Chapter Seventeen

Maeve followed Javier to an area of the camp that housed supplies. She was having difficulty matching his long strides. He was at least six inches taller than her. Maybe more. She had put on some bravado when the whole pack was watching, but now her self-confidence was lagging.

What was she getting herself into?

Javier stopped at a set of shelves and began talking, but Maeve was having a hard time hearing him. She kept picturing him standing in front of her naked, and the images were making her uncomfortable. She mentally shook herself and refocused her attention.

Javier looked at her and frowned. “Did you hear me?”

Maeve’s eyes snapped to his face. “Sorry!”

She regretted the force of the word as soon as it left her mouth. It echoed through the open-sided structure loudly enough to draw a glance from Sofía, who was crossing the yard with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.

Javier’s gaze remained on Maeve. His expression was composed, but the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth suggested that he was not as unaware of her discomfort as she would have liked.

“I said these are separated by route,” he repeated. “Each patrol has a list of caches to check. We replace anything that’s been used, damaged, or exposed.”

He rested one hand against the edge of a scarred wooden table and unfolded a map across its surface. The paper had been marked with colored lines, circles, and symbols Maeve did not understand. Several of the routes threaded through canyons or followed dry washes before disappearing into stretches of empty desert.

The supply structure was larger than she had expected. Shelves rose nearly to the corrugated metal roof, filled with sealed medical kits, blankets, batteries, flashlights, water-filtration straws, electrolyte packets, canned food, and plastic containers labeled in both English and Spanish. Cases of bottled water occupied an entire wall.

Maeve had assumed a patrol meant a few people walking through the desert, perhaps following Javier in wolf form while he sniffed dramatically at the ground. She had not expected logistics.

“How many caches are there?” she asked.

“On this route?” Javier leaned over the map and touched three points with his finger. “Seven.”

“Seven tonight?”

“If everything goes smoothly.”

The words did not sound particularly encouraging.

“And you carry enough for all of them?”

“The trucks do.”

Maeve looked past him toward the open yard. Two pickup trucks stood near the edge of the camp, their tailgates lowered while Diego and several others loaded crates into their beds. One truck was older, its dark paint dulled by years of dust and sun. The other looked newer but had already collected enough scratches along its sides to suggest no one treated it delicately. Several motorcycles waited beside them.

Maeve looked back at Javier, but was having trouble meeting his eyes.

“You use bikes in the desert?”

“We scout on them. The trucks follow with the supplies.”

“How do you drive in the sand?”

“There are roads of packed-down earth throughout the desert.”

“Oh.”

Maeve looked up and found Javier studying her.

“What?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised.” She stepped closer to the table, careful not to stand close enough for her arm to brush his. “In the last few days, I’ve learned that fire comes out of my hands, there are magical symbols surrounding the camp, an ancient evil may be looking for me, and the man I thought was merely irritating can turn into a wolf.”

His brow lifted slightly. She ignored it.

“I’m trying to recalibrate my expectations.”

“You thought I was irritating before you knew about the wolf?”

“Little bit.”

That earned her a quiet breath of laughter. It was not enough to disturb the calm set of his face, but she heard it. Worse, she liked the sound.

Maeve turned her attention quickly to the map. She was still angry with him. She reminded herself of that whenever the memory of his bare body intruded, which had unfortunately happened several times since breakfast. Angry women were not supposed to wonder whether a man’s hair would feel as soft beneath their fingers as his fur had felt on the ridge. They were not supposed to remember the broad line of his shoulders, the dark ink winding over his arms, or the way sunlight had moved across skin that she absolutely should not have been staring at.

Her face warmed again. She lowered her head, pretending to study a symbol drawn along the southern edge of the map. Javier’s attention settled on her. She could feel it even before she looked up.

“What?” she asked defensively.

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking at me.”

“I’m explaining the route.”

“You stopped explaining.”

His eyes moved over her face, lingering briefly on her cheeks. The slightest hint of amusement returned.

Maeve narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I’m allowed to think.”

“Not about me.”

That almost made him smile.

Maeve turned away before she could see whether he did. She had caught him watching her more than once since they left the others. At first, she had assumed he was making sure she did not collapse, burst into flames, or run screaming into the desert. The longer they stood there, however, the more she suspected he knew exactly why she kept losing track of the conversation.

The knowledge only made her cheeks hotter.

Javier reached for a plastic storage bin and pulled it onto the table between them. Inside were small packages of food, first-aid supplies, and tightly sealed bags containing socks and lightweight gloves.

“Each cache is stocked differently,” he said, apparently deciding to spare her further humiliation. “It depends on where it is and who usually travels through that area.”

Maeve looked inside the bin. “How do you know who uses which route?”
“Years of watching. Talking to people we find. Paying attention to where traffickers move them.”

