by Lyra Evans
Connor bolted forward, and Oliver was jerked back to his precarious position straddling Connor’s back, the corded muscles of Connor’s back flexing and shifting beneath Oliver’s weight. Oli threw himself forward, gripping tightly to Connor’s neck, but—hopefully—not tightly enough to choke him. Connor didn’t seem to mind as he raced ahead into the trees and the call of night. And Oliver forgot everything else but the feel of Connor with him, the wind in his hair, and the liberating joy of the Hunt.
Epilogue
Daylight broke early, the winter finally, truly giving way to spring. The air was warmer than it should have been, but still Oliver held the fur blanket around his naked shoulders. Barefoot in the grass, he decided he was growing accustomed to the feel of nature on his bare skin. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe he could do this again sometime. Be free with nature.
But as he looked out on the ground of the small clearing, the little copse of trees, he decided that he’d never do that here. Not on this spot.
The centre of the clearing was marked by dead and dying grass. A blot of black and brown, tinged with red, against the otherwise lush, healthy green of the forest floor. There were splatters on the bark of some of the trees. It showed more on the maple, its bark not as rough as the firs. The dark brown stains only vaguely reminiscent of the red they once were. But it smelled of iron. The earth did not forget. Not when so much was spilled here.
A hand on his shoulder, and Oliver turned his head to find Connor, only partially clothed and just as thoughtful in expression as he was. Connor pressed a kiss to Oliver’s lips, and Oliver reveled in it for a moment. When they pulled apart, Oliver’s eyes lingered on the sight of the leather collar against Connor’s milky white skin. The obsidian stone in the centre caught little rays of sunlight and reflected dots of brightness against the darkened tree trunks.
“Last night was fun,” Connor said, smirking again. Oliver traced the edges of his upturned mouth with his eyes. There was nothing like Connor’s smirk, nothing so gorgeous. Except maybe Connor dazed and properly bedded. “Logan seems very fond of you.”
Oliver nodded. “Now,” he said with a laugh. “He was all stone-faced and terse when I went to ask him for his blessing. Don’t think I’ve ever been so close to soiling myself.”
Connor laughed, deep and throaty, and gathered Oliver into his arms. “He has to be like that. Alphas can’t appear too approachable or they would get challenged every other day.” Oliver made a face.
“You’re approachable,” Oliver said, and Connor tilted his head to the side.
“I’m not Alpha of all Logan’s Court, yet,” he said.
Mouth slightly agape, Oliver asked, “Yet? You mean you will be one day?”
“That’s the plan,” Connor said. “I’ve always wanted to be Alpha. Once I’m ready. When I’m strong enough, I might challenge Logan. Or, if he chooses to step down, or falls, Moon forbid, I would step up and take on any challengers.”
Silence fell around them for a moment while Oliver absorbed Connor’s words. “And can you still do that? With—” he stopped, unable to finish—me?
Connor nuzzled against his neck. “Yes,” Connor said. “The entire pack welcomed you last night. You are kin now, in every way that matters.”
Oliver smiled despite the unease in his gut. “Not the entire pack.”
Connor stepped away slightly to better see Oliver’s face. “Who?”
“Nadia and her gang,” Oliver said. “They didn’t look happy.” The way Nadia’s Wolf eyes cut into him last night still stuck with Oliver.
Connor, however, seemed unconcerned. “She’s still upset about the wake. She disgraced herself.” Connor shook his head. “Nadia is of Logan’s kin, of my kin. She’s ambitious. Almost as ambitious as I am, I think. And Logan loves her. But she’s impatient. Not ready to be Alpha yet. She could be—when she learns to slow down and not react as brashly as she does. She’ll be a great leader. She can take over my pack, I think.” He pressed a soft kiss to the skin of Oliver’s neck. “But I don’t think Nadia is what you’re really thinking about.”
Oliver smiled again, his hands on Connor’s forearms, holding them in place against Oliver’s middle. His eyes, however, shifted back to the centre of the copse, the dark mark against the ground. “This was all my fault,” Oliver said, words rushing out in a flurry.
