by Lyra Evans
You made a promise. You promised never to let him be in this kind of danger again. You broke your promise.
He couldn’t forgive himself, couldn’t let go of the reality that he’d failed Connor. He’d failed himself. Connor may have been an Alpha, a powerful leader in his pack and his Court, but Oliver was a police officer. His sole duty was to serve and protect. He was the one who ran toward danger to protect the people running away. He should have figured it out sooner, should have seen the truth about Sky. He should have protected Connor from Sky, from Oliver’s past. He should have been more honest.
He should have said yes, at Black Moon, when Connor had asked him—
A rocky wall broke the monotony of the trees up ahead, and Oliver felt his heartbeat stagger, then speed up. He was panting hard, but he pushed himself through the last few feet of knee-deep, muddy water and threw himself at the mouth of the small cave. The rock was dripping with streams of rainwater; the opening of the cave looked more like a small waterfall than anything. Oliver tried to push inside, to press into the shelter of it, but he was stuck.
The wall of magic pushing him back was hard as the rock wall, and running into it felt much the same as running into rock. Oliver shook off the ringing pain of the collision and thought back to what Sky had told him. His every thought crested with panic and desperation. Every passing moment was another moment Connor could be dying.
“Give up a secret,” Oliver said, shaking his head. He couldn’t think of a secret to give up. Suddenly, Donna was back in Human form beside him, her clothes splattered with mud as she had been, her sleek hair a solid sheet, soaked in the rain.
“I have no interest in ever finding a mate,” Donna said to the cave, and Oliver blinked momentarily at her. Her expression was stony, but the lines of her shoulders were tight. Oliver turned his attention back to the cave, hoping to feel the magic fall, but it didn’t. It remained strong as ever and just as much in their way.
“Does anyone else know that?” Oliver asked, and Donna shook her head.
“You do, now,” she said. “Does the kind of secret matter?”
Oliver considered the opening of the cave. “It has to be me,” he said, the truth springing from deep within him. “Sky wouldn’t have let it come down for anyone else. It has to be my secret.”
Donna gestured for him to go ahead. Oliver hesitated. “Do you not have any secrets?” Donna asked, and Oliver coloured.
“Of course I do,” he said. “But I think it needs to be of a particular strength. Saying ‘I still have the blanket I was swaddled in and sometimes smell it to remind myself of my mother’ isn’t going to work for this.” Just the same, he glanced back at the opening, hoping he was wrong. But the magical barrier remained. Oliver took a deep breath, searching for the truth he hid deep within himself, and said, “I shouldn’t have brushed you off, Connor, when you asked me—to be with you. For real. You wanted to court me openly, and I said nothing, I said I had to leave. But that was a lie. I didn’t want to be honest with you—with myself.” Heart in his throat and tightness in his chest, Oliver could barely breathe. The rain splattering his face obscured the tears that streamed down his cheeks. “The truth is I’m scared. I’m scared of admitting that I do want those things, I do want the forever and the public courting and everyone knowing we belong to one another, and I’m scared because I have never loved anyone as much as I love you, Connor. Not ever, not even Sky. And I thought Sky and I were Fated, once. I thought he would be my forever, and he shattered me. I didn’t—want to make myself that vulnerable to another person again. I didn’t want to risk the pain.” Oliver choked on the words. “But I do want forever, Connor. I want it with you.”
The release was sudden and decisive, like blowing out a candle flame, and the breath of it washed over Oliver. Suddenly the cave mouth was clear, open, and in the darkness of the cave, Oliver could see a shape.
He rushed forward, skidding through the mud and leaves and sliding out of control until his shoulder crashed painfully into the wall of the cave. Ignoring the pain, he fell to his knees and lifted Connor’s bound, motionless body. He was lying on his front, naked and tied with Fae ropes, his face turned outward to the wall of the cave and out of the deepest water streaming in.
