Chapter Twenty-Five

The door slammed hard enough to shake the walls.

Julian’s head lifted slowly. Elara stood at the doorway, chest rising and falling, fury simmering just beneath her skin. The air in the room shifted—heavy with her scent: anger, fear, and the faint edge of desperation.

“Who is she, Julian?” She demanded, voice sharp but trembling at the edges. “I knew it. I knew you were fucking someone else.”

Julian didn’t move. He sat back on the leather sofa, jaw working, the muscle in it ticking once before he exhaled through his nose.

“You don’t understand what you think you heard,” he said finally—quiet, level, controlled.

The words landed between them like a challenge, and for a moment, she simply stared. Then she let out a small, humorless laugh, brushing her hair back from her face. “No, I understand perfectly,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You’ve been acting different lately. But I see it now—the distance, the tension. You’ve been drowning in guilt, that’s all.”

He said nothing. That silence—calm, unreadable—only confirmed everything she needed it to.

“It’s fine, Julian. You’re under pressure; the ceremony’s close, everyone’s expectations are on you. I get it. It was just… a moment of weakness. You’re a man, after all.”

Julian’s gaze tracked her as she began pacing the room, her heels clicking against the tile, the sound sharp in the silence. His expression gave her nothing—no apology, no denial. Just quiet restraint. The kind that made her fill the space herself.

“We’ll get through this,” she continued, turning back toward him. “Once we mark and mate, everything will fall into place. You’ll see. This—whatever it was—won’t matter. She won’t matter.”

Julian didn’t move. His wolf stirred beneath his skin, a low, lethal growl rolling through him, but he forced it down. On the surface, he was still as stone.

“I forgive you,” she whispered, as though the words were a gift. Her smile trembled, brittle around the edges. “Because I know you love me. You wouldn’t throw everything away for a distraction. You’re mine, Julian. And soon, everyone will know it.”

The wolf snarled in disgust as the scent of her resolve sharpened, threatening to slip the tenuous leash he kept clamped so tightly—but he stayed silent.

Elara forced a bright, practiced smile, the perfect picture of composure—the Luna she’s convinced herself she already is.

“Six days,” she said softly. “And everything will be right again.”

The door clicked shut behind her, the sound far too gentle for the storm she’d left behind.

Julian sat motionless, staring at the space she’d just occupied. The faint trace of her perfume lingered in the air—dense and suffocating. But it wasn’t what clung to him.

It was her words.

She won’t matter.

They echoed in his mind like a curse.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, dragging both hands down his face. It would be so easy if that were true.

If Kaelani didn’t matter. If the memory of her touch didn’t burn through him every time he closed his eyes. If he could forget the dreams that still haunted the edges of his consciousness—the ones that felt too vivid to be imagination.

He could still see her, standing in that red dress. Satin that caught the light like fire, hugging every line of her body. Her hair swept up, a few loose strands falling around her beautiful face. And those lips—painted red like cherries, soft as sin—parted just slightly as she’d looked up at him.

His chest tightened.

He could still feel the phantom weight of her against him, her scent on his skin, the ghost of her breath when she’d leaned in…

Julian sat back, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling until the ache dulled enough for him to breathe again.

She won’t matter.

He almost laughed at the irony.

Because she already did.

—-

The following afternoon, the garden was a riot of color and motion. Florists and attendants moved briskly between the hedges, their arms full of cream-colored roses and silver-leaf garlands. Elara drifted among them like a queen already crowned, her form moving with calculated grace across the stone path as she pointed to one table, then another.

Julian followed a few paces behind, hands in his pockets, the sun catching the gold in his hair. He nodded when she spoke, agreed when she looked his way, but his mind was nowhere near the blooms or the altar arch being constructed at the far end of the courtyard.

He couldn’t even remember half of what she’d said—something about the seating chart, the shade of ribbon for the centerpieces, the exact placement of the ceremonial torches. He murmured, “Whatever you think is best,” more than once, the words automatic, hollow.

The hum of voices blurred into background noise, and when Elara turned to consult the event coordinator, Julian drifted. His feet carried him down a narrower path lined with white hydrangeas until the noise dulled behind him.

A marble bench waited beneath the shade of a sprawling willow. He sat, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the small pond beyond the hedge where sunlight fractured on the water’s surface. The reflection wavered—green, gold, red—and for a moment he saw a flash of crimson satin instead of petals, a memory he couldn’t banish.

He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The air smelled of roses and cut grass, but all he could think of was burnt sugar and honey.

“May I join you?”

His mother’s voice broke gently through the haze.

Julian lifted his head. She stood at the end of the path, composed as ever, a faint smile softening her features.

He gestured to the open space beside him. “Of course.”

Julian’s mother sat gracefully beside him, smoothing her skirt before folding her hands in her lap. For a moment, neither spoke. The breeze whispered through the willow leaves, scattering petals across the gravel path.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said finally, her tone soft but pointed. “Even for you.”

Julian’s mouth pulled into a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You sound like Father.”

“I sound like a mother,” she corrected, turning slightly toward him. “One who knows when her son is carrying something heavy.”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the pond. “There’s always something to carry.”

“Yes, but not everything weighs the same.” She studied him, her gaze tender yet sharp. “This… feels different.”

