The scar had always been there.
Not just the one on his chest—the long, jagged line of raised flesh that ran from collarbone to sternum, pale against the storm-gray of his skin. That one I’d seen a hundred times. Traced with my fingers in the dark. Kissed in the quiet moments after fire and storm had torn us apart and put us back together again.
No, it wasn’t just that scar.
It was the ones beneath it.
The ones no one else could see.
The ones that flared when the wind howled through the mountain passes, when the moon hung low and full, when the scent of iron and old blood rose from the stones of the fortress like a ghost. The ones that made his breath catch, his fangs lengthen, his claws press into his palms when he thought I wasn’t watching.
And today—
Today, I was going to heal them all.
It started with a dream.
Not mine. His.
We were tangled in the sheets, his body a wall of storm and iron against my back, his arm draped possessively over my waist, his breath warm against my neck. The fortress was quiet, the sentries moving in slow rotation, the omegas tending to the hearths. And then—
He spoke.
Not awake. Not coherent. But in the deep, fractured language of sleep, of memory, of pain.
“*Father… no… she didn’t know… she wasn’t supposed to…*”
My breath caught.
Not from fear. Not from shock.
From recognition.
Because I’d heard those words before. Not from him. Not in this life. But in the visions the Hollow Witch had sent, in the fragments of memory she’d torn from my bloodline—the night my mother died, the night the curse was sealed, the night Kaelen’s father had stood over her, blade in hand, and said, “The bond must be broken. The line must end.”
And Kaelen had been there.
Not as a killer.
As a witness.
As a boy.
I didn’t wake him. Didn’t shake him. Just lay there, my hand pressed to his chest, my magic humming beneath my skin, listening as the words spilled from his lips like blood from a wound.
“*I tried to stop him… I wasn’t strong enough… I wasn’t fast enough…*”
His body tensed, his fingers flexing against my hip, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I turned in his arms, my back to his chest no longer, but my face to his, my fingers brushing his cheek, my thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
“Kaelen,” I whispered, my voice soft, steady. “You’re not there. You’re here. With me.”
He didn’t open his eyes. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my skin, his body trembling. “She was screaming,” he murmured. “And I just… stood there.”
“You were a child,” I said, my voice breaking. “You weren’t supposed to carry that. Not then. Not now.”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me tighter, his arms like chains, like vows, like the bond itself—unbreakable, unyielding, inescapable.
And when he finally stilled, when his breathing slowed, when his body relaxed into sleep once more, I didn’t close my eyes.
I just watched him.
In the pale light of dawn, his face was unguarded—no mask of control, no cold authority, no calculated silence. Just pain. Just grief. Just a man who had spent his life trying to atone for a sin he didn’t commit.
And I knew—
I had to heal him.
Not just the body.
Not just the scar.
But the soul.
So when the sun rose and he stirred, his gold eyes opening in the dark, his hand instantly finding mine, I didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just kissed him—slow, deep, a vow sealed in breath and heat—and said, “I need to see it. All of it.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
Just looked at me—really looked at me—and said, “You don’t have to.”
“I do,” I said, my hand rising to the scar on his chest. “Not because I want to fix you. Not because I think you’re broken. But because you’re mine. And I want to know you. All of you. Even the parts you hide.”
He didn’t argue.
Just sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, the morning light catching the storm-gray of his skin, the silver of his scars. He didn’t remove his shirt. Just unbuttoned it slowly, one button at a time, his movements deliberate, like he was peeling back layers of armor.
And then—
He bared himself.
Not just his chest. Not just the long, jagged line of the wound. But the others—thin, white lines across his ribs, a cluster of puncture marks on his shoulder, a burn on his back shaped like a sigil. Old. Faded. But there.
And I understood.
Not just the violence.
But the training.
His father hadn’t just punished him.
He’d forged him.
Like steel in fire.
Like a weapon.
And I could feel it—the weight of it, the shame, the guilt, the quiet, gnawing belief that he didn’t deserve to be loved, to be whole, to be seen.
“This one,” I said, my fingers brushing the long scar on his chest, “was from the night he killed my mother.”
He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the wall, his jaw clenched, his breath steady. “I tried to stop him. I lunged. He turned. The blade caught me here—” he touched the scar, his fingers trembling “—and I went down. By the time I got back up… she was gone.”
My breath caught.
Not from anger. Not from grief.
From something deeper.
Truth.
Because I had spent my life believing he was the monster.
And he had spent his life believing he was the failure.
And we had both been wrong.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Just leaned in and kissed the scar.
Not on the edge. Not around it.
On the center.
Where the blade had pierced.
Where the blood had spilled.
Where the boy had died and the Alpha was born.
He flinched—just once—but didn’t pull away. Just closed his eyes, his breath catching, his body trembling.