With shaking hands, Oliver pressed his fingers to Connor’s neck, in the same way he had done during their last case, and felt for a pulse. A weak but steady beating pressed against his fingertips, and Oliver sobbed with relief, dragging Connor closer to him, sheltering him against Oliver’s chest, his head in the crook of Oliver’s neck. Oliver cast a series of spells in quick succession, heating Connor’s skin, breaking the bonds tying him, and shielding him from the worst of the cold air and water with whatever magic he could call to mind. He cast another few spells to check Connor’s life signs, searching for some indication of poison or injury Oliver couldn’t see. But there was nothing. Nothing but the cold in Connor’s skin and limbs, the blue of his lips, and the unconsciousness Oliver couldn’t shake him out of. But none of that mattered, just yet. He could bring people in to treat Connor. There were doctors back at Connor’s estate, and Oliver could call Healers from Nimueh’s Court if he had to.
The only thing that mattered now was Connor in Oliver’s arms.
“He’s alive,” Oliver said weakly to Donna, back in Wolf form and curled up against Connor to offer him her warmth. He breathed out the words with a hysterical kind of relief, the truth flooding through him until he couldn’t feel anything but Connor’s heartbeat against his fingers. “He’s alive.”
Chapter 19
The sky was rapidly darkening, the bright blue fading deeper, to fuchsia, mauve, and indigo. The inky blue above his was already speckled with stars, slowly winking into existence and heralding the rising Moon. He didn’t have long. Much less than an hour. He wouldn’t need much time. Or so he hoped, anyway. Whatever the outcome, it should be quick. That thought alone helped quell the jittering in Oliver’s nerves. But the churning of his stomach, seemingly filled with fluttering birds and buzzing bees, would not abate.
It was cold. The weather had turned quickly, warmer and lighter during the day, but by night the air bit at exposed skin. And so much of him was exposed. He fought the urge to shift from foot to foot, standing as he had been for almost an hour on the uneven carpet of the forest. The grass beneath his feet was lush, free of snow and wetness, but he was unused to being barefoot outside.
There were Wolves around him. Many, many Wolves. He recognized a few of them, here and there—people he’d met during the course of his two investigations in Logan’s Court. Lane was off to Oliver’s right, his wolf form a surprisingly fluffy black wolf with a reddish-brown crest. A glint of silver at his neck suggested his silver-dipped bird skull necklace remained intact when he transformed. Oliver wasn’t sure why it was important to Lane, but it clearly was. No one else had jewelry. Well, except one other Wolf.
Logan stood at the head of the pack, just behind Oliver, as it were. His Wolf form was massive—larger even than Connor’s—and black as the inky, dark night. His eyes glittered in the darkness, as though they too contained stars, and his thick, shiny fur was adorned with a gold-dipped circlet, of sorts. Woven and spiked, like the antlers of a great stag, the circlet surrounded his ears and dipped down his back. It marked him apart from all other Wolves, but he hardly needed it to stand out. Logan stood with a majesty Oliver had never seen in any other creature or person. Not even Nimueh or Maeve held themselves with quite that much height, quite that much regality. And Nimueh was a picture of majesty, herself, Oliver knew all too well.
He shivered, tiny bumps rising over his skin despite the heavy furs draped over his shoulders. The bristles of the wild wolf fur tickled at his chin and neck, only making the goose bumps worse. Oliver tried very hard not to fidget. His mind played through his words, through what he would have to do, and the nervousness coiled deeper within him. The sky grew darker still.
Where the fuck is he?
Pa
nic began to gnaw at the edges of his composure, branching into the resolve in his heart. Maybe he shouldn’t do this. Maybe it wasn’t time. Was he really ready for this? He hadn’t really thought it all through. Maybe in another couple months, after some careful deliberation and assessment of the situation, he could revisit the idea of maybe, possibly, considering to begin to plan—
But it was too late now. In the distance, between the trunks of two trees, he saw a wisp of white. It moved unevenly, in a swerving line, through the woods. A moment later, the white Wolf emerged from the perimeter of the trees, into the clearing at the base of Mount Razortooth, where the pack gathered every Full Moon. Close behind the white Wolf was his pack, a mass of fur and ears, converging on the clearing to take up their places amid the greater pack, amid their kin. The white Wolf stood at the head of his pack, head held high and his thick, downy fur glinting like silver in the dying light of the day. Oliver shivered again, but not from cold.
