Chapter 7 #2
My whole body grows warm at the thought. I remember the size of him, all of him, and a sleepy murmur escapes my lips.
“It will never fit,” I mumble into my pillow, already half asleep. “Too big…”
The image should alarm me. Instead, it follows me into my dreams.
I’m walking down a mountain path, a basket swinging by my side. It’s filled with berries—deep purple and red, their juices staining the woven bottom. I’m wearing something soft and flowing, not a dress but a robe of some kind. The fabric whispers against my legs as I move.
This isn’t right. I don’t remember leaving my room. When did I come here?
The thought floats away like smoke before I can grasp it.
My mouth feels parched. So thirsty. I stop by a stream, kneeling on the mossy bank to cup water in my hands.
The woman whose reflection looks back at me is different.
Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Flowers woven through golden strands. She looks so young, hardly more than a girl.
I jerk back from the water. That’s not my face. That’s not—
But when I look down at my hands, they’re smaller. Delicate. Not the calloused hands of a warrior.
What’s happening?
I try to speak, to scream, but my mouth doesn’t move. My body stands, brushing off the robe with hands that aren’t mine.
A dream. This has to be a dream.
But it feels too real. The sun on my skin, the scent of pine and wildflowers, the ache in my feet from walking. Everything is vivid, sharp, present.
A rustling sound breaks through the peaceful quiet. My body moves to investigate without my permission, feet carrying me toward the noise.
No. Stop. I don’t want to go there.
But I can’t control this body. I’m trapped inside someone else’s skin, watching through someone else’s eyes.
There’s a large wolf lying on the ground, injured. Dark fur matted with blood. Silver threading through the darkness in patterns I recognize.
Kieran.
Terror slams through me—real, visceral terror that cuts through the dreamlike haze. The gashes across his flank are deep, exposing muscle and bone. His breathing is labored, shallow. He’s dying.
The woman—whoever she is—doesn’t seem to recognize him. She moves closer with concern but no recognition, no panic. Just compassion for an injured animal.
But I know him. I know him and he’s dying and I can’t do anything.
I try to call out, try to scream his name, try to force this body to run to him. Nothing works. I’m a passenger, helpless.
Please. Please let me help him.
My—her—hands reach out toward him, and then—
The world rips apart.
It feels like my soul is being yanked through space, pulled by invisible hooks embedded in my chest. The mountain path dissolves, reality fragmenting like shattered glass.
Suddenly, I’m standing in a forest clearing. A ritual space. Prepared for a mating ceremony.
But it’s been destroyed. The ground is covered with blood.
No. No, this can’t be real.
Dead bodies everywhere. Guests in their finest clothes, slumped against trees, sprawled across the forest floor. Flowers that had been woven into garlands and scattered across the ground are stained red. Ceremonial torches still burn, their flames casting grotesque shadows across the carnage.
I hear gurgling sounds. Wet, desperate breathing. People dying.
Screaming in the distance. Running footsteps. The sounds of slaughter still happening somewhere beyond the trees.
I look down at my hands—still those small, delicate hands—and they’re covered in blood.
This is a dream. Wake up. Wake up!
But I can’t. I’m trapped here, trapped in this moment of horror.
Someone screams my name—not Daciana, but something else. A name that sounds like music, like home. The woman in this body recognizes it instantly, knows it belongs to her.
“Elara! Run!” The voice is raw with desperation, coming from somewhere in the chaos. “Run!”
I want to turn, want to see who’s calling, but my body is already moving. The woman—Elara—knows that voice. Loves that voice. And she obeys without question.
Arrows fly. They whistle through the air like death itself, thudding into trees, into bodies, into earth.
I begin to run.
My hand goes to my stomach, which is slightly swollen. The gesture is instinctive, protective. Elara’s terror isn’t for herself; it’s for the life growing inside her.
Oh gods. She’s pregnant.
Behind me, I hear the snarl of a wolf—the man who told me to run, now in his shifted form. Fighting for me. For us. I hear the clash of bodies, the vicious sound of teeth tearing flesh. His roar of fury and pain.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
There’s a rustling sound beside me as wild wolves fall into step. Five, six of them, running alongside me through the trees. They appeared from nowhere, drawn by something in Elara’s blood. My pack, some part of me knows. My protection.
But my pursuers don’t stop.
I hear them behind us: shifted wolves, dozens of them, closing the distance. Their snarls echo through the forest. The wild wolves growl and peel off one by one, sacrificing themselves to buy me—her—us—time.
