I bury my face in the pillow and groan. The mate bond pulses in my chest, stronger now, almost like Reeyan is more aware of me than he was before. Can he feel what I just did? Does the bond work that way? Can he sense the pleasure still thrumming through my veins, the satisfaction in my bones?
Please let the answer be no.
But even as I think it, I hear footsteps in the hallway. They stop outside my door. Just stop. Like he’s standing there, deciding whether to knock.
My breath catches in my throat. I hold perfectly still, as if moving might somehow make this worse. As if he can’t already sense everything through whatever supernatural connection exists between us.
The footsteps move away after what feels like an eternity. Back down the hall toward his bedroom.
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. Part of me wanted him to knock. Wanted him to force the confrontation soI wouldn’t have to make the choice myself. Wanted him to push open the door and finish what I started, replace my fingers with his body, and make the fantasy real.
But I also couldn’t have handled facing him right now with my body still alive from release and my thoughts full of everything I imagined him doing to me.
I roll onto my side and pull the blankets up to my chin, even though the room is plenty warm. The ache in my belly has eased, but the wanting hasn’t disappeared. If anything, it’s stronger now. More demanding. Having a taste of what pleasure feels like without the curse’s suppression has only made me hungry for more.
This is what the curse suppressed. This need. This hunger. This overwhelming desire to connect with another person on every possible level—physical, emotional, spiritual.
No wonder Moira Ashwood chose this particular revenge. Emotional isolation is its own special torture. Making an entire pack of women unable to form the deep bonds that give life meaning? Unable to experience passion and desire and love the way we’re supposed to? That’s cruelty on a scale I can barely comprehend.
And my ancestors lived with it. Adapted to it. Generation after generation accepted this diminished existence because the curse kept them from recognizing what was wrong.
How many potential mates were rejected because the bond couldn’t form properly through the curse’s suppression? How many children grew up with mothers who couldn’t express love the way they wanted to? How many friendships remained superficial because a true emotional connection was impossible?
How many women died without ever experiencing real pleasure? Real passion? Real love?
The magnitude of what was stolen from us makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
Instead, I just lie there in the darkness, listening to Reeyan move around his house. Water running in what must be his bathroom. The creak of floorboards as he paces. The sound of a door closing softly, like he’s trying not to disturb me.
The mate bond thrums steadily in my chest. A reminder that despite everything—the coercion, the manipulation—he’s my person. The one the universe or fate or whatever cosmic force governs these things decided belongs with me.
And I don’t know what to do about that.
Because breaking the curse means embracing what I feel for him. Means accepting the mate bond and becoming someone fundamentally different from the Llewelyn woman I was raised to be. It means admitting that independence and emotional reserve aren’t actually strengths, but limitations imposed by magic.
But not breaking the curse means condemning every future generation of Llewelyn women to the same isolated existence. Letting Moira Ashwood’s revenge continue destroying my pack from the inside out and watching my sister Caelan grow up unable to feel what I’m feeling right now. Any daughters I might have someday would inherit the same prison.
No pressure or anything.
Chapter 12 - Reeyan
I wake on the couch with a crick in my neck and a book about territorial disputes still open on my chest. Morning sun filters through the windows, illuminating dust motes floating through the room. My first coherent thought is that I need coffee. My second is that something smells different.
Sera’s scent. Stronger than it should be from just living in my house for a few days.
I push myself upright and spot her right away. She’s slumped over the dining table with her head pillowed on her arms, her silver-blonde hair spilling across the dark wood like moonlight. Open texts surround her—volumes I pulled from my collection on Llewelyn pack history. She must have come out here in the middle of the night and started reading.
The sight fills me with such affection that I have to grip the arm of the couch to keep from walking over there and gathering her up. From carrying her to bed and tucking her in instead of letting her sleep hunched over like this.
Bad idea. Terrible idea. The worst idea I’ve had since deciding to keep her here in the first place.
I stand slowly, careful not to make noise that might wake her. My wolf wants to go to her. Wants to verify she’s safe and comfortable and to curl around her and keep watch while she sleeps.
Instead, I grab the blanket from the back of the couch and cross the room as quietly as I can. She doesn’t stir when I drape it over her shoulders, or when I resist the urge to brush a strand of hair away from her face.
She looks so much less guarded when she sleeps. The reserve that defines Llewelyn women melts away, leaving her soft in a way she’d hate if she knew I was seeing it.
I force myself to retreat to my study before I do something stupid like wake her up just to see those blue eyes.
