Either way, I don’t linger. I jog the final steps through the trees, my pace quickening with each stride until I’m nearly running, and the dense woods break open into a familiar clearing. The sight of the cottage calms some of the tension knotted in my chest, though the feeling of being observed doesn’t fully fade until I’m well within the protective boundaries of Cashira’s domain.
Cashira’s home is nestled into the craggy face of a moss-covered cliff, half-grown from the stone itself as if it sprouted naturally from the earth. The architecture defies mortal understanding, windows that appear to be carved from single pieces of crystal, walls that curve and flow like water frozen in time. A winding staircase of roots and vines leads up to the wooden door, each step perfectly formed but clearly alive, pulsing gently with a heartbeat all its own. The door itself is carved with glyphs I have never seen before, symbols that seem to shift and change when I’m not looking directly at them.
Wildflowers bloom all around the base of the dwelling, too vibrant for this dusky forest, their colors so saturated they almost hurt to look at directly. Roses the color of fresh blood grow beside lilies that shimmer like captured moonlight, and vines heavy with fruit that glows softly from within climb the cottage walls. It’s like magic tends to them while the rest of the woods watches in silence, as if this small patch of earth exists under different rules than the wild forest beyond.
The house isn’t built upon the land, it’s part of it. The stones breathe with the same rhythm as a sleeping giant, the roof grows new shoots and leaves with each passing day, and magic lives in every inch of timber and stone. It hums in harmony withCashira’s own power, a protective barrier that keeps the worst of the forest’s attention at bay.
The most important part of this dwelling is that my Angel is inside. Safe within these living walls, recovering under her mother’s watchful care.
I let that anchor me as I climb the slope, my feet finding purchase on steps that adjust themselves to support my weight and push open the door that recognizes my presence and swings wide without resistance. The scent of dried herbs, lavender, simmering root-stew, and Esme’s skin hits me all at once. A combination that means home in a way nowhere else ever has. Cashira must be tending the pot again; that earthy blend of what I now know is kasra root, wild hare, and forest mushrooms has steeped through the walls. My stomach rumbles but my nose follows the scent of my mate. Fresh and clean like morning rain, with that hint of cotton-candy sweetness that’s uniquely Esme’s. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane in this place where nothing makes sense.
She’s awake now. Not a hundred percent well, still pale and weak from everything her body has endured, but awake. Her eyes are open more often now than closed, her voice grows stronger each day. After everything we’ve been through, after watching her nearly slip away more times than I can count, that’s more than I hoped for. It’s everything.
For weeks I didn’t think she’d make it. Didn’t think her body could recover from what Goddess Ourea, had done to her, from having her magic stripped away so violently. I didn’t want to live in a world where she didn’t exist, couldn’t imagine drawing breath in a reality that didn’t include hearing her laugh, witnessing her fierce determination, the way she looked at me like I was worth something. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her, of mourning my mate after just finding her, after finally understanding what it meant to be truly alive. I’d feltsomething inside me breaking, my wolf was damn near feral with grief and rage. . .but she opened her eyes. She came back to me when I thought I’d lost her forever.
I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior lit by floating orbs of soft light that respond to the inhabitants’ needs. Cashira is nearby, folding linens by the hearth with the practiced efficiency of someone who has tended to the wounded for longer than I can imagine. She’s humming quietly to herself, a melody that seems to encourage the healing herbs hanging from the rafters to release their beneficial properties into the air. She doesn’t acknowledge me when I enter the cottage, but I know she sees me. She always does; her eyes miss nothing that happens within her domain.
Making my way down the winding corridor, its walls lined with shelves of bottles and jars filled with ingredients I can’t identify, I pause at the open doorway of the room Esme’s in. She’s in bed, propped up now against a pile of pillows that smell like chamomile and something sweeter, her white hair a halo of silk on the pillowcase. Her beautiful dark skin is still too ashen for my liking, her body too thin from weeks of barely eating, but her eyes are open. Alive. Alive. Alive and a little less haunted today than yesterday.
Those pale, luminous gray-blue eyes that once held so much pain now show flickers of the strength I know lies beneath. The silver flecks catch the light from the floating orbs, and for a moment she looks almost ethereal, like something too precious for this world.
