Chapter 7 Lillies

Novalyn's pov

The morning sunlight slipped through the cracks in my curtains, painting faint gold streaks across the wooden floor. The cottage was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your chest and demands to be filled. I tied my apron around my waist, brushed a stray lock of hair out of my face, and decided that today, I would not think about him.

Not his voice.

Not his eyes.

Not the way my heart had jumped when he said those words.

“You’re mine.”

I scoffed softly, shaking the memory away as I pushed open the creaky front door. “He’s probably forgotten already,” I muttered to myself. “And I should too.”

The early air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and wildflowers. The farm stretched out before me, quiet except for the occasional bleat from Clover and the soft rustle of hens pecking at the ground. I took in a deep breath and started toward the barn. The boards creaked under my boots, and the smell of hay and life met me like an old friend.

Inside, Clover nudged at my leg with her head, bleating insistently. “Good morning to you too,” I said, setting the feed bucket down. “You’re worse than a child when you’re hungry.”

Maisey, my pregnant sheep, lay in her pen with that lazy, unbothered look she always wore. “Don’t give me that look, Maisey. You’re next.”

I poured feed into their troughs, swept the corners, and tried to keep my mind busy. Work had always been my way to drown out thoughts. But somehow, every sound seemed to remind me of him. The way his footsteps had sounded behind me. The way his voice had filled the barn, deep and rough.

The bucket hit the ground louder than I meant it to. “Yours? Ridiculous!”

Clover blinked up at me, chewing lazily.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I huffed. “You saw him. Tall, brooding, probably used to women fainting at his feet. Not this one.”

Clover bleated in response, which only made me roll my eyes harder. “Exactly. We have standards.”

I grabbed the broom and started sweeping again, but there it was — that faint pull in my chest. It was subtle, like a thread tugging at something deep inside me. My wolf stirred, restless and alert beneath my skin.

“No. Absolutely not,” I whispered. “We’re not doing this.”

When the chores were done, I stepped out into the soft sunlight. The fields beyond the cottage shimmered with morning mist. I made my way to the small garden behind the house, where rows of herbs and wildflowers grew thick and colorful. The soil was damp under my fingers as I knelt, gathering what I needed.

“Lavender,” I murmured, plucking the soft purple petals. “You always make everything better.”

Maisey trailed behind me slowly, and Clover wasn’t far away, chewing on something that definitely wasn’t edible. “Spit that out,” I warned. She didn’t.

I sighed, smiling despite myself. “You two will be the death of me.”

As I gathered cone flower and yarrow, I caught myself humming —

“These are for you, Maisey,” I said as I plucked the last bit of lime flower. “Can’t have you panicking when it’s time. We’ll make it quick and calm, alright?”

Maisey bleated softly, and I smiled. “See? You understand.”

The workshop smelled of rosemary and honey when I walked in. The shelves were lined with jars and old parchment, herbs hanging upside down in tidy bunches. It was my favorite place in the world — my small piece of peace. Clover and Maisey settled beside me while I set to work.

“Lavender for relaxation,” I said as I crushed the petals in a wooden bowl. “Cone flower to keep you strong. Yarrow for wounds. Passion flower for your nerves. And lime flower for stress.”

Maisey made a low sound that almost sounded like disapproval. I chuckled. “Yes, I know it’s bitter. That’s why we add honey.”

I scooped a spoonful of golden honey into the bowl and stirred it all together until it formed a smooth paste. The sweet scent filled the air, soft and soothing. “Herbs are a healer’s best friend,” I murmured, pouring the mixture into a small glass jar and sealing it tight.

When I stepped outside again, the day had brightened. The hens were busy chasing each other across the yard, and Marcus — my overconfident rooster — was strutting proudly among them.

“Marcus! Stop harassing them, you tyrant!” I shouted, hands on my hips.

Clover bleated like she was backing me up.

But then something caught my eye.

A small bundle sat neatly on my porch steps. White lilies.

I froze.

They were fresh — petals dewy, stems neatly tied with a thin twine. I knelt down slowly, my heart beginning to thrum in my chest. The scent hit me before my fingers even brushed the flowers. Wild. Clean. Familiar.

Him.

My breath hitched. I picked them up, careful, almost reverent despite myself. “No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”

There was no note. No sign of who had left them. But I knew. My wolf knew. The scent was burned into me now.

White lilies. My favorite.

“How did he know?” I murmured, staring at the blooms in my hands. For a heartbeat, warmth fluttered in my chest — then I crushed it. I tossed the flowers into the bin beside the door and dusted off my hands like I could scrub away what I was feeling.

But the scent lingered. On my fingers. On my skin. Deep in my head where I didn’t want it. My wolf stirred again, restless, almost hopeful.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told Clover, who was watching me silently. “I’m not going to see him.”

She tilted her head as if she didn’t believe me.

Inside the cottage, I leaned against the counter and stared at my hands. They still smelled faintly of lilies and something else — something wilder, darker, alive.

My heart was beating too fast. The air felt heavier than before, and I knew, deep down, that the pull I was trying to fight was growing stronger.

I closed my eyes and whispered to no one, “Moon help me.”

Outside, far beyond the trees, I could swear I heard the faint, distant echo of a howl.