MasukObsidian RidgeThe portal closed behind Talia with a sharp crack of displaced air.She didn’t linger.Anxiety pressed hard against her ribs as her boots hit stone—Obsidian Ridge familiar beneath her feet, steady, anchored, home. Relief flickered, but it didn’t settle. Not yet.Lucian would listen. She knew that. Her mate was a reasonable man. A steady Alpha. His wolf is even more so.But reason didn’t erase risk.And this plan was nothing but risk braided into hope.Talia exhaled and turned sharply down the corridor.She wished Dorian were already here.Not because Lucian couldn’t handle this, but because Dorian’s presence changed the temperature of the rooms. He steadied conversations simply by existing in them. His wolf didn’t posture. Didn’t rush. He watched. And right now, watching mattered.Because the alternative—the darker possibility clawing at the back of her mind—was unbearable.What if Thomas was setting a trap?What if this binding was another portal like the one that swal
Sera and Talia did not speak aloud as the silence settled.Talia had come through the portal intending to see her son, but Luca was gone on Beta duties—already carrying responsibilities that had arrived faster than anyone expected. She let that disappointment pass. This visit had never been about sentiment.It was about preparation.And containment, whether anyone liked that word or not.It had been years since Alina and Casius disappeared beyond the veil. The boys had still been toddlers then. Now war loomed again—this time under Seraphine’s shadow—and the truth was unavoidable: they needed every powerful wolf they could reclaim if they were going to survive what was coming. And distance—distance had never protected anyone from monsters. They were all at risk. No one was safe.Talia had come to terms with the fact that survival did not require forgiveness. It required a strategy.Firelight burned low against stone walls worn smooth by centuries of use. This wasn’t a room meant for a
Sienna POVThe kitchen smelled of rosemary, hot iron, and slow-roasted meat—something that made a wolf’s instincts stir.Sienna stood barefoot at the counter, one hip pressed into the worn oak, fingers steady as she chopped garlic. The rhythm calmed her. It always had. Chop. Drag. Chop. Drag. Control something small when everything else felt… not.That was when the air shifted.Not a sound.Not a scent.A pressure.Sienna froze, knife mid-lift.Her skin prickled. The kind of awareness you didn’t learn—you inherited it. She turned slowly.Celeste stood near the doorway, pale as moonlight, edges soft, not quite solid. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, eyes too bright, body faintly translucent like fog caught in a human shape.Sienna didn’t scream.She swung.The knife passed cleanly through Celeste’s ribs.Celeste blinked, then arched a brow. “Wow,” she said dryly. “And here I thought you’d hug me.”Sienna exhaled sharply, heart pounding. “You’re not actually here.”Celeste glan
Celeste POVThe courtyard had become a living map of survival.Celeste moved through it with practiced ease, tablet tucked under one arm, braid pinned tight against the wind. Families clustered near the outer walls—some with wagons, some with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Wolves of every shade and size waited with quiet patience, exhaustion carved deep into their faces.No one argued.No one demanded.That alone told her how bad it had been.“Cottage twelve is full,” Celeste called to one of the stewards. “Redirect the Riverbend family to the south row. Keep them near the orchards—two elders, one with a limp.”The steward nodded and moved quickly.Celeste crouched to a child’s level, offering a small loaf wrapped in cloth. The girl stared at it like it might disappear.“It’s real,” Celeste said gently. “And there will be more tomorrow.”The child’s mother bowed so deeply it nearly broke Celeste’s heart.“Please,” Celeste said softly, helping her up. “You don’t owe us that.”
The growl was not entirely his. It was a dual sound, a harmony of man and wolf, of Reign and Bain, finally in accord. The last of his control, the flimsy shield he’d worn for a lifetime, shattered into a million pieces. He crossed the space between them in a single, powerful stride, the scent of her—rosemary, bread, and something uniquely Celeste—flooding his senses and obliterating everything else.His hands were on her, not with the gentle reverence he’d imagined, but with a desperate, possessive need. He lifted her, and her legs wrapped around his waist as if they were made to lock together. Her skin was soft and warm against his calloused hands, a perfect contrast. He claimed her mouth, and it was not a kiss of exploration but of claiming. It was hungry, deep, a conversation they had been denying for months. She met him with equal fire, her nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, silently demanding more.He set her down on the cool stone of the kitchen floor, his bod
They had been given the cabin for privacy.Close enough to the palace to feel the pulse of power, far enough away to feel like a choice instead of a command. Nestled among old trees and stone paths, it sat near Reign’s grandfather and his human mate, Clarise—the palace head cook whose presence softened the sharp edges of royal life.Celeste loved it there.She loved Clarise most of all.She visited often—sometimes with baskets of herbs she’d grown herself, sometimes with nothing more than questions and quiet company. They traded recipes, remedies, and stories. Clarise taught her how to coax warmth from simple ingredients, how to make food feel like safety. In return, Celeste shared old herbal knowledge, small things meant for comfort rather than power.They became, slowly and without ceremony, the parents Celeste had never had.Reign watched it happen with something like awe.And hesitation.They were mated in name, in bond, in every way that mattered to the world—but they had not co