He picked up two packets of oral rehydration salts and added them to an open crate.

“This section crosses a long stretch without natural shade, so we leave more water and electrolytes. Another route runs through higher ground. It gets cold after sunset, even during warmer months.”

His finger moved north on the map.

“Families are more common here.”

Maeve noticed a smaller box beneath the table. When she pulled it forward, she found diapers, baby wipes, powdered formula, and two brightly colored plastic cups with lids. She stared down at them.

“You leave all of this out there?”

“When we can.”

“For people you might never meet.”

Javier’s expression grew more serious. “They still need it.”

The simplicity of his answer struck her more deeply than an impassioned speech might have. Everything about the Guardians was difficult to reconcile. They were creatures she had been raised to believe existed only in movies and old stories, yet they stocked diapers and antiseptic. They had magical barriers and ancient prophecies, but they also kept careful records of which desert paths required more blankets. They fought corrupted beings and traffickers, then spent their afternoons checking expiration dates on formula.

Maeve looked around at the ordered rows of supplies. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Patrolling?”

She nodded.

“Since I was sixteen.”

Her gaze returned to him. “They let you go into the desert at sixteen?”

“I wasn’t alone.”

“That doesn’t make it sound better.”

“I could shift by then.”

Maeve folded her arms. “Again, not the comforting explanation you think it is.”

A faint crease formed between his brows, as though he genuinely did not understand what part of the statement troubled her.

“At sixteen,” she continued, “I was worried about passing algebra and whether my grandmother would notice I’d cut my own bangs.”

“Did she?”

“Immediately.”

“How bad were they?”

“Bad enough that she made me wear a headband for three months.”

His gaze drifted to her hair. The bright strands were tied loosely at the back of her neck, though the desert wind had already pulled several free around her face.

“You cut them yourself?”

“I was going through something.”

Javier nodded gravely. “Apparently.”

She tried not to smile and failed. It was the first moment since the reveal that felt almost normal. Not normal by any reasonable definition, she was standing beside a werewolf while packing emergency supplies for a patrol through a magically protected desert camp, but close enough that the tension in her shoulders eased.
Then Javier reached across her for a stack of sealed bandages. The front of his arm brushed hers. A sharp warmth raced from the point of contact to her fingertips.

Maeve inhaled and pulled back, bumping against the table behind her. Javier froze with the bandages in his hand. For one suspended moment, neither of them spoke.
It had not felt like ordinary static. There had been no small sting, no snap in the dry air. The sensation had moved through her slowly, spreading beneath her skin like heat finding a path through cold limbs. Javier looked down at the place where their arms had touched.

Maeve rubbed her hand over it. “Did you feel that?”

His eyes lifted to hers. “Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know.”

She waited for more. None came.

“That answer is becoming a problem.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“You hid being the wolf.”

His expression changed. The ease that had entered the conversation disappeared so quickly she almost regretted the reminder. Almost.

“You’re right,” he said.

“That’s usually what hiding something means.”

“I know.”

His admission took some of the force out of her anger. She had expected him to defend himself again, to explain that she had been frightened, injured, or too overwhelmed to understand. All of those things might have been true, but they did not change how foolish she had felt when he shifted in front of her.

She looked down at the open bin. “You let me treat you like an animal.”

Javier set the bandages aside. “I did.”

“I told you things.”

His voice softened. “I know.”

“You put your head in my lap.”

The memory came with a painful clarity, the heavy warmth of the wolf resting against her, his breathing slow beneath her hand, the inexplicable peace she had felt while touching him. It had been one of the first moments since her kidnapping when she had believed she might be safe. Now every part of it felt different. Not false, exactly. That would have been easier. Instead, it felt painfully real in a way she had not understood at the time.

Maeve met his eyes. “Why?”

Javier did not answer immediately.

Outside, a truck door slammed. Someone called across the yard in Spanish, and another voice responded with laughter. The ordinary sounds of the camp continued around them, strangely distant beneath the weight of the question.
Finally, Javier placed both hands on the table.

“You were afraid.”

“So?”

“My wolf wanted to calm you.”

“Your wolf,” she repeated. “You say that like he’s someone else.”

“He isn’t.”

“But he is?”

Javier considered the distinction. “Not exactly.”

“That clears everything up.”

He ignored the sarcasm.

“When we shift, instinct becomes louder. The wolf notices things differently. Smell. Heartbeat. Fear. Lies.”

Maeve shifted uneasily. “You can smell lies?”

“Not the lie itself.”

“This is all so confusing.”

“I knew you were afraid when you came to the ridge. I also knew you were trying not to show it.”

“And putting your head in my lap was supposed to help?”

“It did.”

She could not argue with that.

