CHAPTER ELEVEN: Moonlight

X x x x x 

I was standing somewhere high.

That was the first thing I knew.

Not where. Not how I had arrived there. Only the height. The way the air thinned as I breathed it in, cool and sharp, sliding into my lungs too easily. Too cleanly.

Moonlight washed over everything.

Not silver. Not white.

Pale. Distant. Like light that had traveled too far to remember warmth.

The ground beneath my feet was smooth stone. Wide. Endless. I could not see an edge, but I knew one existed. The certainty sat heavy in my chest, quiet and unarguable.

‘Don’t move.’

The thought did not feel like fear.

It felt like instruction.

I looked down.

The world below was dark. Vast. Empty in a way that made my stomach tighten. No trees. No buildings. No stars to orient myself. Just depth.

If I stepped forward, I would fall.

The idea did not frighten me.

It intrigued me.

I lifted my head.

Someone stood behind me.

I did not hear him approach. He was simply there, as if the space had reshaped itself to include him. Taller than the night. Taller than the air. His presence bent the moonlight slightly, warping it around his silhouette.

I did not need to turn to know who it was.

My body already knew.

The certainty settled deep in my chest, quiet and undeniable.

He did not touch me. He did not speak. He stood close enough that I could feel him anyway, heat bleeding through the cool air, steady and grounding. The pressure in my chest shifted.

Not easing.

Not tightening.

Aligning.

I realized then that I was breathing easily.

That should have unsettled me.

It did not.

Moonlight slid across his shoulders. Across his chest. Across his face, which remained indistinct, as if the dream refused to give me details I was not ready to hold. I knew his shape. His height. The way the space around him felt anchored.

I was aware of my own size in comparison.

Small.

Not fragile.

Just… small.

He lifted a hand.

Not toward me.

Toward the space between us.

The air responded.

I felt it immediately. A pull, gentle but undeniable, like something inside me recognizing a path it had been searching for. Warmth stirred beneath my ribs, spreading outward in a slow wave.

I inhaled sharply.

The pressure inside my chest shifted again.

Not pain.

Not relief.

Balance.

His hand hovered, palm open, fingers relaxed. He was not taking.

He was allowing.

‘This is wrong,’ a distant part of me thought.

Another part answered, calm and certain.

‘This is inevitable.’

The ground beneath my feet began to slope.

Not steeply. Gradually.

A subtle tilt that my body adjusted to without thought. I remained upright, balanced, as if the height itself was holding me in place.

He stepped closer.

The moonlight brightened.

I felt taller.

Not physically.

Internally.

As if something inside me was rising to meet him instead of shrinking.

‘Don’t,’ I thought, unsure what I was warning myself against.

He lowered his hand.

The moment his fingers brushed the air near my chest, the warmth surged.

Too much.

My breath caught. My vision blurred at the edges, moonlight fracturing into pale fragments that shimmered and broke apart. The ground tilted further.

I wavered.

His hand closed.

Not on my wrist.

On my hand.

The contact was instant.

Everything stilled.

The height stopped mattering. The darkness below faded. The world narrowed to the point where our hands met, heat flowing cleanly and without resistance.

My breathing slowed.

So did his.

I became aware of a sound beneath everything else.

A low, steady rhythm.

Not my heartbeat.

Not his.

Something deeper.

Older.

The moonlight shifted, brightening just enough for me to see him more clearly.

His face was unfamiliar.

And yet my chest hurt the moment I looked at him.

Recognition without memory.

He was beautiful in a way that did not invite admiration. The kind that made the air feel thinner, like standing too close to something vast. Moonlight traced the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the stillness in his posture.

Everything about him felt deliberate.

Unmoved.

I did not know who he was.

But my heart reacted as if it had always known.

The ache tightened suddenly, sharp and quiet, pressing inward like something trying to surface.

‘Why does he feel so familiar?’

The moonlight pulsed once.

Then the ground vanished.

I was falling.

Not down.

Inward.

The sensation rushed through me all at once, sudden and consuming, like stepping into warm water without testing the depth. Heat flooded my chest, my limbs, my spine. The world blurred, moonlight stretching into pale streaks as the distance between us widened.

I reached out instinctively.

My fingers closed on nothing.

He did not move.

He stood where he was, tall and still, watching me fall away from him.

His eyes met mine.

And something in them broke.

Devastation.

The sight of it hurt more than the fall.

‘Why does he look like that?’

He did not reach for me.

Not because he would not.

But because he could not.

The realization struck cold and precise, stealing my breath. His jaw tightened. His hand curled slowly at his side, as if gripping something invisible.

He was watching something slip beyond his reach.

And for some reason I could not name, my heart reacted as if it were my fault.

The fall slowed.

Not gently.

Reluctantly.

As if the world itself resisted letting me go.

Then everything stopped.

The warmth did not vanish all at once.

X x x x x

I opened my eyes.

I was lying in bed.

My breath filled my ears, fast and uneven. The sheets were damp beneath my palms, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. Heat radiated from my chest outward, lingering and restless, like embers that had not finished cooling.

Moonlight spilled across the floor.

Real moonlight.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

I swallowed and sat up slowly. My body felt heavy but not weak. Alert. Warm. Awake.

I wiped a hand across my forehead.

Damp.

Sweat cooled quickly against my skin, raising a faint chill along my spine. I drew in a deeper breath, testing myself.

It went smoothly.

No tightness.

No pressure.

‘That wasn’t just a dream.’

The thought lingered, unwelcome and impossible to dismiss.

I glanced toward the door.

It was still closed.

The room looked the same as before. Narrow bed. Small table. Basin untouched.

And yet—

The air felt different.

Charged.

Held.

Like the space itself remembered something I had not.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pressed my bare feet to the stone floor. Cool. Solid. Real. The contrast grounded me fully in wakefulness.

My chest tightened faintly.

Not pain.

Anticipation.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

I flinched.

The sound was gentle, but it cut through the quiet like a blade. I stared at the door, heart thudding once, then settling.

Footsteps shifted outside.

Then the door opened.

The older servant stood there, lantern held low at her side. Her face was calm, expression unreadable in the dim light. Her gaze flicked briefly over me, taking in my damp hair, my flushed skin, my upright posture.

She did not comment.

“Wake up,” she said.

Her voice was even.

Not unkind.

Not warm.

“From now on,” she continued, “you are in charge of the Alpha’s breakfast.”