“Don’t say that,” Connor said. “It was nobody’s fault but his.” They didn’t speak his name now; Oliver didn’t want to keep him alive in anyway, least of all in memory.
“Still,” he said, “I never meant it to end like this.” He nodded to the centre of the clearing. When Donna and Oliver had returned with Connor, Rance had informed them that Sky was gone. They’d killed him, they said. Tore him apart until there was nothing left but blood and bits of skin. Oliver had wanted to know, wanted to be sure. Sky had apparently managed to take a couple Wolves with him, shooting his silver bullets wildly into the assaulting pack.
“He did,” Connor said. “He always meant it to end in blood. Just not his own.” He held Oliver closely, and Oliver thought he understood the undercurrent of fear in Connor’s grasp. He felt it too. As though this was a stolen dream, as though Oliver and Connor were both still lost in the chaotic mess of Sky’s plans. “Maybe we should plant a tree there or something. To blot out the black mark.”
Oliver shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t want anything at all to mark the place he fell. I came here this morning to say goodbye, to close that door of my life. When I turn around, I never want to think of him again.” A deep breath and a nod, and Oliver turned his back on the copse, all thoughts of his ex fading like sea foam in the surf. He smiled at Connor. The collar at Connor’s throat glinted, the obsidian stone in the centre reflecting the early light. Oliver touched it with his fingertips; it had cost him nearly all his savings to buy. But it felt right—that they should both have obsidian to bind them. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.” He pressed a long kiss to Connor’s lips. “Let’s go celebrate some more.”
Worth the Wait
Lyra Evans
Chapter 1
It was nearly dusk. The sky was smearing to a wash of pinks and purples, the inky night spreading downward slowly to snuff out the sun for another cycle. It was going to be a darker night than usual. The night of the new moon, or as Oliver had come to learn, the night of Black Moon, was the second most spiritual night for a Werewolf, behind only the Full Moon. On the night of Black Moon, their Wolf nature was at its furthest from reach, and the Wolves of Logan’s Court were at their most Human.
It was only in such a vulnerable state that they felt fit to make the most sacred and meaningful of bonds. So Oliver waited in the woods, caped in a fine silken cloth so thin it was nearly transparent, for the Black Moon to rise. The cape was fastened lightly to the obsidian collar around his neck, and all along the fabric sparkled tiny gemstones and jewels, making the cloak glimmer and glow like a clear night sky. He made it himself, weaving the magic into the threads with care, because it was required of him. Werewolf bonding ceremonies demanded it. And it meant he could bring some of Nimueh’s Court with him.
“Stop fidgeting,” Rory scolded from behind him. “Do you have any idea what I traded to get your hair to stay like that for tonight?” She fussed at the tips of his unruly locks, her long, painted nails scraping gently at his scalp.
“You actually used Fae magic to do my hair?” Oli asked, quirking an eyebrow at her. He couldn’t help the fidgeting though. His heart was pounding in his chest, and the fading light brought with it a cool breeze that raised bumps on his skin. He wore only pants beneath the cloak, also made by hand, though they were of a slightly more substantial cotton. He shifted from foot to naked foot on the soft grass.
“Oli, your hair is a rat’s nest on the best of days,” she said, turning her attention instead to her own hair. It was a bright turquoise that melted into dandelion yellow at the tips and pinned in curls that looked both exquisite and effortl
ess. “I had to trade in one of my future good hair days, I’ll have you know. And those are worth more than sapphires to me, so you better appreciate it!” She pinched him as she said this, and Oliver squeaked embarrassingly before patting at his own hair. Would Connor like this flattened, styled look? Oliver felt more nervous now than ever, thinking about how unlike him the hairdo felt.
“I just don’t see why you needed to do anything to it, anyway,” Oliver said, glancing down the path ahead of him. In the distance, he saw the clearing at the base of Mount Razortooth. There most of Connor’s pack was gathered, all in Human form, seated on benches of fallen logs coated in moss and stones hewn from the caves inside the mountain. Above them, though he couldn’t see it now, was a glittering, clear dome of magic protecting the clearing for the possibility of changing weather. It shone a very faint light, lending only the barest illumination to the area. At the edges of the trees, strung from branches and looped between limbs, were fine golden strings dotted with stones. Topaz and garnet and jade all sparkled like floating pixies, tethering the shield spell around the pack. They were for protection of all kinds and meant to endure. But Oliver didn’t expect any trouble.
