I found Varder in the training yard.
He was alone, which was unusual. The training yard was typically full this time of day — young pack members working through their forms, guards running drills, the constant noise of bodies in motion. But the space was empty except for him, and judging by the sweat soaking through his shirt and the way his knuckles were split and bleeding where they'd met the training post, he had been here for some time.
He didn't stop when I entered. Didn't acknowledge me at all. Just kept hitting the post with the methodical precision of someone working something out of their system that refused to leave.
I watched him for a moment. Calculated my approach.
This morning he had pulled me against him like I was oxygen. He had kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered. He had made me feel, for the first time in six years of wanting him, like I had finally arrived at the place I was supposed to be.
