Moonbound Heart Saga: Shadowed Veil (Book Two)

The forest had never been so quiet.

For the first time in generations, no cries echoed from the mountains, no silver fire burned across the ridges. The wind that swept through Silverveil carried only the scent of pine, river, and the promise of spring.

Peace, Collin thought, shouldn’t feel so heavy.

From his perch on the balcony overlooking the valley, he could see the rebuilding work below — wolves in human form stacking timber, repairing fences, reweaving the wards that guarded their home. The allied packs had begun to depart one by one. Only a few Frostfang scouts remained to the north, and Ironclaw’s patrols still shadowed the west border out of loyalty — or guilt.

He should have felt proud. Instead, something in his chest twisted like a rope wound too tight.

Inside, Baylee laughed.

The sound cut through him like sunlight breaking fog. He turned — and there she was.

Wrapped in a loose gray sweater, hair still damp from her morning bath, Baylee stood barefoot near the fire, a mug of tea in her hand. Her cheeks had color again. Her eyes, still ringed faintly in silver from the Veil’s mark, caught the light when she smiled.

“You’re hovering again,” she said without turning.

He blinked. “I’m not hovering.”

“You’re absolutely hovering.”

“I’m watching the valley.”

“From the same spot you’ve stood for the last three mornings?” She glanced at him over her shoulder, brow arched. “Collin, the valley isn’t going anywhere.”

He crossed his arms. “And if it does, you’ll thank me for noticing first.”

She rolled her eyes but the smile stayed. “You’re insufferable.”

He moved closer. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing his forehead to the curve of her neck. She sighed, soft but content, letting herself lean against him for a moment before pulling back.

“Careful,” she murmured, touching her stomach. “You’ll make the pup jealous.”

Collin smiled — small, disbelieving, still a little stunned every time he remembered that their child existed. “They’ll learn to share.”

“Not from you,” she teased.

“Baylee—”

She smirked, and he lost the argument before it started.

---

Days passed like that — slow and quiet, their routines wrapping around each other like vines. Baylee’s strength returned faster than Melody predicted. Each sunrise found her walking a little farther down the stone path toward the river. The wolves watched her with reverence, whispering blessings as she passed.

The first week she protested it. By the second, she’d learned to smile and nod instead of fighting it. “They act like I’m sacred,” she muttered one morning. “I’m just tired.”

Collin had squeezed her hand. “You’re both.”

But peace didn’t erase the old instincts.

He woke most nights at the faintest sound — her breath hitching, the creak of a floorboard, the whisper of wind against the windows. Every time, he’d reach for her. Every time, she’d murmur, “I’m fine,” and press her palm over his heart until he believed her again.

That was how it was.

Until the first real argument.

---

It began with nothing.

It always did.

Heather had taken Baylee into the woods that morning for a short walk — “light exercise,” Melody called it — and they returned laughing, hair full of leaves, boots muddy, cheeks flushed. Baylee was radiant, alive in a way Collin hadn’t seen since before Jade.

But when Heather went to fetch water, Baylee paused by the porch rail and frowned.

“Do you feel that?”

Collin looked up from the reports in his lap. “Feel what?”

“The ground,” she whispered. She crouched, one hand pressing against the dirt. “It’s humming again.”

His heart lurched. “Bay—”

“Just listen,” she said, eyes distant.

He moved beside her, listening. There was nothing — no vibration, no sound. Only the wind through the trees and the steady beat of his own pulse.

“Nothing,” he said.

Baylee’s expression didn’t change. “It’s faint. But it’s there. Like the Veil’s breathing.”

“Baylee Elizabeth,” he said carefully, “the Veil is sealed.”

She flinched at the middle name — his tell for when he was worried or angry. “Don’t,” she murmured.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t use that tone.”

“I’m not using a tone.”

“You’re using the tone.”

He sighed, closing the folder. “The one where I don’t want you running toward something that nearly killed you? Yes, guilty.”

She straightened. “I wasn’t running toward it. I just felt something.”

“You feel everything. You felt my blood pressure when I tripped over a chair last week.”

