Khal's forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air, and he nods, pulling over. The guys switch positions with practiced ease, and suddenly Khal is sliding into the back seat. He pulls my feet into his lap and starts to massage my arches. His scales shimmer just beneath his human skin as he kneads and strokes, targeting various pressure points. The sensation is a delightful mix of gentle pressure and soothing strokes—firm enough to work out the tension, soft enough to feel like worship. The knots in my feet slowly melt away as his fingers work their magic.
Khal uses his thumbs to apply targeted pressure on specific points, and a subtle sense of relief spreads through my body. Time seems to slow down. I become acutely aware of the sensations—the warmth, the pressure, the skilled touch all combining to create comfort and tranquility.
The stress I was carrying gradually fades, replaced by something dangerously close to contentment. "Fi will be fine. She's well-guarded, and her mates will keep her safe." Khal's tone is warm and inviting, soothing the rough edges of my soul. His amber eyes hold a softness meant only for me as a gentle smile graces his lips.
The way he's looking at me, I know something is bothering him. He suddenly pulls out his phone and glances at it. Then I realize—he's worried too. He's separated from his twin, and who knows if that's ever happened before? My heart clenches. I'm not the only one leaving someone behind. "Khol is fine too, you know." I press my forehead against Torben's neck and extend a hand to Khal. He grips it, his fingers cool against mine, and nods slowly.
My deadly basilisk is a big softie under it all. "Heh, yeah. Just like you and Fi. Khol and I haven't really been separated from each other for long. Maybe a day or two at most." He shrugs, and his admission about his own anxiety makes me feel better somehow. Less alone in my fear. He releases my hand and returns to massaging my arches.
A throat clears from the front seat, and I lift my head to see who's about to speak. "A very long time ago, white wolves were very common in Briarvale. They used to migrate south into warmer climates to give birth, then head north for winter, following the big game animals they love to hunt."
Diaval's voice resonates with a deep, seductive allure that wraps itself around every word. As he speaks, his words flow like molten silk, each syllable carrying a rich, velvety texture that sends shivers down my spine. There's a certain confidence in his voice, his words measured and deliberate, each one chosen with care to maximize impact. It's rare to hear him say more than a short sentence. My wolf perks up, ears forward, attention rapt.
I sit up to pay better attention. "We used to migrate? Why would we migrate? That almost doesn't make sense. How do you know?" I slide off Torben's lap and move to the center seat, leaning forward to get closer to Diaval, drawn to him like a moth to flame. "Did you get to witness the migrations?"
Other than Easton, I don't think anyone knows Diaval's true age—only that, because of a slip of the tongue, we know he's a wyrm dragon. An ancient among ancients when it comes to dragons. Diaval and Easton look at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in the span of a heartbeat. Then Easton answers.
"Everything is relative. We've lived many lives over the eons. Time is not a valid quantifier." He looks at me in the rearview mirror, and I sit back, staring into his eyes. Flames seem to flicker in his irises for a moment—orange and gold dancing like a contained inferno—then vanish just as fast as they appeared. "Long ago, before we settled into villages and towns, we lived as our animals more than our human forms. In a way, it was better. Our animals don't have the hang-ups that society has placed on us when it comes to taking mates." Easton lets out a sigh, heavy with the weight of centuries.
He's at war with himself over the pull of the mate bond between us. I get it. He was raised to believe he would have his mate all to himself. Here I am with four mates—three more than he was expecting. The guilt gnaws at me. I didn't ask for this any more than he did.
"Let's get back on course, shall we?" Diaval saves Easton from the question on the tip of my tongue. "The wolves segregated themselves based on build and coat color. The timber wolves took to the dense forests and grassy plains because they would blend in better." He turns slightly in his seat, giving me more than just his side profile. His dragon's slitted pupils flash for a moment before returning to human. "The wolves whose coats are black or dark gray took over the shadow mount—or, as it's referred to now, the base of the mountains and the caverns within." I reach down and pull out the book on the area, lookingat the map for our region. The pages are worn, the edges soft from years of handling.