And then—
I kissed the others.
The thin lines on his ribs. The puncture marks on his shoulder. The burn on his back. Each one a story. Each one a wound. Each one a piece of the man I loved.
And when I was done—
I placed both hands on his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar, my magic rising.
Not to erase.
Not to hide.
But to heal.
Fire flared beneath my skin—garnet-red, hot and wild—but I didn’t let it burn. Not him. Not now. I let it flow—slow, steady, like a river through stone—into his body, into the scar, into the memory, into the soul.
He gasped—sharp, broken—as the heat seared into his flesh, as the magic unraveled the old pain, as the wound began to close. Not with new skin. Not with scarless flesh. But with something deeper.
Peace.
“It’s not about erasing it,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “It’s about changing what it means. This scar—this pain—this guilt. It doesn’t have to be a chain. It doesn’t have to be a curse. It can be a vow. A reminder. Not of what you lost. But of what you survived. Of what you became. Of what you are.”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me, his hands cradling my face, his gold eyes burning into mine. “You see me,” he said, his voice rough, broken. “Not the Alpha. Not the king. Not the monster. Just… me.”
“I do,” I said, tears burning my eyes. “And I love you. Not despite this. Not in spite of it. Because of it. Because you’re strong. Because you’re broken. Because you’re real.”
And then—
I healed the others.
Not with fire.
Not with magic.
With touch.
My fingers traced each scar, each wound, each mark, not with pity, not with sorrow, but with reverence. With love. With truth. And as I did, the bond flared—not with need, not with desire, but with something deeper.
Unity.
And when I was done—
He pulled me into his arms, his body warm against mine, his breath steady against my neck. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just held me, his arms like chains, like vows, like the bond itself—unbreakable, unyielding, inescapable.
And then—
He whispered, “Thank you.”
Not for healing the scars.
But for seeing them.
For knowing him.
For loving him.
Later, as we stood on the balcony of our chamber, the sun high above, the fortress quiet below, I placed my hand on my stomach, the life inside me pulsing like a second heartbeat. Kaelen stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
“About what?”
“How fast everything changed,” I said, leaning into the warmth of his chest. “A year ago, I was planning your murder. Now—”
“Now you’re healing my scars,” he finished, pressing a kiss to the fresh bite mark just below my ear. It still throbbed faintly, a pulse of heat beneath my skin, a reminder that I was claimed. Not by magic. Not by curse. But by choice. “And you don’t want to.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a challenge.
And gods, I loved him for it.
I turned in his arms, my hands rising to his chest, my fingers spreading over the old scar—now smoother, warmer, no longer a wound, but a vow. “I didn’t come here to heal you,” I said. “I came here to destroy you. To break the curse. To survive.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I said, stepping closer, my body pressing into his, “I want to live. With you. As your mate. As your equal. But not because the world demands it. Not because the Council recognizes it. Because I choose it.”
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me.
Slow. Deep. A vow sealed in breath and heat. His lips met mine, hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against my lower lip, forcing it open. I moaned—soft, broken—my body arching into his, my fingers clutching his shoulders. The bond flared, not with need, not with denial, but with truth. I could feel it—his love, his relief, his surrender. And I gave it back. My fire, my fury, my need—pouring into him like a river.
When we broke apart, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths ragged, he spoke.
“You didn’t just heal my scars,” he said, his voice rough. “You gave me a future.”
“We gave each other a future,” I said, stepping back, my hand still on my stomach. “And if the Hollow Witch comes for us—”
“—we’ll burn her,” he growled, pulling me closer, his lips brushing mine. “But not before I tear her apart with my bare hands.”
I didn’t flinch.
Just leaned back into him, my body pressing into his. “I don’t want to rule through fear,” I said. “I don’t want to be another monster. I want to be better. For them. For us. For every hybrid who’s ever been told they don’t belong.”
He turned me gently, his gold eyes searching mine. “Then be better. Not because you have to. Not because the world demands it. But because you want to. Because you’re strong enough to.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped into him, my hands rising to his chest. “I love you,” I whispered. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. But because you saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid. As me. And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.”
He didn’t smile.
Just kissed me.
Slow. Deep. A vow sealed in breath and heat.
The bond flared, not with need, but with something deeper.
Peace.
Finally.
And for the first time since I’d become who I was meant to be, I let myself believe it.
That I wasn’t just surviving.
I was alive.
And I would fight—
For him.
For us.
For every breath, every touch, every claim.
Because the curse wasn’t just in my blood.
It was in my heart.
And the only way to break it was to stop running.
To stop fighting.
To stop pretending I didn’t want him.
Because I did.
Not just to survive.
Not just to break the curse.
But because he saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid.
As me.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.