“Maybe because you never sit down.”

“Because I’m trying to keep everyone safe!”

“I am everyone,” she snapped.

That silenced him.

The tension stretched, sharp and thin.

Then, softer: “Collin, I’m not made of glass.”

He rubbed his temples. “You died, Baylee.”

“I didn’t die.”

“You stopped breathing.”

She met his gaze. “Then why am I standing here?”

He had no answer.

The silence between them was heavy, full of too many memories they hadn’t unpacked.

Heather appeared on the porch, sensed the storm, and froze. “Oh no. Nope. Not getting in the middle of that.” She vanished back inside like smoke.

Baylee exhaled. “We can’t live like this — walking on eggshells.”

“I can’t live through losing you again,” he said, raw. “So maybe eggshells are the price.”

Her voice softened. “You think protecting me means keeping me small.”

He looked at her, wounded. “I think loving you means not watching you bleed out again on my hands.”

She took a shaky breath. “And I think loving you means not letting fear run our lives.”

They stared at each other, neither moving.

Finally, she reached out, fingers trembling, and took his hand. “I’m still here,” she whispered. “You didn’t lose me. You’re not going to.”

He swallowed hard. “I believe that until I close my eyes and dream of losing you again.”

She stepped closer. “Then I’ll wake you every time.”

He let out a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh, tugging her against him. “You’re impossible.”

“So are you,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his chest.

His arms came around her slowly, the anger dissolving into something tender and tired.

After a long moment, he kissed the top of her head. “Baylee Elizabeth, I’m sorry.”

She smiled against him. “You better be. I hate when you use my middle name.”

He chuckled. “Then stop scaring me half to death.”

“No promises.”

---

That night, the rain came.

They stood on the balcony again, shoulder to shoulder, watching lightning bloom over the far peaks. Baylee’s hand rested on her stomach, and the rhythm of thunder almost matched the faint pulse beneath her palm.

“You think they’ll be like you?” she asked softly.

“I hope not,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’d like one calm person in this house.”

She smirked. “So Heather doesn’t count?”

“Heather’s an agent of chaos.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He turned, studying her profile in the dim light — the faint glow that always clung to her skin now, subtle but unearthly. “You’re glowing again.”

She sighed. “Melody says it’s just my energy stabilizing.”

“And the humming?”

“Still there.”

He frowned. “Baylee—”

She touched his lips gently. “Don’t. I know what you’re going to say.”

He hesitated. “And you’re going to ignore it anyway.”

“Probably.”

He kissed her fingertip. “Then let me be scared for you.”

She smiled faintly. “You already are.”

The thunder rolled again.

He pulled her closer, his chin resting atop her head. “If anything happens again—”

She cut him off quietly. “It won’t. But if it does, we face it together. Not you in front of me. Not me alone. Together.”

He closed his eyes, nodding against her hair. “Together.”

Lightning flashed.

And for a brief instant, the world lit silver-white.

In that flash, Baylee saw the mountains, the scarred ridge, the faint shimmer of the Veil’s scar — and something moved inside it.

A figure. Small. Unclear. Watching.

Her heart stopped.

The lightning faded.

The ridge was empty again.

Collin felt her tense. “What?”

“Nothing,” she lied.

He pulled back to look at her, suspicion flickering. “Baylee Elizabeth.”

She forced a smile. “Just thought I saw a deer.”

“Bay—”

“Collin,” she said softly, hand on his chest. “Not tonight.”

He searched her eyes, found something hidden there, but chose silence.

“Alright,” he murmured finally. “Not tonight.”

He kissed her temple, holding her close as the rain thickened around them.

Baylee pressed her face into his shoulder, eyes open, staring past him toward the ridge.

The Veil didn’t glow. The scar didn’t pulse. But deep beneath her skin, under her heartbeat and the pup’s steady rhythm, that hum returned — soft, steady, alive.

And somewhere far beyond Silverveil, something heard it.

Something that remembered Jade.

Something that whispered in a voice the Moon had long forgotten:

She’s awake.