“Good.” His voice was low. Rough. The voice of the partial shift, resonating in my chest. “Let them know. Let them fear. Let them understand that you are not to be touched.”
He guided me forward, his touch burning through the cloak.
“Let them know,” he said again, “that you are mine.”
The elders shifted. Murmured. But they didn’t object. Didn’t argue. They’d seen what I could do. Seen the power I commanded, the ravens that answered my call, the cold that bent to my will.
They’d seen their Queen.
And they would accept her, or they would leave.
I lifted Cador’s hand to my lips and kissed the scarred palm where Morveth had cut him during the ritual, where his blood had mixed with mine and bound us together.
“Come,” I said. “Do you wish to know the truth of me? I want to see the sunrise from the highest tower. I want to watch the light hit the mountains and know that all of it is ours.”
His lips curved. Not quite a smile. Something darker. More possessive.
“As my Queen commands.”
We walked across the courtyard together, hand in hand, while the clan watched and whispered and slowly, grudgingly, began to bow.
OLWEN
Iwoke to weight on my chest and the pulsing rumble of purring.
Lowen. I knew it was him before I opened my eyes, knowing the rhythm of his purr, the exact pressure of his paws kneading against my ribs.
He’d taken to sleeping on me every night since the transformation, as if he needed the confirmation that I was still here. Still real. Still his.
I opened my eyes.
Morning light filtered through the window, weak and pale, casting everything in shades of silver.
Lowen sat on my chest, his sleek fur catching the dim glow.
“Good morning,” I whispered.
He bumped his head against my chin. Purred louder. His fur was soft beneath my fingers when I reached up to scratch behind his ears, and I could feel the solid warmth of him.
Muscle and bone and blood, all working exactly as they should. Whole. Alive.
Both of us were.
“You’re different when you sleep.”
Cador’s voice came from somewhere to my right. I turned my head, careful not to dislodge Lowen, and found him sitting in the chair by the window.
He was already dressed in black trousers and a white shirt unlaced at the throat, his dark hair loose around his shoulders. Morning light caught the harsh planes of his face, painted him in shadow and silver.
He’d been watching me. Again.
“Different how?” I asked.
“Softer.” He stood, crossed to the bed, sat on the edge beside me. His hand found my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. “When you’re awake, you look like a queen. All power and cold and edges. But when you sleep...”
His thumb moved lower, following the curve of my jaw. “You look like mine.”
Warmth spread through my chest. Not the burning agony his touch used to cause, but something softer. The heat of being wanted, being claimed, looking at me, seeing everything.
