Page 37 of Match Made In Growl

And the more she thought about it, the more she realized that the man who'd saved her life wasn't the same man she'd dismissed at the Griddle & Grind. The man who'd held her in the dark while the dust settled and the magic hummed beneath them wasn't performing. He was terrified. She'd seen it in his eyes and hadn't understood what she was looking at until now.

Criss knew. He knew what they were to each other, probably had known before she'd ever touched him, and he'd said nothing. Done nothing. Held himself in check while every instinct he had demanded more. Because telling her would have meant asking her to choose, and he was too afraid of the answer to ask the question.

The realization should have made her angry. A week ago, it would have. She would have thought of it as men making decisions about her without consulting her, slotted it next to Grant's unilateral opinions about her career, and used it as fuel to keep distance.

But this was different. Grant had withheld honesty to protect himself. Criss was withholding honesty to protect her. To give her the space to choose freely, even if it meant watching her walk away.

That was either the most selfless thing anyone had ever done for her or the most infuriating. She hadn't decided which.

She returned the books to Lucien, who accepted them with the knowing expression of a man who'd watched this particular drama play out before.

"Find what you were looking for?" he asked.

"More than I wanted."

"That does seem to be a theme with you." The corner of his mouth curved. "Good luck, Miss Ward."

She walked to the inn through streets glowing amber in the late afternoon light. Diana had left a plate of sandwiches outside her door with a note that said Eat something, you look thin. Steph ate two of them standing at the window, staring at the tree line where the eastern ridge sat invisible beyond the canopy.

She had to talk to Criss. Not about the dig, not about the collapse, not about Rydan Ashkar or altered treaty stones or the political machinations of a town built on buried secrets. About them. About what his tiger knew and his mouth wouldn't say. About what her body had been telling her for weeks while her brain ran interference.

But first, she needed sleep. Real sleep, in a bed, not the two hours of adrenaline-crash unconsciousness she'd managed in the dirt last night. And before Tom's report hit the preservation committee tomorrow morning, she needed one more session at the site. One more chance to document what the chamber held before someone decided to lock her out again.

She set her alarm for four a.m., kicked off her boots, and fell into bed still wearing her field clothes.

The conversation with Criss would happen. Soon. But the dig came first, because the dead had waited long enough and Steph had never been the kind of woman who left a job unfinished.

22

CRISS

The storm hit before dawn causing Criss to wake to the cabin shuddering, with the wind driving rain against the windows in sheets so thick the glass looked underwater. The pines outside were bent nearly horizontal, their tops whipping in gusts that howled through the gaps in the eaves. He lay in bed listening to the roof creak and his first thought, before coffee, before consciousness fully assembled, was her.

His tiger reached out in that way it had started doing without permission, the directional awareness that functioned like sonar. She wasn't at the site. He could feel that much. The pull that oriented east toward the ridge was muted, dormant, which meant she was somewhere in town. Safe. Out of the weather.

Good. Even Stephanie Ward, who'd excavated ruins during monsoon season and mortar fire, couldn't work in a storm that was ripping branches off trees. And she wasn’t too proud to know when it wasn’t worth it.

He dressed, grabbed his jacket, and crossed the yard to the main house. Kieran was already gone, probably dealing with ward damage. Freya was at the kitchen table with Sage on her hip, watching the storm through the window.

"Coffee's made," she said without looking away. "Kieran said the western markers might need reinforcing if this keeps up."

"I'll check them."

"After breakfast."

He ate toast standing at the counter because sitting down felt impossible. His tiger was settled but restless, a contradiction he was learning to live with. The animal had made its position clear. Steph was the priority. Everything else, the storm, the wards, the dig, Rydan Ashkar, all of it was background noise compared to the singular imperative of being near her.

Which was exactly why he needed to not be near her right now. She hadn't asked for a shadow. She'd made her position on unsolicited protection abundantly clear with her boot prints walking away from him at the dig site. If he showed up at her door in a storm with no reason beyond my tiger told me to, she'd shut him out for good.

He headed into town instead, telling himself he'd check the markers along the way and stop at the tavern for something stronger than Freya's coffee. The walk was brutal. Wind drove rain sideways, turning the trail into a stream and visibility into a suggestion. By the time he reached Main Street, his jacket was soaked through and his hair was plastered flat.

He was crossing the square toward the Silver Fang when he saw her through the Griddle & Grind's front window.

Steph was at the counter, leaning on her elbows, talking to Twyla. Her dark curls were damp but not soaked, which meant she'd been inside for a while. She had a mug in both hands and she was laughing at something Twyla said.

His feet stopped. His tiger went very quiet and very focused. Every rational thought he had said: walk in, say hello, be normal. He'd done it a hundred times with a hundred women. Charm was his native language. He could do this in his sleep.

He ducked into the Silver Fang instead.