I stay where I am for a beat longer, just watching. Letting myself settle from her proximity, letting the sight of her breathing, alert and present, wash away the lingering unease from my encounter with the forest.
She’s here, I remind myself, the words becoming a mantra. We are together, even though I nearly lost her again. Even though I failed to protect her when it mattered most.
I have let my mate down for the last time. I’d failed her because I wasn’t fast enough to see the betrayal coming. Because I didn’t recognize her nightmares were more than mere dreams but premonitions of the future. Because I let someone take her right out from under my protection. Again. The weight of that failure sits heavy in my chest, a constant ache that no amount of her recovery can fully heal.
Guilt gnaws at me, the way it always has since that first night. Since the first time I chose wrong. The first time I failed Esme, when she needed me most, I ran.
That night in Willow Woods. The fucking cursed night back at HellNight Academy when my pack, my old Alpha, Patrick, called a hunt, and Esme was the prey. I knew what they were doing was wrong, could smell the wrongness of it, felt it in my bones like a sickness. Yet, I still hesitated. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t stand beside her immediately, even though every instinct screamed that she was possibly my mate, that hurting her would destroy something vital to me.
I didn’t protect her when she was alone and afraid, when she needed someone to choose her over pack loyalty.
I ran instead of standing my ground.
Micah, Ty, and Trys saved her that night, pulled her from the darkness I helped create through my inaction, and that guilt has never left me. Not once. It clings to my ribs like a parasite, grows roots in my spine that dig deeper with each passing day. No matter what I do, no matter how many times I prove my devotion now, it doesn’t shake loose. The knowledge that I failed her when it mattered most haunts every moment of happiness we manage to steal.
I became Alpha after that, swore it would never happen again. That I’d never abandon her, never let anyone else hurt her while I had breath in my body. I dismantled the toxic culture Patrick had built, changed everything about how my pack operated, made sure no one would ever be hunted for sport again.
Still, despite all my promises, all my good intentions, they took her. The high priestess. Her own coven. The people who should have protected her, who should have recognized her worth. They took her from under my nose while I was out on patrol.
Twice now, I’ve failed to protect the woman the moon marked as mine. My mate. The other half of my soul.
I exhale shakily as Cashira makes her way down the hall holding a bundle of folded sheets that smell like sunshine and wind, despite being dried indoors. I step aside as she enters the room, her presence immediately brightening the space in ways that have nothing to do with the floating lights.
“How’s she doing?” I ask, my voice still rough from disuse and the emotions I try to keep locked away.
Cashira glances at Esme with the keen eye of someone who has spent a lifetime reading the subtle signs of healing and harm, then back at me with an expression that holds both reassurance and gentle warning. “Stronger today,” she says quietly, with that calm weight only a mother can wield, a certainty that comes from watching her daughter fight back from the very edge of death. “Still not out of the woods yet, but her spirit is returning. That’s the most important part.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Esme mutters, and there’s enough irritation in her voice to make me smile for the first time in hours.
I turn. She’s watching us, her voice scratchy but clear, stronger than it was even this morning. Her eyes are glassy withexhaustion, tired from the effort of simply being awake, but very much aware. Very much present. Very much alive.
Cashira lets out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and rich like honey in tea. “Well, that answers that question about her hearing.”
I cross the room and kneel beside the bed, the floorboards creaking softly under my weight. Esme’s hand moves slowly across the quilt, her fingers trailing over the intricate pattern of stars and moons that seems to shimmer with its own inner light. She reaches for me, and I take her hand gently, careful of the delicate bones that still feel too fragile beneath skin that’s slowly regaining its natural glow. I press a kiss to her knuckles, tasting the faint salt of her skin and the lingering sweetness that’s purely her.
“I’m here,” I say, not caring that I’ve already told her that a dozen times today, that I whisper it every time she wakes from sleep, every time doubt creeps into her eyes. My reassurance never feels like it’s enough. It will never feel like it’s enough until she’s completely healed, until the shadows that sometimes pass across her features are nothing but a memory.
