It’s not said meekly. It’s not even hesitant. Just truth dropped between us like a stone in still water. I stare at the flames a long moment, my hands tightening around the cup until it groans softly from the pressure.
“I didn’t kill her,” I say, each word dragging out of me like it’s made of iron. “But I didn’t save her either.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just lets the silence stretch long enough for the truth to settle, to find its shape between us.
“She knew what I was,” I go on, my voice low and rough. “Knew the danger, the risks, the madness that comes when themoon turns full and the beast presses closer to the surface. I thought love would hold it back. I thought she was enough to tame it.”
My jaw clenches. I set the mug down on the stone hearth.
“She was brave. Too brave. Thought if she stayed, it would make me human. But the Blood Moon doesn’t care about love, or intentions, or how hard you try to hold onto yourself. That night… I lost control. Not all the way. Not quite. But enough.”
I drag a hand down my face, the memory biting sharper than any claw ever has.
“She left me a note. Said she couldn’t watch me unravel. Said she’d rather walk into the snow than become a cautionary tale for my pack. She wanted to die her own way.”
I exhale hard, shoulders sinking. “I buried her myself. The ground was frozen, and I still dug until my hands bled.”
Tessa moves before I realize it. Her hand settles over mine, gentle but firm. She’s not crying. She’s not trembling. She’s just… there. Grounding me.
“I’m sorry,” she says, voice soft but not fragile.
“She called me a monster,” I whisper. “Not with malice. Just... recognition. And maybe she wasn’t wrong.”
“She didn’t die because you’re a monster,” she says. “She died because she couldn’t carry it anymore. That’s not the same thing.”
I stare at her like I’m trying to memorize every freckle, every shadow in her eyes, because I know this won’t last. This moment. This connection. I don’t deserve it.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” I admit.
Her thumb brushes against my knuckles. “You just did.”
Later, she follows me up the stairs. There are no words exchanged, no promises made, no assumptions. Just a quiet agreement that we’ve walked too close to the edge together now to go back.
I open the door to the master suite, step aside for her to enter first. She does. She curls up on one side of the bed, beneath the heavy quilt, and watches me with an expression that’s all invitation and no pressure.
I lie beside her, leaving space between us. Not out of coldness, but out of reverence.
She doesn’t reach for me.
But she doesn’t turn away either.
We lay like that for hours, eyes on the ceiling, breath syncing up as though even in silence, we’re trying to find a rhythm that makes sense.
She falls asleep first. I stay awake, listening to the soft cadence of her breath, the way she murmurs in dreams, curls in on herself like she’s protecting something tender inside. The beast stirs beneath my skin, but it doesn’t growl. It doesn’t claw. It watches her too, reverent. Curious.
When I finally doze, I dream of snow again.
But this time, it’s not her in it.
It’s someone else—eyes like blood and fire, teeth too white to be anything but cruel.
And he speaks.
Roman.
I bolt upright, breath shallow, heart hammering.
Tessa stirs beside me but doesn’t wake. She reaches out in her sleep, her hand finding mine in the dark.
