Chapter 11 Heat of the Moment

Lazarus’s POV

I told myself I wasn’t going to see her again. I’d said it twice out loud that morning, pacing along the eastern border like a man trying to convince himself he wasn’t already lost. But hours later, my boots were on the dirt road that led toward her land. I called it a patrol in my head, but I knew better. My wolf knew better.

Something about her farm pulled at me. The air around it felt different — quieter, fuller somehow, like the world took a breath and waited. Every time I crossed that invisible line, the noise in my chest settled. I hated that. I hated how much I needed it.

The road into town was half gravel, half memory. I used to come this way with my mother when we traded hides for grain. Back then, it smelled like sun-warmed hay and trust. Now it smelled like her. Sweet, earthy, maddening.

I caught sight of her truck at the market square before I even decided what to do with myself. She was there, standing by a stall, arguing with an old vendor about a crate of apples. Her hands moved when she talked — expressive, strong, alive. She didn’t smile once, but she didn’t need to. She had this stubborn light around her that dared you to come close and promised to burn if you did.

I leaned against a post and watched. Not like a stalker, not really. Just… a man trying to understand the pull of gravity.

She worked through the morning like she was built for it, like she had never known what it meant to stop. Dirt smudged her jeans. Sweat curled a few strands of hair at her temple. She didn’t care who looked, didn’t adjust herself for anyone. I respected that. Maybe I envied it.

When she moved to load the truck, I stepped forward without thinking. “Need a hand, Sunshine?”

She froze. Then slowly turned.

Those eyes hit me like a shot to the ribs — steady, fierce, and too beautiful for my peace of mind.

“You again,” she said flatly, as if I’d committed some crime by existing within a mile of her.

“Couldn’t resist the view,” I said, trying for lightness.

She frowned, the kind of frown that said she’d heard a hundred lines before and hated every one. “You don’t get to follow me around like some stray dog.”

I shrugged. “I could argue I’m house-trained.”

Nothing. Not even a crack of a smile. Her silence made me want to laugh and pull her hair at the same time.

She tried to lift the crate again and nearly lost her balance. I caught it before it hit the ground. Our hands brushed — just a second, barely a touch — but my whole body reacted. My wolf pushed forward, ears up, alert. I could smell her heartbeat, feel it thrum like a live wire.

She jerked her hand away and muttered something under her breath. I let it go. You don’t corner someone who’s already lived in corners.

For a while, we worked in silence. She tied down her load, I steadied the frame. I could feel her eyes on me when she thought I wasn’t looking. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

When the vendor shouted, “Nova, you forgot your change!”, the name slid into me like a key in a lock.

Nova.

Fitting. She looked like she was made of light, but she lived like it hurt to shine.

After that, she climbed into her truck without another word. I followed in the distance. I told myself I was just making sure she got home safe. That was half true. The other half was need. I couldn’t seem to stop needing to know she was all right.

Her road wound through low fields, gold with late-season grain. The kind of place that could heal a man if he let it. I wondered if it had healed her or just given her somewhere to hide.

When she pulled into her yard, I cut across the back trail, reached her fence before she did. I leaned there, waiting, pretending I hadn’t timed it that way.

She climbed out, saw me, and groaned. “Are you serious?”

“Completely,” I said. “Thought I’d help unload.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I can see that.”

She glared, but there was no real heat in it, just defense. She turned her back and started hauling sacks of feed. I joined her anyway.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked without looking at me.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like we’re friends.”

“Maybe I’m hoping we could be.”

That made her laugh — short, sharp, bitter. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

That earned me another glare.

She tried to walk off then, muttering about boundaries, but I reached out and caught her wrist before I could think better of it.

The spark hit like a live flame. Her eyes widened. My wolf lunged forward, howling inside me. Everything in me screamed mine.

I let go instantly, breathing hard. She stepped back, eyes wide, chest rising fast.

Her voice came out low, shaken. “Don’t touch me.”

“Nova,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Just don’t.”

She turned and walked away, every step stiff with anger and something else I couldn’t name.

I stayed where I was, watching her go.

The world around us felt strange — heavier, alive. I could feel her presence even after she disappeared inside. It pressed against my skin, wrapped around my heartbeat.

My wolf whispered her name again.

I told him to shut up, but even I didn’t believe it.

As dusk fell, I sat on the fence, staring at the quiet fields and her light burning softly through the kitchen window. I told myself I’d leave in a minute. Then another. Then another.

The night settled. The air hummed. And somewhere between wanting her and promising myself I didn’t, I realised the truth.

I wasn’t just pulled to her. I was anchored.

And anchors don’t let go easy.