IRIS
The name hung in the air long after Ronan had left, a ghostly, venomous residue that clung to the warm, firelit comfort of our chambers. Lyra. It wasn’t just a name; it was a wound. A deep, jagged scar on Kaelen’s soul that I had only ever seen as a shadow, a source of his mistrust and his pain. Now, that shadow had a face, a prison cell, and a rare, dangerous talent. It was no longer a memory of a past betrayal. It was a living, breathing complication in our present.
We didn’t speak of it immediately. Ronan’s departure had left a heavy, thoughtful silence in his wake. Kaelen moved to the fireplace, resting one hand on the heavy stone mantle, his back to me. The lines of his shoulders were rigid, a familiar tension I knew well. It was the posture of a king bearing a weight alone. But we were not alone anymore.
I moved to his side, not speaking, just offering my presence. I rested my head against his upper arm, my hand gently tracing the powerful muscles of his back. Through our bond, I didn’t push. I didn’t demand to know his thoughts. I simply offered a quiet, steady current of my own love, a silent anchor in the storm of his memories. I was here. I wasn’t going anywhere.
He sighed, a sound of profound, bone-deep weariness that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. He turned, pulling me into his arms, his face burying in my hair. He held me tightly, a desperate, almost crushing grip, as if he could absorb my strength, my peace, into himself. I held him back just as tightly, my hands stroking a slow, soothing pattern up and down his spine.
We stood like that for a long time, a silent tangle of limbs and shared sorrow in the firelight. The crackle of the hearth was the only sound. I could feel the chaotic whirlwind of his thoughts—the sharp, stabbing pain of Lyra’s initial betrayal, the cold fury of her reappearance, the confused, reluctant admiration in Ronan’s eyes when he spoke of her. It was a tangled, painful mess.
“She was everything,” he finally said, his voice a low, raw murmur against my hair. It wasn’t an explanation; it was a confession, a piece of his soul laid bare. “Before you… before the bond… she was the only person I thought I could trust. The only one who saw past the crown, past the Alpha.”
I tightened my arms around him, my heart aching with a fierce, protective sorrow for the man he had been. For the lonely, guarded king who had placed his faith in the wrong person and had his heart shattered for it.
“She taught me that love was a weakness,” he continued, his voice a flat, hard sound of old pain. “A liability to be exploited. She taught me that control was the only thing I could truly rely on. That my own heart was a traitor waiting to happen.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, his silver-white eyes burning with a raw, ancient anguish. “And for years… I believed her. I built my entire world on that foundation of mistrust. I became the tyrant she helped create.”
I reached up, my hand gently cupping his cheek, my thumb stroking the rough stubble on his jaw. “You’re not that man anymore, Kaelen,” I said, my voice a soft, but unwavering certainty. “You haven’t been for a long time.”
He leaned into my touch, his eyes closing, a single, pained sound escaping his lips. “But she’s back. And hearing her name… it’s like a key turning in a lock I thought I’d thrown away. All that anger, all that… weakness… it’s right there. And I hate it. I hate that she still has this power over me.”
“Then let’s take it away,” I said softly, my voice a gentle, but firm command.
I took his hand, my fingers lacing through his, and led him from the warmth of the fire, to the large, canopied bed that was the heart of our private sanctuary. The moonlight, soft and silver, streamed through the tall windows, bathing the room in a gentle, ethereal glow. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling him down to face me.
“Show me,” I whispered, my voice a quiet, intimate invitation. “Show me the scars.”
He looked at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “Iris…”
“No,” I said, my voice gentle but firm. “You carry them. I see them in your mind, in your memories. But let me see them with my own eyes. Let me touch them. Let me understand.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching mine. He saw I wasn’t just offering comfort. I was asking to share his burden, to make his pain my own, not as a duty, but as an act of love. Finally, with a slow, reluctant nod, he began to unbutton his shirt. His movements were stiff, mechanical, as if he were preparing for a wound to be prodded.
He slipped the shirt from his shoulders, and the moonlight illuminated his torso. It was a landscape of strength and power, but also of a history written in violence. There were the newer, fading scars from our recent battles—thin, silver lines from vampire claws, a puckered burn mark from a dark magic blast. But my eyes were drawn to the older ones. The ones that were part of his very foundation.
There was a thick, jagged scar that ran diagonally across his ribs, a brutal reminder of an assassination attempt during his early, volatile reign. There was a cluster of smaller, round scars on his left shoulder, the marks of a poisoned arrow he had taken for a pack member. And there, just over his heart, was a faint, silvery line, almost invisible in the moonlight. It was an old, clean cut. The scar from a Fae blade, wielded by someone he had trusted.
My gaze lingered on that one the longest. I could feel the memory of it through our bond, a sharp, searing pain that was more than just physical. It was the pain of a promise broken.
Without a word, I reached out. My fingers were gentle, reverent, as they traced the thick, jagged scar on his ribs. I didn’t just touch the skin; I let my magic flow, a soft, silver current of empathy and healing. I didn’t try to erase the mark, but to understand it. To honor the survival it represented. His muscles tensed under my touch, a low, shuddering breath escaping him.
“This one,” I murmured, my voice a soft, intimate sound in the quiet room. “You were protecting someone. Your Beta… before Ronan.” I saw the memory flash through our shared mind—a younger Kaelen, reckless and full of rage, shoving another wolf aside and taking the blade meant for him.
