There was an excuse to be made for the state of his pack, of course, and it was that Cassian had never done this before. There was no textbook or manual on werewolves and the successful creation of a pack. There was simply him, having yet unexplored the extent of his curse, and two of his creations looking to him for guidance.

“The moon isn’t selective.” Cassian returned, something inching towards guarded in his tone. The tension between Regan and Alys did not escape him. He was not, however, the type to stage an intervention. They were grown women. They would fall into a pattern eventually, with enough full moons. Then, and only then, would he seek to grow them again…

Regan wanted to press. The spring of insecurity that she’d buried deep inside her started to well up. Her inclination was to reach for the explanation, to let words tumble out of her mouth so her fears might be assuaged. She’d been second to Alys before. What if—

Regan buried her; the needy orphan that still clutched and clung for fear of being left behind. Cassian was different. And while she couldn’t trust Alys, not yet, she could trust him.

The smile emerged again, sheepish this time, as if embarrassed by her moment of hesitance. “It’ll get easier.” Regan said softly, more to herself than Cassian, “And to be fair—” She grinned, “I did have a go at you in the training yard. I imagine that’s not the kind of thing that inspires confidence.” Humor—or the attempt at it—was Regan’s comfort. So she reached for it now.

Cassian didn’t shrink in the silence. There was wisdom in silence. He patiently and steadfastly stood through it, unwavering, and when she was ready to speak again she would find him fully present.

The king’s dark gaze drank in the soft words and sheepish demeanor, his steady gaze capturing a gentleness only found in intimacy. His face was neutral, but it was never about Cassian’s expression. What he was feeling, when it showed, was always in his eyes.

She made her stab at humor and it failed miserably. Cassian didn’t hear the joke for what it was. He heard something else entirely, something that drew his hand up to Regan’s face to cup her cheek, as he might have in a moment of Ophelia’s insecurity. With their skin touching and his hazel eyes intently fixed, he leaned in enough to be taken seriously but not so much that she would think he was coming in for a kiss.

“It’ll get easier.” They were her words, but he echoed them now because they were valid. One way or another, whether from a change in heart or an increased callousness, it would get easier. The moon would keep changing. The pack would keep turning.

Closeness. That’s what Regan wanted, more than anything, with the twitch of an addict looking for their next fix. It wasn’t a need fueled by heat—the kind that drove her to Grant’s bed or Logan before him—but something more precious and vulnerable.

Kennet had been right in what she’d said to Regan when she was laid up in her hospital bed. There was still a desperate, needy orphan girl that shared a space with the soldier and wolf. Cassian would see her now, looking up at him with big, soft eyes, a hungry soul being offered sustenance. She also reached for him, a lopsided smile pulling at her features, her fingertips drawing along his cheek unless he stopped her.

“It's good to have you back.” It was about more than his illness. It was about Othello. Her failure and suspension. About the possibility that she might soon return to her position and be near Cassian again.

Regan may have had the desperate, needy orphan girl buried within, but she wasn’t alone in dark identities. For all his strength and composure, in the deepest parts of Cassian curled a neglected, rejected young prince whose mother never looked at him and whose father looked to closely, beating out the imperfection as he went. Cassian, too, craved closeness. He craved understanding. Agreement. No one in his life had ever needed him the way Regan did—or if they had then they’d never shown in. He was surrounded by strong, independent individuals. It was ideal as a king but lonely as a man. Truth be told, the unlikely pair standing in Cassian’s office, hands on one another’s cheeks, fit.

“It’s good to be back.” He returned, the corners of his lips flinching, a wisp of a smile flickering by before vanishing. He reclaimed his hand, not quickly but with certainty.

“Now,” he inhaled, “back to work.” He meant it for both of them.

The twitch in Cassian’s lips was a sweet victory. It lit Regan’s smile into a broad grin, one that danced in her inky eyes. She dropped her hand as well, though reluctantly, and tucked her hands behind her back in a soldierly stance.

“Yes your majesty,” Regan replied, stepping back and dipping into a slight bow. “Though I haven’t forgotten that you still owe me a spar. I’d hate for you to lose the upper hand for lack of practice.” If Regan were bold enough to wink, she might have, but she wouldn’t test the boundaries of her familiarity to that degree. The sparkle in her grin would have to suffice.

She waited for Cassian to dismiss her, looking reenergized and infinitely pleased.