end lead.”
The meaning hung in the cold air rushing through the door. The edited footage had worked. The garbage data had been believed. The lever had been blunted.
Kade gave a single, slow nod. “Understood.”
Rylan’s eyes lingered for a second longer, a look that wasn’t quite approval, but wasn’t disdain either. It was the look of a soldier acknowledging a successful, unorthodox tactic. He turned and disappeared into the night.
Kade closed the door. He stood there for a long moment, his hand still on the latch, his head bowed. The only sound was the furious crackle of the fire and the frantic, hopeful beat of Nico’s heart.
When Kade turned around, the relief on his face was so profound it was almost painful to see. The stern lines melted, leaving behind a weariness and a dazed sort of triumph.
Nico didn’t realize he was moving until he was across the room. He didn’t hug Kade. He just walked into him, his body meeting Kade’s with a quiet thud, his face pressing into the space between his neck and shoulder. Kade’s arms encircled him, crushing him close, holding him up as Nico’s legs went weak.
No laughter this time. Just a deep, shuddering breath that Nico felt echo in Kade’s own chest. The held-in terror of the past week condensed and leaked out, not as tears, but as a profound, bone-deep tremor.
After a minute, Kade spoke, his voice a rough vibration against Nico’s ear. “The sky’s still up.”
Nico nodded, his face still buried. He smelled the faint, acrid scent of burnt stew, the wool of Kade’s sweater, the forest on his skin. Real smells. Present smells. The scent of a reprieve, however temporary.
He pulled back just enough to look up. Kade’s eyes were a clear, calm amber again, reflecting the fire. “You know,” Nico said, his own voice scratchy. “We should probably salvage that stew. And then you can tell me another one of those terrible jokes.”
A real smile, slow and easy, spread across Kade’s face. “What do you call a bear with no teeth?”
“Don’t.”
“A gummy bear.”
This time, Nico’s laugh was quiet, a soft release of air. It was a stupid joke. The world outside was still dangerous, the rules were still rigid, and Theron’s calculation was still a pendulum over their heads. But in the warm, messy cabin, with the smell of burned food and the sound of a gummy bear punchline, the ‘yet’ felt spacious. It felt, for the first time, like it could be a place to live.
It felt, for the first time, like it could be a place to live. The laughter had scrubbed the lingering fear from the air, leaving the cabin feeling softer, the firelight warmer. Nico peeled himself away from Kade’s solid chest and sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the metallic scent of scorched pot. “Okay, chef. Let’s assess the damage.”
He moved to the hearth, grabbing a worn cloth to lift the lid. A plume of steam carried the smell of charred carrot and under-seasoned broth. The venison hunks were tough-looking, floating in a murky sea. “You boiled the life out of it,” Nico sighed, but there was no heat in the accusation.
“It’s cooked, isn’t it?” Kade leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. His posture was loose, the guarded tension from the past week finally unspooling.
“Cooking is more than applying heat until edible, you magnificent brute.” Nico found a wooden spoon and began to stir, scraping the bottom. He searched the shelves for redemption: a bundle of dried thyme, a half-head of garlic, a knob of butter forgotten on a cold sill. “We can fix this. Maybe.”
Kade pushed off the counter and came up behind him, his presence a sudden, encompassing heat. He didn’t touch him, just stood close, looking over Nico’s shoulder into the pot. His chin nearly rested on Nico’s temple. “You’re going to perform magic on my failure?”
“I’m going to apply basic culinary first aid.” Nico concentrated on crushing the dried thyme between his palms, letting the fragrant dust fall into the stew. The simple action was calming.
Kade’s breath stirred his hair. “Careful. That looks almost like skill.”
“It’s called ‘knowing that food should taste like something.’” Nico reached for the garlic, but Kade’s hand got there first. His fingers closed around Nico’s wrist, not hard, but enough to still his movement. The contact was electric, a bolt of pure awareness in the cozy room.
“What’s the magic word?” Kade’s voice was a low rumble in his ear, playful and dark.
Nico’s heart did a stupid, fluttering thing. He tried to tug his hand free, but Kade held firm, his thumb stroking the delicate skin over his pulse point. “Let go, you overgrown puppy.”
“Wrong word.” Kade took the garlic himself, his other hand still a gentle manacle. He began peeling it with his blunt fingers, his movements oddly deft. “Try again.”
“This is ridiculous. I’m trying to save our dinner.”
