Chapter Nineteen: Steel, Wind, and the Way He Came
The library smelled like paper and quiet.
I liked it there. Books didn't ask questions. They didn't watch you the way people did. They waited patiently, asking nothing until you chose to open them. I stayed longer than I planned, lost between philosophy pages that talked about love as choice, as sacrifice, as something rational. I didn't know then how foolish that sounded compared to what my heart was learning.
By the time I left, the sun was already dipping low, the sky pale blue and tired. My arms were full of borrowed books, my bag heavy, my steps slower as I took the shorter path behind the old campus buildings.
That's when the air changed.
I felt it before I understood it.
Laughter—too sharp. Voices—too close.
"Hey."
I kept walking.
"Nice hair."
My grip tightened on my books.
Footsteps followed.
Then a hand slid into my hair.
I froze.
"Don't," I said, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound firm.
"Relax," someone said, amused. "We're just looking."
I turned around. Three men stood too close, smiling in a way that made my skin crawl.
"Please," I said, stepping back. "I don't want trouble."
One of them caught my hair again, lifting it between his fingers. "You grow this for attention or what?"
Fear climbed up my spine, sharp and paralyzing.
"Let go," I whispered.
He didn't.
Then—
A sound tore through the moment.
A deep, mechanical growl.
An engine.
A black bike skidded to a precise stop beside us. The suddenness made them turn. It made my breath catch.
The rider didn't rush. He didn't shout.
He removed his helmet slowly.
Rowan.
His eyes went straight to the hand tangled in my hair.
The world went very still.
"Move," he said quietly.
The man laughed, uneasy. "Who the hell are you?"
Rowan stepped closer.
"I said move."
The hand didn't release me fast enough.
Rowan didn't hesitate.
His fist connected with the man's jaw in one clean, brutal motion.
The sound was sickening.
The man fell back, stunned, crashing into the wall. The other two froze.
Rowan took another step forward, his voice low, lethal. "Touch her again, and you won't walk away."
They didn't argue.
They ran.
My knees went weak. Rowan turned to me immediately, his expression shifting—still fierce, but threaded with concern.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I nodded, though my hands were shaking violently.
He saw it.
Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. It was warm, heavy, grounding. It smelled like him—clean steel and something darker underneath.
"They touched your hair," he said, not asking.
"Yes."
His jaw tightened, anger flashing like something dangerous behind his eyes.
"Come," he said softly, guiding me toward the bike. "We're leaving."
---
He handed me a helmet.
I stared at it like it was a foreign object. "I've never worn one before."
"That's obvious," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting despite everything.
I tried. Failed. My hair tangled immediately.
"Ow—no—wait—this thing hates me."
He turned fully toward me.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You're breathing."
"That's unavoidable."
A quiet sound left him—almost a laugh—as he gently freed my hair, his fingers patient and careful. He placed the helmet properly, adjusted the sides.
"Chin up."
I obeyed.
He fastened the strap beneath my chin, his knuckles brushing my skin. The touch was light, reverent.
"All set."
I looked up at him. "Do I look ridiculous?"
"No," he said. Then softer, "You look safe."
Something in my chest cracked open.
I climbed onto the bike, my arms wrapping around his waist. He stilled for a heartbeat, then covered my hands with one of his, grounding us both.
The engine roared to life.
And suddenly, we were flying.
The city blurred past us—lights, streets, laughter, noise. Wind tore the fear out of my chest, replaced it with exhilaration. I pressed my forehead against his back, laughing without meaning to.
At a red light, he glanced back. "Better?"
"Yes," I said honestly.
He nodded and drove on.
We rode until the fear felt like a distant memory. When we stopped, it was at a small diner glowing softly near the river.
"You hungry?" he asked.
I realized then how empty I felt. "Yes."
Inside, we shared fries, sandwiches, quiet smiles. He sat close enough that our hands brushed. Eventually, he didn't pull away. Neither did I. Our fingers intertwined naturally, like they'd always known where to go.
I watched him as he ate—relaxed, almost normal—and wondered how the same man could be so gentle and so terrifying.
"I was scared," I admitted quietly.
"I know," he said.
"But you came," I whispered. "And everything felt okay again."
He looked at me carefully. "That's dangerous."
"Depending on you?"
"Yes."
I squeezed his hand. "Too late."
---
He drove me back to the dorm slowly. When we stopped, the night felt heavier.
"Text me when you're inside," he said.
"I will."
I struggled with the helmet strap again. He sighed softly and leaned in.
"Still clumsy."
"You like rescuing me."
"Don't encourage it."
He removed the helmet. We were close. Too close.
"This is where I should stop," he murmured.
"Are you going to?" I asked.
No.
His lips brushed mine—soft, tentative, aching. A kiss that felt like a promise neither of us dared to say aloud.
"Goodnight, Rowan."
"Goodnight, little star."
I walked inside, my heart racing.
Outside, Rowan waited until the lights swallowed me whole.
Then he rode away, knowing—
this was no longer something either of us could escape.
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again—the press of his jacket around my shoulders, the steady strength of his hands, the softness of that almost-careful kiss. My lips still felt warm, like they remembered him better than my mind did.
I lay on my narrow dorm bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the building. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Someone laughed. Life went on like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
My phone buzzed.
Rowan: Inside?
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Me: Yes. Safe.
Rowan: Good. Sleep now.
Me: You sound bossy.
Rowan: I am.
Me: Goodnight, Rowan.
Rowan: Goodnight, little star.
I pressed the phone to my chest like it could steady my heart.
--
The next few days passed in a strange, gentle blur.
Rowan didn't overwhelm me. He didn't show up unannounced or demand my time. Instead, he became… consistent. A message in the morning. A call at night. Small check-ins that made me feel seen without feeling trapped.
Sophia noticed, of course.
She noticed everything.
"You're glowing," she said one afternoon, flopping onto my bed and stealing one of my cookies. "And don't say it's good sleep, because you've been awake till 3 a.m. every night."
"I'm not glowing," I muttered.
"You're glowing," she repeated smugly. "So. Is it official yet, Sister-in-Law?"
I buried my face in my pillow. "Sophia!"
She laughed. "I knew it. You're in love."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
----
Across the city, in a place colder and far less forgiving, Rowan sat alone later that night, his phone dark in his hand.
Luca stood near the window. Viktor leaned against the wall.
"You asked us to dig," Luca said carefully. "So we did."
Rowan didn't look up. "And?"
Viktor spoke this time. "Her family isn't what it seems."
That got Rowan's attention.
"They're wolves," Viktor said flatly. "Her father. Her brothers. Old blood. Your enemies."
Silence dropped like a blade.
Rowan closed his eyes.
Of all the cruel twists fate could offer, this was the worst one.
He had finally fallen for the right woman—
born into the wrong war.
"What about her?" Rowan asked.
"She doesn't know," Leo said immediately.
"Not a hint. She's clean. Innocent."
Rowan's jaw clenched.
"Keep this quiet," he ordered. "No one touches her. No one even breathes near her without my permission."
"And you?" Viktor asked. "What will you do?"