The wolf’s presence had soothed something frayed inside her. She had felt chosen by him, though she had been embarrassed to admit it even to herself. There had been something almost sacred in the trust of that enormous animal settling against her as if she belonged there.

She swallowed. “Do you think you’re my protector?”

Javier’s gaze did not leave hers.

“Yes.”

The answer was too direct, too certain. Maeve looked away first.

“Because of the flame?”

“At first.”

“And now?”

His silence lengthened. She looked back at him.

Something unreadable had entered his expression. It was not confusion, exactly. Javier did not seem like a man who allowed himself enough uncertainty to be confused. Yet for a moment, she saw it, a question he could not answer, or perhaps one he was unwilling to examine too closely.

“Now it doesn’t matter why,” he said.

“It matters to me.”

“I know.”

“Then tell me.”

He exhaled slowly, turning his attention toward the open doors. “I don’t have an answer that will make sense.”

“You could try.”

His jaw tightened.

Maeve recognized the retreat as it happened. He did not step away, but something inside him did. A wall rose behind his eyes, quiet and practiced. She wondered how many people had tried to get past it before her. Probably not many. Javier cared for the people around him; that much was obvious. He listened when Mateo spoke, watched the younger Guardians with the vigilance of an older brother, and treated Abuela Rosa with a respect that bordered on reverence. But caring for people was not the same as allowing them close.

Javier protected everyone. Maeve was beginning to suspect no one protected Javier.

“I’m still angry,” she said.

“You should be.”

The agreement surprised her.

“I should?”

“I misled you.”

“You did.”

“I thought it was safer.”

“For me or for you?”

His eyes returned to her. “Both.”

At least it was honest. Maeve picked at the edge of a label on the supply bin.

“I probably wouldn’t have believed you.”

“No.”

“I might have hit you.”

“Probably.”

“I still might.”

“I know.”

She glanced at him. “You seem very calm about that.”

“I’ve been hit before.”

“By women you appeared naked in front of?”

His mouth shifted. The warmth returned to her face the instant the words left hers. Javier’s eyes briefly lowered, not enough to be obvious if she had not been watching him. The subtle amusement in his expression deepened. He was enjoying this.

Not cruelly. He did not tease her or force her to acknowledge what had been occupying far too much of her mind. But she could see that he knew. Worse, she could see that he liked knowing.

Maeve straightened. “We should finish packing.”

“We should.”

He sounded far too agreeable.

She reached for the box of medical supplies at the same moment he did. Their fingers brushed along the handle. The warmth came again, deeper this time, curling through her palm and up the inside of her wrist. Neither of them pulled away immediately.

Javier’s hand was larger than hers, his skin roughened across the palm and fingers. Maeve became acutely aware of how little space existed between them. The air seemed heavier, carrying the dry fragrance of creosote and the clean, faintly smoky scent that always clung to him after time near the campfires. She wondered whether his skin was always this warm.

Javier’s gaze dropped to their hands. Maeve released the handle.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

“So do I.”

“I was here first.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was emotionally here first.”

His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but I’m carrying the box.”

“It’s too heavy.”

The fragile ease between them fractured.

Maeve tightened her grip. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You’ve never seen me lift anything.”

“I saw you nearly fall walking into camp.”

“I had been kidnapped.”

“You were dehydrated.”

“And drugged.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t overdo it.”

“That was days ago.”

Javier placed one hand on the other side of the box, preventing her from lifting it.

“You’re still recovering.”

“I am not an invalid.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You keep acting like I’m going to shatter.”

His expression hardened with something she could not name.

“I know exactly how easily people get hurt out there.”

The answer silenced her for a moment. There was more beneath it than concern about her recent injuries. She heard it in the way his voice lowered and saw it in the sudden stillness of his shoulders.

Maeve let go of the box. Javier lifted it and carried it toward the yard. She followed him, though the victory clearly belonged to neither of them.

Outside, the sun had begun its descent toward the western ridges, drawing long shadows across the camp. The sandstone cliffs glowed a deep copper, and the air had softened from the punishing heat of midday. Wind moved between the shelters, stirring canvas walls and carrying the scent of dust, fuel, and food cooking over one of the distant fires.

The two trucks were nearly full. Their beds had been divided with heavy plastic totes and secured crates. Cases of water sat low against the cab, while food and medical supplies were arranged behind them according to the order of the caches. Rolled blankets and tarps had been wedged beneath cargo nets.

Diego stood in the bed of the older truck, tightening a strap around a stack of containers. Sofía was beside the tailgate, checking each item against the list on her clipboard. She looked up as Javier approached.

“Route Four needs another trauma kit,” she said.

“I packed one.”

“Two.”

Javier set the box down. “Why?”

“Tracks near the eastern wash this morning. Mateo thinks a group came through overnight.”

