Lorelai
My bare feet tear against the frozen ground. I don’t feel it. Or I feel everything, a symphony of pain so complete that the sharp stones and frozen roots are just single notes in a crushing crescendo.
Run. The word is a frantic drumbeat in my blood, the only thought my mind can form.
The silence is the worst part. For three years, Nolan was a constant presence in my head. A low hum of possession, a sharp spike of anger, a rare, intoxicating warmth. He was a storm on my spiritual horizon. Now, there is nothing. Just a hollowed out space that echoes with my own ragged breathing.
It feels like I have lost a limb. I keep reaching for it, for the anchor of the bond, and my spirit tumbles into the void every time.
My wolf, the other half of my soul, whimpers within me. She is weak, wounded by the severing in a way no physical blow ever could. The backlash shattered our connection to the pack, to our Alpha. She feels adrift, alone in a vast, cold ocean.
*He is gone,* she cries, her voice a thread of pure misery in our shared mind.
I stumble, catching myself on the rough bark of a pine tree. My cheek scrapes against it, the sting grounding me for a second. “I know,” I whisper to the empty forest, my voice a raw rasp.
*You did this. You cut him away. You cut us away.*
The accusation hits harder than the wall of the den. Guilt, sharp and ugly, coils in my gut. “I had to. He was breaking us. Can’t you feel it? The freedom?”
All she feels is the empty space. The yawning chasm where our mate used to be. It is a fundamental part of a wolf’s soul, the need for that connection. I ripped it out with my bare hands.
I push off the tree and force my legs to move again. The territory of the Shadowmoon Pack is vast, and Nolan’s rage will be immeasurable. When the agony of the severing subsides, that rage will turn outward. It will turn toward me.
He will send trackers. He will send Lyra.
The thought of her finding me, of being dragged back to him in chains of pity and scorn, is a spur in my side. I run faster. My lungs burn. Each breath is a shard of ice.
*We are weak,* my wolf whimpers. *We will die out here. Alone.*
“No.” The word is a promise. A prayer. “We are not weak. He thought we were. He was wrong.”
I channel the memory. The feel of the pup’s bones knitting beneath my palms. The surge of pure, untainted healing light. For the first time, my magic felt like my own. It wasn’t a flaw to be hidden. It was a fire.
I focus on that fire now, a tiny ember in the howling winter of my soul. I feed it with my will. I coax it to life.
We need to cross the border. Get out of his territory. Get out of his reach.
The moon is a sliver of bone overhead, offering little light. I navigate by instinct, by the familiar feel of the land beneath my feet. Every stream, every ridge, every ancient oak is mapped in my memory.
Hours pass. Or maybe it is only minutes. Time has frayed at the edges. My world has shrunk to the next step, the next breath, the next beat of my hammering heart.
A wave of dizziness washes over me. The trees swim. The ground seems to tilt. The phantom pain of the bond flares, a ghostly hand clenching around my heart, squeezing until black spots dance in my vision.
I fall to my knees, a cry tearing from my lips. It is his pain I feel, an echo of the agony I inflicted. The severing hurt him as much as it hurt me. A part of me, the part that still foolishly loves him, weeps for his suffering.
The other part, the part that is fighting for its life, snarls.
“Get up,” I gasp, my fingers digging into the cold, damp earth.
*I cannot,* my wolf answers. She is fading, curling into herself to hide from the pain.
“You must. For me. We do this together.”
I wait for an answer, but there is only silence. She has retreated so far into the depths of our shared consciousness that I can no longer feel her. I am truly alone now.
The terror of it is a physical thing. It freezes my blood. It locks my limbs.
No. I will not die here. I will not let him win. I will not let Lyra find my body and laugh.
I crawl. My knees and hands are raw, bleeding, but I keep moving. Over roots, through icy mud. The scent of pine and damp leaves fills my nose. It is the scent of home. The scent of my prison.
Then, something changes.
A new smell drifts on the wind. It is subtle at first. Something clean, like sun-warmed stone and wild honey. It is nothing like the sharp, cold, predatory scent of the Shadowmoon lands.
The air feels different, too. Lighter. The oppressive weight of Nolan’s dominance, a constant pressure I never even realized was there until it was gone, is lifted. It is like emerging from a deep, dark cave into the sunlight.
I have crossed the border.
Relief crashes over me with the force of a tidal wave. It is so potent, so absolute, that it drains the last of my strength. My limbs turn to water. My vision narrows to a tunnel.
I can see a clearing ahead. In the center stands a large, flat-topped boulder. It seems to glow in the faint moonlight, catching the silver rays and holding them. The air around it hums with a gentle, peaceful energy. It feels… safe.
A refuge.
I have to get to it. Just to the stone. Then I can rest.
I drag my body forward, inch by agonizing inch. My world is the blur of the forest floor, the burning in my muscles, the single point of light that is the stone.
My fingers touch its base. The rock is not cold. It holds a deep, residual warmth, as if it has been basking in the sun for a thousand years.
I pull myself up, leaning my back against it. The warmth seeps into my chilled bones, a soothing balm. My head lolls back. My eyes drift shut.
I have done it. I am free.
The thought is my last anchor to consciousness. I let go, and the darkness takes me.
I dream of falling. Of a golden cord snapping. Of a silver wolf howling in a pain that is my own.
A sound pulls me from the depths. A twig snapping. My eyes fly open, but they will not focus. The world is a smear of gray and black.
Panic, primal and immediate, floods my system. A tracker. Nolan sent a tracker.
I try to move, to stand, to shift. My body refuses. My wolf is silent, gone.
Footsteps approach, slow and steady. Not the predatory stalk of a Shadowmoon warrior. This is different. Lighter. Unhurried.
A shadow falls over me. I flinch, trying to curl into a ball, to protect myself.
“Easy now.”
The voice is not Nolan’s. It is not the growl of command I have grown to expect. This voice is calm, deep, and holds a note of… concern. It sounds like the warm stone I am leaning against feels.
I cannot see his face, only a dark shape against the moon. But I can smell him. Sun-warmed earth. Honey. And something else. Something uniquely his. There is no ice, no rage, no possessive fury in his scent.
He kneels in front of me. I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“You’re on Sunstone lands,” he says, his voice still gentle. It is a statement of fact, not an accusation.
I try to form a word. An apology. A plea. All that comes out is a choked sob.
“You’re hurt,” he murmurs. “You’re freezing.”
A large, warm hand touches my forehead, brushing my matted hair away from my face. The touch is respectful. Careful. It asks for nothing. It simply offers comfort.
It is so different from Nolan’s touch, which always felt like a brand, a claim. This touch is a question.
My last thread of consciousness snaps. As I fall back into the abyss, the stranger’s quiet voice is the last thing I hear.
“It’s alright. You’re safe now.”
