Chapter 9 Back again

Nova’s pov

The sun was low, painting the farm in quiet orange light. The kind that makes everything look softer, calmer, almost peaceful. The cows were quiet, half-asleep in the barn, and the only sound was the soft scrape of the broom against the wooden floor. I liked it that way. Quiet. Predictable. My own little pocket of peace after a day that felt too long already.

I tried to focus on sweeping, on the steady rhythm of it, but something inside me wouldn’t rest. There was this strange hum under my skin, like the world itself was holding its breath. I paused, broom halfway through a motion. My heart picked up, thumping hard once. Twice.

Then I felt it.

That presence.

It was impossible to describe, but I knew it. The air shifted. The silence thickened. My wolf stirred before I even turned around.

When I finally did, there he was — leaning against the barn door like he belonged there. Sleeves rolled up, shirt clinging just enough to show the lines of muscle beneath. His eyes caught the fading sunlight, golden for a second before settling into something darker, sharper.

“You again?” I asked, trying to sound annoyed instead of caught off guard.

He smiled, slow and amused. “Told you I’d repay you.”

“Repay me?” I echoed, my hands tightening on the broom handle.

He stepped forward a little, holding something behind his back. “A peace offering.”

I narrowed my eyes. “If it’s trouble, I don’t want it.”

He tilted his head, still smiling. Then he brought it forward — a small wooden crate filled with fresh cuts of meat. “Relax. It’s just dinner. And before you ask, I didn’t kill Anthony’s cousin for it.”

I blinked. “That’s not funny.”

“Didn’t say it was.” His grin widened, and I hated how it almost made me laugh.

He stood there for a second longer, like he was waiting for me to thank him. I didn’t.

“You can’t just walk into people’s barns like you own them,” I said instead.

“Old habit,” he said, looking around like he was taking in the place. “I usually do.”

“Well, you don’t own this one.”

“No,” he murmured, eyes dragging back to me. “But I like the view.”

I shot him a glare. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He was enjoying this. I wasn’t. At least that’s what I told myself.

He walked further inside without asking, his boots echoing softly on the wood. He touched things — a pitchfork handle, a stack of hay — like he had to feel everything to understand it. His presence filled the space too easily, too completely.

I stepped forward, blocking his path. “I said you shouldn’t be here.”

He looked down at me, quiet for a moment, eyes steady. “Then tell me to leave.”

The words caught in my throat. My wolf stirred again, restless. The air between us was heavy and warm, and I hated how aware I was of every inch between us.

He must have noticed. His gaze flickered lower — to my lips, to my hands. Something changed in his face then, the teasing softening just a little.

“I came to say thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For not letting me freeze to death.”

I shrugged, trying to sound unaffected. “You were breathing. I didn’t want a corpse stinking up my barn.”

That earned me another smile. Smaller this time, almost genuine. “Sure. You’re all heart, sweetheart.”

I didn’t reply. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The barn was silent again, except for the faint creak of the rafters and the slow beat of my pulse in my ears. He was watching me the way people stare at fire — like he wasn’t sure if it would warm him or burn him.

Before I could look away, a loud, sharp sound broke the quiet — one of the cows crying out. I turned immediately, my chest tightening. The smaller calf was trembling, eyes wide, like it had seen something I couldn’t.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked, kneeling beside the pen.

Lazarus’s expression changed in an instant. The lazy smirk vanished. His eyes darkened, sharp and alert.

“Something’s out there,” he said, voice low.

I looked toward the open door. The fields were still, shadows long and stretching. “Rogues?” I asked.

“Maybe.” His tone shifted — colder, commanding. He stepped in front of me, blocking my view. “Stay behind me.”

I frowned. “I can handle myself.”

“You can argue later,” he said, without looking back. There was something about the way he spoke — the tone, the quiet authority — that made my wolf still.

For a few tense moments, we stood there, both listening. The air outside moved, whispering through the trees. The calf made another weak sound. But whatever it was, it passed. No movement. No scent. Nothing.

Lazarus turned slightly, eyes scanning the treeline one last time before he relaxed. “False alarm.”

I exhaled slowly, realizing how close we were now. I could feel his body heat, the solid line of his shoulder almost brushing mine.

“You’re still here,” I said softly.

“You noticed,” he murmured, and when I glanced up, his eyes were already on me.

For a second, I thought he might reach out. The air between us thickened again, and my heartbeat kicked hard against my ribs. His gaze lingered, tracing my face in quiet study.

Then he smiled — that same maddening, knowing smile. “Keep the meat.”

I blinked, thrown off balance. “That’s it?”

He stepped back toward the door. “For now.”

And then he was gone.

The barn felt too quiet after he left. I stared at the doorway for a long moment before forcing myself to breathe again.

Later that night, when I finally lay in bed, the farm silent around me, I closed my eyes and tried to forget the way he’d looked at me — steady, unshaken, like he could see every wall I’d ever built.

But the harder I tried not to think about him, the louder my wolf whispered one word inside my head.

Mate.