Chapter 45

[ 692 words ]

Seven boys

45: 45.

Seven boys Barric

“It means you’re the other half of my soul,” I say, holding her gaze.

“Made to fit me in a way no one else ever could.”

Her expression softens—but doubt still lingers in her eyes.

“And you’re just… certain?” she asks.

“I am,” I answer without hesitation.

Because I am.

Not because I know everything about her.

Not because this is easy.

But because the certainty doesn’t come from logic.

It comes from something deeper.

Something older.

“But,” I add, pushing off the tree and stepping a little closer to her, “that doesn’t mean I expect you to feel the same way right now.”

She studies me carefully.

“We can move as slow as you want,” I say.

“Or as fast as you want. There’s no pressure from me.”

Patience, my wolf grumbles, though there’s no real bite behind it.

“I just…” I pause, searching for the right words.

“I want to know you. Really know you. Better than anyone else.”

Something shifts in her expression then.

Not complete certainty.

But something warmer.

More open.

“Okay,” she says softly.

A small victory.

I take it.

“So,” I say, letting a hint of a grin tug at my lips, “fair’s fair. I’ve been asking all the heavy questions. Guess it’s my turn to share something.”

She arches a brow.

“Oh?”

I nod.

“I grew up in a house with seven boys.”

Her eyes widen slightly.

“Seven?”

“Seven,” I confirm.

“And a mom who desperately wanted a girl.”

She laughs—really laughs—and the sound does something strange to my chest.

“Let me guess,” she says.

“She treated you all like you were chaos incarnate.”

“You have no idea,” I chuckle.

“We were chaos. Constant fights, broken furniture, someone always howling about something—literally and figuratively.”

Her smile lingers as we start walking again.

“There was this one time,” I continue, “my brother Marcus thought it’d be a good idea to shift inside the house.”

Her eyes light up.

“No way.”

“Way,” I say.

“Took out half the kitchen. Mom didn’t speak to him for three days.”

She laughs again, shaking her head.

“And another time,” I add, “we all decided to sneak out at night to go hunting without permission.

Got caught within ten minutes.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say… pack punishment is not fun when it’s seven idiots at once.”

She grins.

“I can imagine.”

We walk a little closer now, the space between us not quite as wide.

“So where are they now?” she asks.

“Your brothers?”

“Scattered,” I say.

“Some stayed. Some left for other packs when they found their mates.”

Her expression shifts at that word again—mates—but it’s less tense this time.

“You’ll meet some of them,” I add.

“Marcus, for one.”

She blinks.

“Marcus?

The one who—”

“Destroyed the kitchen?

Yeah, that’s him.”

She laughs, surprised.

“I didn’t realize—”

“Small world,” I shrug.

We walk in comfortable silence for a few moments before she speaks again.

“I had a friend,” she says.

“Back home. Hazel.”

I glance at her.

“Yeah?”

“We had an apartment together,” she continues, a fond smile tugging at her lips.

“Tiny place.

Terrible neighbors.”

“Sounds about right.”

“There was this one coworker,” she adds, rolling her eyes.

“Always trying to steal our graphic design clients. So we started messing with her.”

I smirk.

“Messing how?”

“Oh, you know,” she says innocently.

“Rearranging files.

Switching presentations.

Harmless stuff.”

“Harmless,” I echo, amused.

“She deserved it,” Aria insists, though she’s clearly enjoying the memory.

I chuckle, shaking my head.

Then her smile fades, just a little.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do now,” she admits.

“With what?”

“My life,” she says simply.

That stops me.

She looks ahead, her expression thoughtful again.

“I had plans,” she continues.

“A career. A direction. And now…” She gestures vaguely around us.

“Everything’s different.”

“Different doesn’t mean gone,” I say.

She glances at me.

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you,” I continue.

“If anything, you’ve got more opportunities now, not less.”

She snorts softly.

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it,” I say.

“You wanted to be an artist, right?”

She hesitates.

“Yeah, but…”

“But what?”

She shrugs.

“I don’t think anyone would even buy my work.”

I stop walking.

She takes another step before realizing and turning back to me.

“Hey,” I say, meeting her gaze.

“You would,” she says lightly, like she’s already dismissing it.

“I would,” I interrupt.

She blinks.

“I’d buy every piece you made,” I tell her.

“No question.”

Her expression softens, something vulnerable flickering there.

“You don’t even know if it’s good,” she says.

I smile slightly.

“I don’t need to.”

My wolf rumbles in agreement.

It’s hers.

That’s enough.

And as I look at her—really look at her—I realize something.

This isn’t just about fate.

Or instinct.

Or some ancient bond I don’t fully understand.

It’s about her.

And whether she believes it yet or not…

I’m not going anywhere.

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