He didn’t answer. His jaw worked once, a flicker of muscle betraying the tension beneath his calm. She followed his gaze toward the water, where a lone red petal floated across the mirrored surface.

“Do you remember when you were little,” she began quietly, “and you found that wounded bird near the stables? You carried it home, tried to nurse it back to health, wouldn’t let anyone touch it.” Her smile was wistful. “Your father told you to let it go. But you refused.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed faintly, unsure where she was going.

“You’ve always had a heart that wants to fix what’s broken,” she said. “But not everything is meant to be mended. Some things are meant to be understood… and then set free.”

He drew a slow breath, leaning back against the bench. “You think I’m holding onto something.”

“I think something’s holding onto you,” she replied simply. “And I think, whatever it is, it’s tearing you in two.”

Julian’s throat bobbed. For once, he didn’t argue.

Julian’s mother watched him a moment longer, eyes glinting with something knowing. “Your father mentioned,” she began carefully, “that you asked him about fated mates the other day.”

Julian’s head tilted, but he didn’t look at her.

Her tone softened, but her gaze stayed sharp. “Should I take that to mean you’ve started wondering if there might be someone out there, someone more suitable for you than… that woman?”

Julian’s jaw tensed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said after a long pause. His voice was quiet, even—too even.

She hummed softly, a sound that wasn’t quite agreement. “Perhaps not,” she said. “But the heart rarely listens to what the mind insists doesn’t matter.”

That landed between them like a truth neither could look directly at.

Julian’s mother’s eyes softened, their reflection flickering in the pond’s still surface. “You know,” she said quietly, “I met my fated mate once.”

Julian’s head turned, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stoicism.

She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that holds both memory and ache. “He was a Beta. Steady, kind. He made me laugh. For a time, I thought I would give it all up—the politics, the expectations, the alliances. I would’ve followed him anywhere.”

She drew in a slow breath, exhaling through her nose. “But your grandfather… he saw things differently. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘should my daughter settle for a Beta when she could be mated to the Alpha heir of the Blackthorn pack? When she could be a Luna.’”

Her hand brushed absently across the bench beside her, fingertips tracing the small cracks in the stone. “So here I am,” she finished softly, turning her gaze toward the gardens that stretched in full, immaculate bloom. “Luna of the Blackthorn pack. I have everything I could ever want.”

“Do you?” He asked gently.

Her brow furrowed just slightly.

He leaned forward, voice low. “You’re bonded to Father. You don’t feel anything for your fated mate anymore, right? Isn’t that… how it works?”

She smiled, wistful and sad all at once. “I love your father,” she said softly. “With all my heart.”

She turned to him then, and he could see it—the flicker of something ancient in her eyes, something she’d buried long ago. “But the soul,” she murmured, “the soul will always remember who it truly belonged to.”

The breeze stirred the garden around them, carrying the faint scent of roses and something older—like memory itself. She reached out and brushed a hand through his hair, the gesture tender, almost aching, before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

She rose to her feet, her skirt whispering against the stone as she walked away, quiet and graceful, leaving him alone in the hush of the garden and the echo of words he couldn’t unhear.

Julian stayed seated, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. The imprint of her kiss lingered cool against his forehead.

The soul always remembers who it truly belonged to.

The words wouldn’t leave him. They looped through his mind, quiet and merciless, until his chest felt too tight to breathe.

He raked a hand through his hair, leaning back against the bench, eyes fixed on nothing. The breeze carried the faint scent of roses and damp earth, but all he could smell was her—honey, cinnamon, and something he still couldn’t name. Something that made his wolf stir restlessly beneath his skin.

Maybe his mother was right—maybe the soul remembered—but what if the soul was wrong? What if what he wanted and what was expected of him could never exist in the same world?

His wolf didn’t care for logic. It only cared that every beat of his heart still echoed her name.

Julian drew in a deep breath and exhaled slow, steady, controlled—the way he’d been trained to do since childhood. By the time he opened his eyes again, the Alpha mask was firmly back in place.

He had a ceremony to plan.

A Luna to honor.

A life already written for him.

He told himself that was enough. That it had to be enough.

He’d already ruined everything anyway. Kaelani hated him—wanted nothing to do with him. And maybe it was for the best. They lived in two different worlds, worlds where the other didn’t belong.

Still… the memory wouldn’t let him go.

That morning after the rut. The quiet before dawn. Her body warm against his, his arms wrapped around her like she belonged there. For one impossible heartbeat, he’d thought he could stay like that forever.

Then reality struck. The weight of his name, his title, his carefully built world crashing down all at once. Panic clawed through him—not because of her, but because of everything that came with her. What the council would say. What his father would think.

He’d reached for the mind-link before he could stop himself, summoning Jace, forcing the morning into something cold and procedural. But sometimes he wondered—if he had just waited… if he had let her wake and looked her in the eye… told her they’d figure it out together—

Would it have changed anything?

He remembered the way she’d looked at him the last time they spoke—cold, uncompromising, done—she made sure he knew it. He’d broken something in her he couldn’t fix, and maybe this was the price of it.

Maybe the life waiting for him in five days was his punishment—

for failing to recognize a gift when it was right in his arms.

Julian leaned back against the bench, the question echoing through him like a wound that refused to close.