Connor said the clearing was the most sacred place in all of Logan’s Court, and a bonding ceremony was so meaningful, so vulnerable and full of love, not a Wolf in all the Court’s history would consider disrupting it. So Oliver calmed himself, contented himself with the tiny gemstones as protection, and tried not to think of all the possible intruders who weren’t of Logan’s Court.
“Oliver, this is your bonding day,” Rory said. She wore a dress of blue-green that floated around her like sea foam. Everything about her appearance today called to mind a mermaid. “You only get one. You’ve got to look your best.” She shrugged. “Plus, you’re mating Connor Pierce, Alpha of Logan’s kin, and possibly the next Alpha of all Logan’s Court. This is kind of a big deal. There are going to be pictures.”
Oliver’s throat went dry. For two months planning the ceremony, he’d managed to avoid thinking about it. For two months, he’d somehow managed to live in denial about just how much his mating Connor actually meant. Not just for him, but for the Courts of Logan and Nimueh, for Wizard-Werewolf relations, for Connor’s pack, for everyone. He’d unwittingly proposed an inter-kingdom union, a political event, and all this after knowing Connor only a few months.
We are Fated. The love we share was written in the stars and lives there forever. Walking this path is walking that one. The one to my future.
Oliver had been chanting things like that much of the last week, managing to distract himself from the panic and stress building in his stomach and throat only by looking to Connor, beautiful and calm and collected. He was everything, now, and Oliver felt slightly awed at that fact. Connor soothed Oliver’s stupid little fears and insecurities.
You just need to see him now. Once you see his face, everything will be all right.
A chirping at Rory’s left ear drew Oliver’s attention. A tiny green bird hovered by her head and seemed to be talking to her. Oliver blinked several times, giving her a pointed, questioning look. Rory simply nodded at the bird, completely unfazed by its presence, then opened her palm to it. It landed in the centre, and Rory closed her hand on it, disappearing the bird in a blink.
“What the hell was that?” Oli asked. Rory looked up with a bright smile.
“Do you like it?” she asked. “I’m testing out this new product for a friend. She calls it Tweeter or something. It’s a more secure form of messaging, instantaneous, and can’t be tracked! Plus they’re super cute. It’s a good way to communicate with protected sources for articles. You know, whistleblowers and people reporting possibly traitorous things. The usual.” Rory was a political reporter for The Banshee, Maeve’s Court’s most prestigious magazine. She also wrote as a guest columnist for the Daily Spell in Nimueh’s Court.
“I somehow don’t think a twittering green bird popping up by your ear really counts as covert,” Oli said under his breath, and Rory happily ignored him. “What was the message?”
“Oh, they’re ready,” she said, as though his bonding was now an afterthought to the new technology. “We should be getting in there.”
Oliver blinked at her, deadpanned, before shaking his head and taking a deep breath. There was nothing left but to walk, to step forward to meet Connor before the foot of the mountain, to make their bonding real, true, permanent. For a moment he was unable to move. His feet felt planted in the ground, like the ancient trees around him, rooted to the spot. The panic flaring at the back of his mind was suddenly real and tangible and burning hot. But at the other end of the clearing, just at the horizon of his vision, he saw a bright, blond head approaching. And all in an instant, the panic was gone, and Oliver was moving forward.
Grass crunched softly beneath his bare feet, tickling at his ankles under his pants. He held his head aloft, proud, displaying the obsidian collar he wore, his eyes never leaving Connor. The distance between them closed slowly, steadily, and Oliver noticed the others present only in the periphery. Donna walked behind Connor, her long black hair pulled up in a braid tugged out to look like a Mohawk; she was Connor’s witness and second, his tether for the binding, the living vessel to bear the bonding to see it to completion. Rory walked behind Oliver for the same reason, to serve as his witness and second.
