IRIS
Waking up was a slow, gentle return to a body that felt both foreign and deeply familiar. The first thing I was aware of was the soft, clean scent of linen and Kaelen. Not the wild, primal scent of the forest or the sterile, magical air of Aeridor, but the deep, earthy scent of him, of pine and rain and home. The second thing was the ache. It was a deep, pervasive soreness in my muscles, a bone-deep exhaustion that spoke of a power pushed far beyond its limits. But beneath the ache, there was a new, quiet thrum of energy. A harmonious hum of gold and silver, a steady, shared rhythm that was the echo of our joined souls.
I was in our bed, in our chambers at the Lycan stronghold. The memory of the atrium was a chaotic, violent kaleidoscope of images—Isolde’s venomous face, the blinding explosion of our combined magic, Kaelen’s still, pale form. But the aftermath, the feeling of his life force pouring into me, chasing away the death that had been my constant companion, was a warm, steady glow that settled deep in my bones. We were alive. We were whole.
I tried to sit up, a simple movement that felt like trying to lift a mountain. My arms trembled, my muscles protesting with a sharp, weary complaint. A soft, frustrated sigh escaped my lips. I was a Moon Witch, a being who had faced down a Fae-crafted poison and rewritten the laws of magical bonding, but I couldn't even sit up in bed without feeling like I’d been trampled by a herd of centaurs.
“Easy,” a low, quiet voice said from beside me. “Don’t push it.”
I turned my head, and my heart gave a slow, steady lurch. Kaelen was sitting in a chair pulled up close to the bed, his body angled toward me. He was dressed in simple, dark grey trousers and nothing else, his chest and feet bare. The new, intricate mark on his chest, a silver and gold sigil that was the mirror of my own, was a faint, warm glow against his skin. He looked… tired. Not the bone-deep exhaustion I felt, but a weariness that went soul-deep. But beneath it was a fierce, unwavering focus, and it was all directed at me.
“How long?” I asked, my voice a rough, rusty sound.
“Two days,” he said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. He reached out, his hand gently pushing a stray strand of hair back from my forehead. His touch was infinitely gentle, a careful, reverent caress. “Ronan said the exchange… it took a lot out of you. More than you let on.”
I managed a weak shrug, the small movement sending a fresh wave of exhaustion through me. “It seemed like a fair trade at the time.”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of the old, raw pain crossing his features before he smoothed it away. “It was the stupidest, bravest, most magnificent thing I have ever seen,” he said, his voice a low, rough growl. “And if you ever do it again, I will bind you to this bed myself.”
A small, tired smile touched my lips. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
“Both,” he confirmed, his silver eyes, now laced with threads of white light, burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and deeply comforting. “Now, what do you need? Water? Food? The world on a silver platter?”
“Water,” I croaked, my throat suddenly feeling like sandpaper.
He was up in a fluid, easy motion, moving to a side table and pouring a glass from a crystal carafe. He was back at my side in an instant, one arm sliding behind my shoulders, his other hand bringing the glass to my lips. His movements were sure, practiced. He had done this before. He had been caring for me while I slept. The thought sent a warm, sweet wave of something I was almost afraid to name washing through me.
I drank, the cool liquid a balm on my parched throat. I drank half the glass before leaning back, the effort leaving me breathless. He set the glass aside, but he didn't move his arm from behind my shoulders. He just sat there, supporting me, his body a solid, warm wall at my back.
“The Council?” I asked, my mind already trying to catch up, to re-engage with the world we had just violently reshaped.
“Is in an uproar,” he said, his voice a low, dry sound. “Varik, of all people, has been our most vocal supporter. He is… pragmatic. He saw what we did. He understands that a power that can rewrite soul-bonding is a power that deserves a seat at the table.”
A slow, tired laugh escaped me. “We scared him into submission.”
“We scared everyone,” Kaelen corrected, a grim satisfaction in his tone. “But we also gave them a vision. A new way. The Triumvirate is no longer just a proposal; it’s the only thing standing between order and a power vacuum that Marius is all too happy to fill.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the quiet of the room a stark contrast to the chaos we had left behind. I was leaning against him, my entire being supported by his strength. It was a strange, humbling feeling. I was so used to being the strong one, the self-sufficient one. To be this vulnerable, this dependent, was a lesson in surrender.
“What about Lysander?” I asked softly, the name a heavy, solemn weight in the quiet room.
Kaelen’s arm tightened around me, a subtle, protective gesture. “Ronan’s best trackers are on it. The ritual in the spire was disrupted, but not destroyed. Marius will have to regroup. He will have to find another way. But he still has Lysander. And that is a line that cannot be crossed.”
I leaned my head back against his shoulder, my gaze fixed on the far wall of the chamber. “We’ll get him back, Kaelen.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. A shared vow.
His hand came up to rest on my stomach, a warm, possessive weight. “Yes,” he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “We will.”
We were quiet again, but this time, the silence was different. It was filled with a new, unspoken understanding. I was weak. He was strong. And for the first time, our roles had reversed. I was not his protector or his savior. I was his charge. And he was not just my king or my mate; he was my caretaker.
He shifted, gently easing me back against the pillows, his movements infinitely careful. Then he did something that stole my breath. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to me, and gestured to the long, pale scars that marred the skin over his ribs. The scars from the wraith’s blast, the ones I had healed.
“Elara’s poultice,” he said, his voice a low, quiet sound. “It’s almost gone. But there’s still… a stiffness.” He looked at me over his shoulder, his silver eyes holding a look of such raw, unguarded vulnerability that it made my heart ache. “Can you…?”
He was asking for my help. He, the Alpha King, the man who had faced down armies and ancient plagues, was asking me to rub a salve on his back because he couldn’t quite reach. It was such a simple, domestic, human thing. And in its simplicity, it was the most intimate moment we had ever shared. More intimate than the desperate joining in the forest, more profound than the soul-searing exchange in the atrium. This was trust. This was partnership in its purest, most unvarnished form.
“Of course,” I whispered, my voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t name.
I pushed myself up, my body protesting with a groan, but I ignored it. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my movements slow and careful. He watched me, a flicker of protest in his eyes, but he didn't stop me. He just waited, trusting me to know my own limits.
He handed me a small ceramic pot from the bedside table, the scent of arnica and chamomile a familiar, soothing balm. I scooted closer, the mattress dipping with my weight. I warmed a small amount of the salve in my hands, my own magic, a weak but steady ember, stirring to life at the familiar herbs. Then I reached out, my hands gently touching the scarred skin of his back.
He flinched, a subtle, full-body tremor at my touch. Through the bond, I felt a wave of… not pain, but something else. A deep, humming pleasure. A resonance. My touch, even in this simple, healing context, was a balm to his soul, just as his strength was an anchor to my body.
I worked the salve into his skin with slow, gentle, circular motions. The scars were faint, silver lines now, a permanent map of my magic on his body. I traced them, my touch both healing and possessive. I was claiming him, marking him not as a king or a monster, but as my partner. My equal. My vulnerable, stubborn, beautiful man.
He relaxed under my hands, his head bowing, his entire being surrendering to my touch. The bond was a quiet, peaceful river between us, a shared space of contentment and care. In that quiet room, with the scent of healing herbs in the air and the steady beat of our hearts a shared rhythm, I knew with a certainty that settled deep in my bones that we had faced the ultimate test. We had faced death and betrayal and had not just survived, but had been remade. And this, this quiet moment of care and vulnerability, was our true victory. The real beginning of everything.