I let him walk. As the last of the soil covered Nyra’s coffin, I swore to the Moon—I would never forgive him.
Lyssa had taken everything from me. She left Brexon once, choosing another male over him. When that male fell in battle, she came back, crawling for all he had—his power, his territory, his daughter, my life. And Brexon—blind, foolish, heartless—had let her.
***
I lingered until the Moon reached its zenith. The graveyard lay silent, the only sound the wind rustling through ghost-oaks. My legs ached, my body soaked and numb, yet I could not move.
Memories swarmed me, drowning me in what I had lost.
Brexon.
He used to be a loving mate, even with the curse of leadership weighing on his shoulders. I remembered the night rogues kidnapped me. The rough ropes biting into my wrists. The snarls and laughter of wolves who thought they could use me to break an Alpha.
Then—howls. Snapping bones. Screams.
And Brexon.
He tore through them alone, silver eyes blazing with feral rage. His wolf fought without hesitation—fangs tearing, claws slashing until the clearing was painted red. When the last body fell, he shifted, running to me.
“Were you harmed?” he asked, voice hoarse, trembling as he cupped my face.
I shook my head, tears slipping between us.
He pulled me close, chest warm and solid. “I would raze every territory, burn every rival clan, for you, Arwen.”
A broken sob escaped me.
He had meant it once.
Then, another memory rose: the healer’s lodge. Brexon, wrapped in bandages, wounded by silver arrow while shielding me. Yet, even then, he had smiled.
“I cannot wait any longer,” he murmured, producing a small velvet box beneath his cloak. His fingers trembled, but the Moonstone ring within shimmered.
“Brexon—” I gasped.
“Be my mate,” he whispered.
“You’re wounded. We’re in the healer’s hut.”
He broke into that sly, arrogant grin. “Are you going to deny a dying Alpha?”
“Don’t be silly.” I laughed through the tears. “You are nothing close to dying.”
“Then be my Luna,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Because whatever storms come, you belong to me, Arwen.”
Memories pounced upon me like hunting wolves.
The night Nyra was born. Brexon paced outside the birthing den, growling at anyone approaching. And then, when he held her for the first time, the world shifted.
“My little moonbean,” he whispered. “Perfect, isn’t she?”
I had never seen him weep before, but that night, his eyes shone.