They walked up from the trees on opposite sides of the clearing, coming together at the front of the gathered pack, before the outcropped stone on which Logan usually stood before the Full Moon’s Hunt. Mount Razortooth bore down on them from here, anchoring their world to the world of the Moon and stars. It was their connection to the magical, the soul of every Wolf.
Though the gathered crowd was mostly Werewolf, Rory’s parents were also present to honour Oliver and Connor. They were the closest thing Oli had to family, outside of Connor. And though Connor said the pack was now Oliver’s family, Oli thought that the Birches were always going to be like parents to him. It had been so long since he’d had parents of his own, he could barely remember their faces. Instead of his mother and father, he saw the distorted faces of the Birches in his mind, as though they had melded with the people Oliver’s parents might have been.
Shaking away the thought, the sadness of the memory, Oliver swallowed hard and let himself look deep into Connor’s eyes finally. The bright blue of his irises was rimmed in kohl and shaded upward, fading beneath his eyebrows. His hair was swept cleanly as usual, bearing the weight of a thin golden circlet. Wrought like twigs and antlers rising up from his head, the circlet was a symbol of Connor’s royal blood and his position in the pack. Oliver let his gaze wander back down, needing to ground himself in Connor, in the realness of him as the man, not the Alpha. At his neck was the collar Oliver had given him, finely crafted leather soft as cream and adorned with a single, engraved obsidian stone in the centre. The starburst pattern in the centre was meant to be Connor, the shining star to Oliver’s road. The obsidian stone had cost Oliver nearly all his savings to pay for, but it felt right. That they should share in the stone, wearing it forever as a mark of their bonding, wasn’t a decision Oliver made. It just was.
Beyond the collar, Connor wore a cape of thick bear fur, heaving and uneven, draped over his shoulders and held in place by his collar alone. His chest was a bare expanse of milky smooth skin, stretching forever beneath Oliver’s gaze. It was marred only by the slightest blush of a bruise peeking out at Connor’s left hip. Finally, he wore pants of a soft calf-skin, his feet bare as Oliver’s. Heart pumping fast but steadily, Oliver took deep, calculated breaths, his mouth spreading in a smile he couldn’t control.
Connor smirked back, slightly crooked, his eyes full of joy. He leaned in slightly, eying Oli’s hair, and whispered, “I think I’m going to have to kill Rory.” Oliver quirked his eyebrows in question, his cheeks flushing slightly. Was it that bad? “She’s bent on ruining me. I want to bury my fingers in your hair so badly I almost jumped you from acros
s the clearing.”
Oliver let out a shallow, quiet laugh, and offered his hand to Connor as he was instructed to do. Connor took it, his palm warm and dry against Oliver’s slightly sweaty skin. Then Connor offered his other hand to Oliver, and Oliver took it. Slowly, they interlaced their fingers, stepping toward one another until there was barely a breath of air between them. Their hands were clasped upward, held near Oliver’s chin and Connor’s chest, forearms pressed tightly together. Oliver felt the rough edges of a healing scratch on Connor’s right forearm. He’d have to ask about it later.
“We stand before the sky and stars, before the Shaded Moon, to declare ourselves as one. We stand before family, before all those to whom we’re tied, to make physical the bond between us, to weave our souls together and forsake singularity. We stand before the Mountain, connecting us to the Pack of Eternity, to vow to one another we shall be true, together, united for life and bonded forever to run the wild wood of the Eternal Night.”
They spoke each word together, each syllable in sync as though they were already one. A shiver ran down Oliver’s back, settling in his belly and drawing from him a breathy gasp. Between them he felt a pull, as though an invisible cord emerged from Oliver and buried itself deep in Connor. As they spoke, it grew stronger, brighter in Oliver’s mind, and his grip on Connor’s hands tightened. He knew it was only the beginning of the ceremony, that the actual bonding had not yet begun, but the dragging feeling in his core, like a magnet relentlessly urging him toward Connor, made him giddy and breathless.
“In the name of the Moon and stars, in the name of the Endless Sky and Unchanging Wood, we present ourselves as anchors, may the bond between Oliver Worth and Connor Pierce be given life and forged into indestructible magic through us, their most loyal and most devoted. We stand as witnesses to this bonding, and as the mediums for it.”