“And I’m trying to hear you ask nicely.” Kade broke a clove and brought it to his own nose, sniffing it before offering it. The gesture was intimate, absurd. “Come on, city boy. Use your words.”
Nico felt a flush creep up his neck. It was teasing, but it was also a test, a reclaiming of their normalcy through this gentle, physical provocation. He swallowed, the earlier laughter bubbling back up, mixed with something warmer. “Please,” he said, the word overly sweet, sarcastic.
Kade’s mouth quirked. He placed the garlic clove in Nico’s now-free palm, his fingers lingering. “See? Was that so hard?” He didn’t move back. He stayed planted behind him, a wall of muscle and warmth, observing every slice of the knife as Nico minced the garlic. His silent attention was its own form of touch.
Nico melted the butter in a spoon, letting it sizzle with the garlic before swirling it into the pot. The new fragrance bloomed instantly, rich and promising, cutting through the blandness. He stirred, focused on the transformation, hyper-aware of the man at his back.
“You know,” Kade murmured, his voice dropping another octave. “Watching you work is fascinating. All that concentration for a pot of stew.” One hand came to rest, very lightly, on Nico’s hip. A claim. A casual possession that made Nico’s breath hitch.
“Some of us appreciate the process,” Nico managed, his voice thinner than he wanted. The stew was forgotten, the world narrowed to the heat of that hand and the sound of Kade’s breathing.
“I’m appreciating the process.” Kade’s nose brushed the shell of his ear. “The meticulousness. The frown you get right here.” His other hand came up, a single calloused fingertip tracing a spot between Nico’s eyebrows.
Nico went utterly still, the spoon hovering. Every nerve ending was on fire. The cabin, the forest, the lurking threats—all of it dissolved into the scent of thyme, garlic, and Kade. This was a different kind of survival, this slow, deliberate act of reclamation.
Kade’s lips replaced his finger, a soft, shocking press against that same spot. Then he stepped back, the absence of his heat like a sudden draft. “Don’t burn it again,” he said, his tone shifting back to its normal gruffness, though his eyes were alight.
Nico exhaled, a shaky sound. He looked into the pot, the stew now simmering with purpose. He stirred it once, twice, his movements automatic. The silence was full and charged, a new thread woven into the fabric of their ‘yet.’
He ladled the stew into two bowls, the improved aroma now genuinely enticing. They ate on the floor by the fire, shoulders touching. It was good. Not amazing, but hearty and real. A salvaged thing.
Halfway through, Nico spoke into the quiet. “They believed it. The footage.”
“They did.” Kade scooped up a chunk of meat. “Your story was better than their truth.”
“For now.” Nico poked at a carrot. “Theron hasn’t said anything. That’s the next part, isn’t it? The calculation.”
Kade’s chewing slowed. He set his bowl down carefully. “The calculation changes with results. You delivered a result. That matters.”
“But I’m still a human who knows about cameras in the woods. I’m still a risk.” Nico put his own bowl aside, his appetite fading. “The debt’s just bigger, that’s all. I owe him now, for not starting a war.”
Kade turned to face him fully. The fire painted his features in sharp relief. “You don’t owe him anything. We protect our own. That’s the only law that matters to me.” He reached out, his hand cupping the back of Nico’s neck, forcing his gaze to hold. “You’re mine. That makes you pack. However he has to rationalize it, that’s the end of it for me.”
The words were raw, stripped of all metaphor. They weren’t pretty. They were possessive, primal, and utterly convincing. Nico believed him. The terror of that was almost as profound as the comfort.
A different kind of knock sounded at the door—not Rylan’s assertive rap, but a lighter, hesitant tapping. Mira’s voice, young and unsure, filtered through the wood. “Kade? Nico? Alpha Theron wants to see you. At the longhouse.”
The reprieve was over. The ‘yet’ had just contracted.
Kade’s hand tightened on Nico’s neck for a second, a brief, grounding pressure. Then he stood, pulling Nico up with him. His expression had already shifted, the softness from moments ago sealed away behind the enforcer’s mask. Only his eyes, a flinty, determined grey, betrayed the stakes.
“Leave the bowls,” he said, his voice flat.
He opened the door to the deep, moonless night. Nico followed, stepping from the warmth of their salvaged haven into the cold, waiting dark. Theron’s summons wasn’t a request. It was a verdict, and they walked toward it side by side, the taste of thyme and garlic still on their tongues.