Maeve watched a change pass over him. It was subtle, but immediate. His attention sharpened, the relaxed set of his face giving way to the vigilance she had seen when danger was near.

“How many?”

“Hard to tell. Maybe twelve. There were smaller prints.”

“Children?”

“Possibly.”

Javier looked toward the supply building. “I’ll get another kit.”

“I can get it,” Maeve said.

His answer came before she had fully finished speaking. “No.”

She stared at him. “It’s a medical kit, not an anvil.”

“You don’t know where it is.”

“You just showed me.”

“I’ll get it.”

Sofía’s gaze moved between them, curiosity brightening her face.

Maeve placed her hands on her hips. “You are going to have to let me do something tonight.”

“You’re learning.”

“Learning generally includes doing.”

“It also includes listening.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t listen?”

Javier gave her a look that reminded her uncomfortably of the moment he caught her daydreaming about him naked. Sofía turned her face away, but not before Maeve saw her smile.

“I heard most of it,” Maeve muttered.

Javier retrieved the trauma kit himself.

By the time he returned, Mateo had joined them. He spoke quietly with Diego about the tracks found near the wash, then looked toward Maeve.

“You ready?”

Maeve glanced at the trucks, the motorcycles, and the darkening desert beyond the camp.

“No,” she admitted. “But apparently that doesn’t matter.”

“It usually doesn’t.”

She appreciated that Mateo did not try to reassure her with a lie.

He handed Javier a radio. “You’ll scout ahead with Tomas. Diego has the lead truck. Sofía will take the second.”

Maeve looked toward Sofía, assuming that settled where she would ride.

Javier clipped the radio to his belt. “Maeve’s with me.”

She turned slowly. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I was riding in one of the trucks.”

“No.”

There it was again. That maddening certainty. No explanation, no room for discussion. Merely a decision delivered as though it had been carved into stone long before she thought to question it.

Maeve looked at Mateo. “Do I get a vote?”

Mateo’s eyes flicked toward Javier.

“You should.”

“I’m riding in the truck.”

Javier faced her fully. “You’re riding with me.”

“Why?”

“I know how I ride.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“It answers mine.”

Maeve stared at him. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Frequently.”

Sofía coughed into her hand.

Mateo’s expression remained carefully neutral, though Maeve noticed the slightest movement in his beard as he pressed his lips together.

“I will be perfectly safe in the truck,” Maeve said.

Javier’s gaze moved toward the vehicles. “The bikes can maneuver faster.”

“Are you expecting us to need to?”

“No.”

“Then I’m riding in the truck.”

“No.”

Maeve threw up her hands. “You cannot just keep saying no.”

“I can when you’re my responsibility.”

The words struck harder than he seemed to intend.

Maeve went still. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am a person, Javier. Not one of your supply crates.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His expression tightened. “You don’t understand what’s out there.”

“And I won’t if you keep trying to wrap me in blankets and put me on a shelf.”

A brief silence fell around them. Even Diego stopped moving in the truck bed.

Javier lowered his voice. “You were taken once already.”

The reminder landed like a hand closing around Maeve’s throat. The desert road. The drugged haze. The men’s voices. The back of the truck. Her body remembered before her mind could push the images away. A tremor moved through her, small enough that she hoped no one noticed. Javier did. His face changed immediately. The force went out of his posture, replaced by regret.

“Maeve…”

“That doesn’t mean you get to decide everything for me.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

She did know. That was what made it so difficult to remain angry. No one had hovered over her before. Not like this. Her parents had loved her in their own distracted ways, but their concern had always felt temporary, easily interrupted by whatever mattered more. Her grandmother had protected her when she could, though even Brigid had understood that Maeve needed room to make mistakes.
Javier watched her as if one careless step might take her beyond his reach. A small, traitorous part of her wanted to know what it felt like to matter that much to someone.

The rest of her wanted to scream.

“Safety and control are not the same thing,” she said.

Javier’s gaze stayed on hers. “I know.”

“Then prove it.”

The wind moved between them, lifting dust across the hard-packed ground.

Finally, he nodded toward the motorcycle. “Ride with me tonight. After that, we’ll discuss the trucks.”

“That is not proving it.”

“It’s a compromise.”

“It’s your original demand with the word compromise attached.”

Mateo cleared his throat. “The eastern route is rough in places. A first patrol may be easier from a motorcycle because Javier can explain what he sees without shouting across a truck cab.”

Maeve looked at him. Unlike Javier, Mateo did not issue the statement as an order. He waited. She suspected he was helping Javier, but his reasoning made sense.

“Fine,” she said. “For tonight.”

Javier’s shoulders loosened.

Maeve pointed at him. “Do not look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

His expression was restrained, but the wolfish satisfaction in his eyes betrayed him. Maeve followed him toward the black motorcycle.