The truth of her words hits me like a physical blow. All my life, I’ve maintained control. Built walls. Stood apart, even when surrounded by my pack. But with Nova, those walls crumble. The control shatters. And instead of feeling weak, I feel ... free.
Her hand comes up to cup my cheek, her thumb tracing my bottom lip. “I see you, Dane Vaughn,” she whispers. “All of you. And I’m still here.”
I turn my head to kiss her palm, feeling something settle deep in my chest. Our magic hums between us, her fae blood singing to the angel blood in my veins. The connection goes beyond physical, beyond the bond of wolf mates. It’s something older, something that defies explanation.
“Rest,” I tell her, pulling her closer against me. “Just for a few minutes.”
She laughs softly against my chest. “That a promise?”
“That’s a guarantee.” I press my lips to her hair, feeling the bond pulse warm between us. “I plan to keep you in this bed until neither of us can walk.”
Chapter 44
Nova
Iwake with Dane’s arm draped heavily across my waist, his chest pressed to my back. My body aches in all the places he claimed me last night—bruises blooming beneath my skin where his fingers dug in, my lips tender from his desperate kisses, my thighs sore.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But the physical pain isn’t what catches in my throat. It’s what waits for us outside this cabin.
Dane’s breathing changes, shifts from the steady rhythm of sleep to something more alert. His hand tightens at my waist, thumb tracing small circles against my skin.
“They’re gathering already,” I say, hearing the low murmur of voices outside, boots crunching on frost-covered ground.
“I know.” His voice is rough with sleep and something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or resolve.
“You doing okay?” I ask, the words are small but necessary. The pack is preparing the funeral pyre for Marcus. Loyal, steady Marcus who never hesitated when it mattered most.
Dane presses his face into my hair, inhales deeply. His lips brush my shoulder—not seductive, just grounding. “I don’t know yet.”
I roll over to face him, our legs tangling together under the sheets. His eyes are clear, focused. The steel-gray has reclaimed the gold burn from last night, but something else remains, something that wasn’t there before. A kind of quiet certainty.
I reach up, tuck a strand of ash-brown hair behind his ear. His hand catches mine, holds it against his cheek for a moment. This man who stepped between me and Faelan’s magic without hesitation. Who took the hit meant for me.
I press my forehead to his, just for a heartbeat. We breathe the same air, share the same unspoken thought; it’s time.
We rise together, the bed creaking beneath our shifting weight. Neither of us speaks as we dress. The silence isn’t cold or distant; it’s charged with purpose. I pull on my clothes while Dane does the same, his movements efficient, deliberate.
He steps behind me as I fasten my pants, reaching around to adjust the collar of my jacket. I kneel to tighten the laces of his boots when he sits on the edge of the bed. These aren’t romantic gestures.
The cabin feels too small suddenly, like it can’t contain what we’ve become. What we still have to do.
Dane moves toward the door, and I fall into step beside him. He reaches for the handle at the same moment I do, our fingers brushing. He doesn’t move away, just wraps his hand around mine as we turn the knob together.
Outside, the pack has assembled. The pyre is built. Marcus’s body lies wrapped in cloth, ready for the flames. They look to us—not to me, not to him, but to us—as we step through the doorway.
Not Alphas apart, but Alphas aligned. Shoulder to shoulder, we walk toward grief, not like it might break us, but like it already tried and failed.
The morning air burns my lungs as we step outside. After the warmth of Dane’s cabin, the frost-bitten ground feels hostile, unforgiving. Just like everything else waiting for us today.
The pack has formed a loose circle around the pyre. Their faces are masks of control and grief.
Ben stands closest to the structure, shoulders squared, eyes rimmed red but dry. His right hand rests on the hilt of his knife—not as a threat, but as an anchor. Across the pyre from him, Harper has positioned herself at the far edge of the circle, her gaze fixed on the wrapped body. She doesn’t look at Ben. He doesn’t look at her. The distance between them speaks volumes.
Callum paces the northern edge, checking the bindings on the wood one final time. His movements are precise, almost mechanical. Lyanna watches him from a distance, her hands folded at her waist, silver bracelets catching the weak sunlight.
Kari stands apart from the others, her jaw clenched tight enough that I can see the muscle working beneath her skin. The younger wolves—Mateo, Sera, Devon—huddle together, their postures rigid with the effort of containing their emotions. They were closest to Marcus. He trained them, protected them, and believed in them when no one else did.