This is wrong. This already happened. This is a memory, not—
An arrow pierces my thigh, and I fall, crashing hard into the ground. Pain explodes through my leg, hot and blinding.
I try to keep going, crawling now. My hands dig into the dirt, pulling my body forward inch by agonizing inch. Blood trails behind me, warm and sticky. Roots and rocks tear at my palms.
The baby. I have to protect the baby.
My wolves are being killed. I hear them—each death cry distinct, each one tearing at my insides. The wild wolves who came to protect me, dying because of me.
I see their bodies drop. Gray fur stained with red. Brown eyes going glassy and empty.
I scream, but the sound is swallowed by the thunder of approaching footsteps.
Faceless shifters surround me in human form. Closing in from all sides. I can’t make out their features—everything about them is blurred, indistinct—but I can see their weapons. Blades glinting in the torchlight that still reaches us from the ceremony grounds.
“Please,” Elara begs, and I feel the words leave my lips. “Please. I’m carrying a child. Please.”
They don’t care. Their hands reach for me.
“No!” I try to fight, but Elara’s body is weak from blood loss. The hands grip my arms, yanking me upright.
A blade appears in my vision. Silver. Ornate. Coming toward my stomach.
Kieran! His name echoes through Elara’s mind, through my mind. Where is he? Why isn’t he here?
The blade drives home—
My eyes fly open.
I’m gasping, tears streaming down my face. There’s someone holding me. Strong arms around my body, a familiar scent—pine and snow and something wild.
Kieran.
I don’t know what my reality is. The dream still clings to me, wrapped around my consciousness like a shroud. I can still feel the blade, still feel the pain in my thigh, still feel that desperate, protective love for a child that isn’t mine.
I clutch at him, my fingers digging into his shirt.
“I ran,” I sob. “I ran. Where were you? Why didn’t you save me?”
The words come from somewhere deep inside, somewhere that isn’t entirely me. Elara’s words. Elara’s grief. Elara’s betrayal that the man she loved didn’t reach her in time.
I see shock flash across his face, followed by a terrible grief that makes his features crumple. He pulls me tighter into his arms, his voice hoarse and broken. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He’s crying.
It hits me slowly, cutting through the fog of the dream. Kieran is crying. This powerful alpha, who never shows weakness, whose control is absolute, is shaking in my arms. His tears are falling onto my skin.
The realization yanks me back to reality. Piece by piece, I remember where I am. My room. My bed. The herbs. The dream.
Just a dream.
I know I should push him away. Should demand to know why he’s in my chambers, how he got in. But something is wrong. Something is so deeply, fundamentally wrong with the way he’s holding me, the way his shoulders shake with silent sobs.
I hold him tighter instead. My neck is wet with his tears, and I don’t understand any of this.
“Kieran,” I whisper, my voice still thick from crying. “Kieran, what—”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, the words muffled against my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save you. I tried. Gods, I tried.”
I want to comfort him. “It was only a dream. I was dreaming,” I whisper, running my hands down his back. “Just a dream, Kieran. I’m okay. I’m here.”
He shakes his head once. Twice. He’s not crying anymore, but he’s not letting go of me, either. His face is buried in my neck, his breathing uneven, and I feel the tremor that runs through his entire body.
I can’t make myself tell him to leave. Can’t even form the words. I feel too raw, too exposed, like my skin has been peeled back and everything underneath is visible. I can’t make sense of what is going on—the dream, the woman named Elara, the terrible grief in Kieran’s eyes.
But I need him.
The understanding hits me with startling clarity. I need him right now. It’s a desperate desire, one I can’t control or rationalize. I need to be as close to him as possible, need to feel his warmth, his solid presence. I need confirmation that he’s real and alive and here.
It’s not lust. Not exactly. It’s deeper than that. More primal. It’s a need. But I don’t know how to ask for what I want when I don’t even understand it myself.
“Kieran.”
I whisper his name, and my body betrays me. Heat floods through me, my skin hyper-aware of every point where we’re touching. I can smell my own arousal, sharp and unmistakable in the confined space. It’s not from simple desire but from this desperate need for comfort, for closeness, for him.
Kieran goes still in my arms.
Then, he pulls away, and I nearly whimper at the loss of contact.
His eyes are dark but wet, red-rimmed from tears. There’s something haunted in his expression, something ancient and broken.
My heart breaks for whatever is haunting him. Haunting us both.