He didn’t answer, just watched me with a raw, exposed expression. My fingers moved, tracing the cluster of scars on his shoulder. “And these. You were ambushed. Outnumbered. But you refused to retreat, because they were targeting a civilian settlement behind you.” Another memory, this one of a brutal, bloody fight in a muddy mountain pass, his stubborn refusal to yield an inch of ground.
Finally, my hand moved to hover over the faint, silvery line over his heart. I didn’t touch it at first, just let the warmth of my palm bathe it in the moonlight. This was the one. The source of the deepest wound.
“Lyra,” I whispered, her name a soft, sad sound on my lips.
He flinched, a full-body shudder of pain and reflexive anger. “She said it was an accident,” he rasped, his voice a raw, broken sound. “A training session that went too far. She cried. She held me as I bled. And I believed her. I comforted her. It was weeks later, when I overheard her boasting to a Fae envoy about ‘testing the Lycan’s resolve,’ that I knew.”
The memory was a cold, sharp dagger of pure agony in our shared mind. The shock, the dawning horror, the feeling of his world turning to ice and ash. My own heart ached with it, a sympathetic pain so intense it brought tears to my eyes.
Gently, carefully, I laid my hand flat over the scar. My touch was not one of pity, but of profound, unwavering solidarity. I let my moon magic flow, not to heal, but to connect. To rewrite the story of the scar. It was no longer just a mark of betrayal. It was a marker on the path that had led him to me. A painful, necessary step in his journey.
“This scar,” I said, my voice a low, fierce whisper that held all the love in my heart, “is the reason you learned to be strong. It’s the reason you built your walls so high. It’s the reason you were so determined to never be vulnerable again. It’s the reason you fought me so hard when we first met.” I leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the silvery line of the scar. “And it’s the reason I know your love is real now. Because you chose to let me past these walls. You chose to be vulnerable with me. You chose me over the lesson she taught you.”
He let out a ragged, shuddering breath, his body trembling with the force of his released emotion. He closed his eyes, a single, tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. Not of pain or rage, but of catharsis. Of release.
Then he did something that surprised me. He reached out, his hand gently tilting my chin up. His gaze, his beautiful, silver-white eyes, burned with an intensity that was both fierce and tender. He had shown me his scars. Now, he wanted to see mine.
“Your turn,” he murmured, his voice a low, raw rumble.
I understood. I had asked for his vulnerability. Now, it was my turn to offer mine in return. I slowly, carefully, pulled the soft, oversized sweater I was wearing over my head, leaving me in just a simple, cotton camisole. The moonlight was cool on my skin. I watched his eyes as they scanned my body, not with desire, but with a soft, searching gaze. He wasn’t looking at my form; he was looking for the stories written on it.
His gaze found them almost immediately. There were a few small, faint scars on my arms from potion-making accidents in my shop—minor burns and cuts. But he wasn’t looking for those. His eyes settled on a small, silvery, crescent-shaped scar on my right side, just above my hip. It was faint, almost invisible, a relic from my childhood. A fall from a tree when I was trying to rescue a crow with a broken wing.
But his gaze didn’t linger there. It moved to my left forearm, to a patch of skin that was unmarked. Perfectly smooth. But I knew what he was seeing. He was seeing the memory I had just shown him. The memory of Daniel. Of the betrayal that had taught me to rely only on myself. The scar wasn’t on my skin. It was on my soul. An invisible, but deeply felt, brand of mistrust.
He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the unmarked skin of my forearm. His touch was warm, a grounding, possessive heat that chased away the old, cold ghost of Daniel’s memory.
“Here,” he murmured, his voice a low, reverent sound. “This is where he hurt you. Not your body. Your heart.”
I could only nod, a fresh wave of tears blurring my vision. He saw. He truly saw.
He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, warm kiss to the invisible scar on my forearm. The touch was a brand, a seal of healing. A promise that no one would ever wound me there again. “He taught you to be strong,” he whispered, his voice a low, rumbling echo of my own words to him. “He taught you to be independent. He taught you that you could only rely on yourself. He made you the woman I fell in love with. The fierce, brilliant, stubborn witch who would not be cowed.”
He looked up, his eyes locking with mine, the silver and white in them swirling with an emotion so profound it took my breath away. “But he’s gone, Iris. And I’m here. And you don’t have to rely only on yourself anymore. You have me. You have us.”
A sob escaped my lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated release. I launched myself into his arms, my body colliding with his in a desperate, needing tangle. He caught me, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me onto his lap, his body a solid, unshakeable shield against all the ghosts of our pasts. We were a tangled mess of limbs and tears and shared pain in the moonlight, but in that moment, we had never been stronger.
We held each other, our bodies pressed together in the quiet, intimate darkness. The scars were no longer sources of pain or shame. They were part of our history, part of the map that had led us, through fire and betrayal and sacrifice, to this bed, to this moment, to each other. They were the scars we shared, no longer wounds to be hidden, but testaments to our survival. And as he held me, his hand gently stroking my hair, I knew with a certainty that was the very bedrock of my soul that our pasts no longer had power over us. We had faced them, acknowledged them, and in doing so, had rendered them powerless. We were no longer just the sum of our betrayals. We were the sum of our love. A love that was stronger than any scar, deeper than any wound, and more enduring than any ghost.