The white Wolf approached, so large he came up past Oliver’s waist, and stood before him. Atop his head he wore a circlet of his own, smaller and thinner than Logan’s, though still dipped in gold. The twists of gold rose up in tiny teeth, as though they were antlers not yet fully grown. Were it not for his head, cocked to one side reminiscent of a golden retriever, the white Wolf might have carried as much majesty in his presence as Logan.
As shivering on the air, shifting space and sight, and slowly the white Wolf transformed into a man. Connor stood before Oliver, his blond hair still pristinely styled around the golden circlet. Oliver had never seen it before, but knowing now that Connor was Logan’s kin, it was only logical he should have some indicator of his status. Words escaped him, taking with them his breath, as Oliver stood in the face of the reality of Connor. And the reality of what he was about to do.
“Oliver,” Connor said quietly, taking in the sight of him, nearly naked and draped in ceremonial furs. Oliver suddenly wished he hadn’t felt compelled to do this the traditional way, in front of the entire pack. “What—”
But Oliver pressed a finger to his lips, unable to let Connor speak. If Connor continued his question, finished it, Oliver might have to back out. He might make some excuse and sidestep and distance himself. And he could do none of those things. Not anymore.
Connor’s eyes flashed with mild surprise that turned bright and wide as Oliver sank down to his knees, in the centre of the circle of Wolves, at the heart of their ancestral wood, at the base of their sacred mountain. Head back, speaking more to the coming Moon than to Connor directly, Oliver tried to explain.
“I have spent most of my life running,” Oliver said, as clearly as he could. He wanted only Connor to hear him, wanted to imagine the two of them alone, but to do this properly for Connor, he needed to be heard by all the Wolves of Logan’s pack. Swallowing against his pounding heart, Oliver pressed on, “I have run from closeness and friendship, from help and support, from the pain of my past and the reality of what made me, and I have run from love. I have spent years painstakingly sealing off my heart, laying the foundations of an unassailable fort, to ensure that I could never be hurt the way I was when I was a child.” He paused, closing his eyes to breathe. The memory of his parents was still raw, still soaked in pain he couldn’t face. He let the thought go, with all of his might, and opened his eyes to Connor again. Bright blue eyes shone back at him, full of a galaxy of stars, full of hope. That is what he clung to as he continued. “But love doesn’t take the normal route, doesn’t break down walls with the normal means. I know that now.” He paused again. “I thought, a few years ago, that I knew it. I thought I was in love and that it was a love of ages. I thought I was ready for forever, meant to be, and finally opening myself to something good. But I was wrong, so very wrong, and so I closed myself again.”
Connor made a move, here, as though he meant to fall to his knees with Oliver. He reached out with one hand, an instinctual, reflexive gesture, because he knew. He knew the pain Oliver felt, then, but a tiny shake of Oliver’s head stayed him.
“I repaired the walls, rebuilt the battlements, and hardened myself to love. I decided it was for fools, for the weak, and that I would never be either of those things again. And then I met you.” Mouth pulled into a small smile, Oliver heaved a small laugh and saw it echoed on Connor’s face. “And somehow, there was love again. Insistent and urgent and completely unyielding. It was stubborn and annoying and totally inappropriate. And it was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I felt the truth of what love is—not false love, not lust or manipulation—real love. It is selfless and selfish, suffocating and full of air, light as starlight and heavy as nightfall. It is complete.” Oliver fought not to look down, not to hide his face, his burning cheeks, from the rising Moon or from Connor. He needed to lay himself bare now, here, to do this. “And it scared me. It scared me more than death and danger, more than evil or villainy. It scared me because love was already inside the walls of my fortress, already pushing out the stones and baring my heart, vulnerable and wounded, to the light of day.”
Connor’s chest was heaving deep breaths as though he’d run across the kingdom in an instant. Oliver licked his lips and hoped it was a good sign.