"White wolves are able to endure the cold better than any other subspecies of wolf. They're otherwise known as arctic wolves and have far more layers to their fur than the others. Witches used to hunt the arctic wolves for their fur, thinking that was why they could endure the cold." Diaval laughs—a rare, rich sound that makes my stomach flutter. He shakes his head. "Only the pure white females would be Lunas, leaders of their kind, blessed with gifts from Gaia herself to calm and control the masses."
He arches a brow at me, and suddenly it makes sense. Why I was able to get everyone to settle down. Why my wolf feels so powerful sometimes. I'm not just a wolf. I'm a Luna. A white wolf. Something ancient and rare. "But it didn't work on you and Easton."
"You noticed that, huh?" Diaval's deep chuckle sends a shiver of anticipation through me.
"Well, yeah. Everyone else sat down, and you two just stared at me."
"It won't work on Mythic’s. Your true power lies with the pack. The more members in your pack, the stronger the Luna. The stronger the Luna, the stronger the gifts." Diaval stops talking and looks over at Easton. "We have a long trip ahead of us. There are several towns we'll pass through on our way to Blackmore."
Easton motions to Diaval, who pulls a different map out and passes it back. Scooting back, I take the map and spread it across my lap, studying it closely. To the far north, there's snow as far as the eye can see—an endless expanse of white marked only by the thin lines of rivers and the dots of settlements. Beforethe tundra, jagged mountains rise like teeth against the sky, with a Mordor-style spire sticking up in the middle, dark and foreboding.
"That's where my people come from." Khal points to the horizon, to what looks more like mountains of death than a fun place to grow up. His voice carries a hint of something—nostalgia? Dread? Both?
"It doesn't look like a fun place to visit." I wince, saying my thoughts out loud.
"Definitely not. Unfortunately, there's only one way to get to the route we need, and that's passing through Norburg. Norburg is a town of thugs and venomous inhabitants." Khal looks up at Easton, his expression hardening. "If we don't have to stop, let's not. It wouldn't be safe for Feray." The way Khal says that—like he's seen things there, like he knows exactly what kind of danger lurks in those streets—makes a whine escape my lips before I can stop it.
Easton's eyes whip up to look at me in the rearview mirror, concern flashing across his features. "Noted. We'll pass through and nothing more unless we need fuel," Diaval says, then looks back at us. His expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Have you seen the ocean, Feray?"
"What difference does that make?" I tilt my head, puzzled by his question.
"Just answer the question and don't be as infuriating as your sister." Diaval's tone turns to rich honey, and I feel like I'm falling under a spell, bewitched by him.
"I've never left Briarvale." I draw in an exaggerated breath and look down at my hands, playing with the hem of my shirt. Theadmission feels like a confession of something shameful. "Fi said it wasn't safe. We've always suspected our parents' deaths weren't an accident. So I've never been much of anywhere." I bite my bottom lip and turn to fidget with a fuzzy on Torben's shirt to distract myself from the sudden sting behind my eyes.
"Then it's settled. We'll cut through Norburg and head toward Vasserdell. It's a village on the coast. I want you to see the ocean." The finality in Diaval's voice almost makes me nervous. But in another sense, butterflies flutter in my stomach. He wants to take me to the ocean for the first time. My grumpy dragon wants to give me the sea. "Do you have questions about the packs, Feray?" Diaval turns back to face forward, but I can see the slight curve of his lips in the side mirror.
"If I'm a natural-born Luna, is there anyone I bow to?" Not being raised in a pack has its disadvantages. I feel like a child asking obvious questions.
"The other wolves will try to force their dominance on you. Now, your human side is soft and gentle. But your wolf—she will not tolerate someone less than herself trying to dominate her. If it's a challenge of wills, let her take the wheel and do what's needed." Diaval's statement makes me sit up and turn to Torben.
"What he means is your wolf knows what's needed to keep you safe. So when she fights you for control, let her have it. Just like with my bear—if the situation gets dangerous, I give myself over to him." Torben presses a kiss to my forehead, his beard soft against my skin.
"So if she doesn't like something, or someone is trying to force us to do something, let her have control?" I tilt my head, looking at Torben, then to the rearview mirror to meet Easton's eyes.