“I kept trying to protect myself from it, and from you, Connor,” Oliver said, his voice close to breaking now. “I kept pushing and hiding and running when I most wanted to stay. Because if the love I thought was real before wounded me so badly, I was sure that love this real, this powerful, would kill me. But coming so close to losing you—twice—made me realize I had it wrong. It wasn’t love that would kill me. It was the fear of it.” His eyes were wet now, brimming with tears he didn’t think he had in him, but Connor only reached out and gently brushed them away with his fingers. Oliver blinked slowly and gathered himself. “You asked me, only a week ago, to begin a formal courting, to make our love public to the whole world. And I ran rather than answer. Maybe it seemed too fast, or too sudden. Maybe it seemed too much. But the reality is none of those.” Oliver swallowed hard. He could barely breathe but felt lighter than he had in his living memory. “I should have told you then, but the answer is no,” Oliver said, and watched the confusion snake across Connor’s face, the jarring shrug of his expression obvious. Oliver continued quickly, intent on bringing back the hope and joy in his eyes, “because there is no need for courting. Why bother, when it’s already so clear?” Oliver’s throat went dry. “I don’t want to be your consort, Connor Pierce.”
And he pulled his hands out from beneath the furs, letting them drop behind him on the ground. Oliver kneeled naked but for a traditional leather skirt and the obsidian collar at his throat. In his open hands, palms up, he held a fine, calfskin leather collar. The edges were stitched with silver and gold thread in intricate knots representing love, loyalty, and infinity. At the centre of the collar was a set stone, carved into a diamond shape with starburst in the centre, and made of purest obsidian.
“I’d much rather be your mate,” Oliver said by way of question. He knelt there, arms outstretched, with his heart beating fast enough to cause a heart attack. He searched Connor’s face, his sparkling blue eyes, the curve of his perfect lips, and waited. Never had seconds seemed so long to Oliver, as he counted out his heartbeats. Then, just as he was sure he’d made a critical error, he watched Connor sink down to his knees and pull Oliver into a kiss tight with emotion. Oliver’s heart clenched as Connor pressed their lips together, Connor’s hand at the nape of Oliver’s neck, steady and insistent and promising never to let go. But he did, after a while. He pulled back and lifted the collar from Oliver’s hands to his own neck, fitting the clasp together behind him as he put it on.
Eyes shining and familiar smirk in place, Connor said, “I will be your mate, Oliver Worth, and you will be mine. This I promise you, in binding words and kiss, beneath the light of the Moon and before the eyes of my kin. We belong to each other.”
A laugh, full of relief and joy, broke from Oliver’s mouth. He threw his a
rms around Connor and pulled him into another kiss, deepening it with haste, desperate to taste his betrothed. His betrothed.
All around them, the night erupted into howls and yips, the Wolves of the circle calling out to the Moon, crying in celebration and swarming inward to greet the new couple with blessings and favours. Oliver found himself on the ground, pressed down beneath the insistence of delighted nuzzles and licks, his face and chest suddenly sopping with Wolf kisses. He laughed, though he never would have imagined himself here, and let the Wolves of Logan’s Court welcome him and Connor in their promise to be joined.
In a sudden jerk and reversal, Oliver found himself lifted on to the back of one of the larger Wolves, one of Connor’s pack, it seemed, as Connor got to his feet, a grin on his face lighting the whole clearing.
“To the Hunt!” he cried out, signaling the start of the Full Moon. But before he transformed, he turned back to Oliver. “Hold on tight. You’ll be coming with me.”
Eyes widening, Oliver opened his mouth to decline, but Connor had already shifted back to his white Wolf form and the Wolf atop whom Oliver was sitting managed to shuffle him on to Connor’s back instead. Oliver gazed around desperately, looking for a way to hold on and maintain some dignity, or just hold on and not die under the paws of a thousand Werewolves. His eyes caught sight, in the distance, of a small group of Wolves cut off from the rest of the celebration. One Wolf stared him down, dark angled eyes piercing through Oliver’s bubble of happiness. The Wolf’s black fur was as silky and thick as Logan’s, a shining golden drop hanging from its ear, and Oliver thought he knew who it was. Nadia.
