Chapter 21 A Braid of Three
A brAID OF THREE
“The body may hunger, the mind may wander, but only the soul can choose the path of becoming. She who braids all three shall awaken the world.”
—Láda Velé?a, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noel
Oh goddesses, what is wrong with me?
Every time he’s close, my body betrays me.
His touch was so gentle, so . . . caring, as though his paws could calm and ignite me all at once.
I’ve never felt this way before, this pull toward someone, especially someone like him.
So powerful and intense, so much more than human.
It’s confusing, and yet, I find myself craving it. Craving him.
You can’t, Noel. What is going on with you? Since when do you even use such words? Craving?
When he touched me—running those claws through my hair, moving closer, breathing in my scent—it felt as if he were peeling back all my walls, seeing me in a way no one else ever has.
His eyes were full of something so warm, something so protective.
They held none of the harshness, none of the empty lust I’ve seen in the men back in Tárnov.
But he’s not human. That truth clouds everything else. He’s vólkin. He’s unlike anyone or anything I’ve been taught to want, and yet . . . that difference only draws me in more.
Back in Tárnov, I thought I knew what men were: harsh, self-serving, built more on ego than on character.
I’ve seen so many of them, lined up in the barracks, in the army—muscles and raised voices, but no tenderness.
No care. They were all so unappealing, so predictable, and whatever curiosity I might have had died under their gazes.
I could never imagine myself with any of them.
But Theron? He’s the opposite of everything I’ve known. His strength is real, his power silent, and he’s twice the size of any man in Tárnov. His fur, so thick and warm, is unexpectedly soft, something I want to curl into—
I’m losing it.
Also, there’s . . . that. His reaction every time we’re close, the way his body responds to me.
I can see his arousal, see it in the way he moves, the way he fights to control himself.
It’s thrilling. The effect I have on him is exciting, and it makes me feel powerful in a way I’ve never felt before.
I may have felt powerful every time I stood in front of my soldiers, but this is a different kind of powerful.
I am not supposed to enjoy this.
Part of me is terrified by it, by the strength of his desire and my own, but another part—deep down, hidden far away—wants to be the cause of it. Wants to explore it. Wants him to lose control, just for a moment. But one moment leads to another. I can’t have that.
Can I?
I don’t understand why this feels so right, but maybe what he said is true. Maybe it’s the bond he speaks of, this connection that ties us together, binding us in ways I can’t understand. But if this bond is what draws me to him, why does it feel like I’m choosing it?
The goddesses are playing with my mind. But he also smells of blue roses . . . No one else does.
My fingers trace where his nose brushed against my neck, and I close my eyes. I can still feel his warm breath. His tail hit the floor with rhythmic thumps. Why is that so . . . precious?
My hand slides down to cup my breast. I imagine how his giant paw might feel on me.
It’d probably cover my whole torso. A shiver runs through me as I sink into the water, letting my head fall back.
My other hand moves lower, slipping between my legs, where the tension burns hottest. The sensation is good, but it’s never enough.
The release I crave always feels just out of reach, teasing and retreating, leaving me more frustrated every time.
I tried exploring deeper once before, slipping a finger in, but the pain stopped me.
My mother never prepared me for this. We never spoke of it, only filled my days with other lessons, leaving me to figure this part out on my own. And here I am, at an age where other women in Tárnov are long married, all with children, while I’m left fumbling through this mystery, still uncertain.
What would Theron do to me?
The thought sends heat through me yet again, raises a flush of shame.
His touch alone was incredible. In Tárnov, I never once felt this way.
The men there . . . they’re all the same, so much like Arnold—cruel eyes, harsh hands, eager to dominate, eager to remind a woman she’s nothing more than property.
I’d never seen a happy wife or a happy daughter, only women whose spirits were trapped and fading, told to obey, to accept their place.
Marriage was something to escape from, not a dream. My only path out was the military, where I could at least hold a weapon and stand on my own two feet. Love, intimacy, all of it felt like a trap, something that could destroy everything I’d worked to become.
But Theron . . .
A part of me wants to trust him and let down my guard. But the battle inside me won’t allow it, fear and longing clashing until I’m torn apart, like two halves of me can’t decide which will win.
The warmth of the water slips from my skin as I climb out of the stream and wrap myself in a heavy fur I find nearby. It smells of Theron, earthy, like blue roses from Mother’s garden after rain.
I can finally look around without Theron distracting me. This house is alive. The walls, a weaving of branches and leaves, seem to stretch if I look too long. It’s as though the trees are watching me as I watch them. I had a similar feeling in the forest.
The glow of flowers and stones dapples the room, and the light softens the edges of everything. I look back at the stream, noticing how it weaves in and out of the breathing walls. Like from one branch to another. How is it warm?
My gaze settles on a small puddle near the stream, right where Theron washed my hair.
Oh dear goddesses.
Shaking my head, I force myself to move, taking slow steps toward the sitting area. Theron created this place for me, and I can feel his effort in everything.
My eyes trace over the carvings on the furniture, vines and leaves etched in beautiful patterns, each detail too perfect to be casual.
Theron didn’t just build this house, he poured himself into it.
And that thought, of him working, carving, shaping it to be so beautiful for me, makes my chest warm.
I trace my fingers over the grooves. I wonder if he thought of me with each stroke, if he imagined what it might mean for me to sit here, to call this place home.
Home.
The word tastes foreign. This home isn’t mine.
It doesn’t matter how beautiful it is or how carefully it was made.
It only highlights what I’ve lost—the kitchen shelves packed with my mother’s herbs and charms, the warmth of her presence in every corner.
Here, the shelves are bare, waiting for me to fill them, but I can’t bring myself to make this space my own.
It feels like accepting something I’m not ready for.
Like admitting that what I had is truly gone.
I wander to the cabinet, open it. Inside, there’s nothing but earthy soap—his soap. I lift one of the containers, raising it to my nose. Did he think I’d like this? Did he wonder if it would remind me of him when he wasn’t here?
Finally, I turn toward the bed, a nest of furs and blankets so inviting, it might swallow me whole. I sigh.
It’s too much. Every detail in this house is too much. Too much effort, too much care, too much expectation. And yet, standing here, wrapped in a fur that smells like him, surrounded by his work, his hard work, I’ve never felt so alone.
It’s so quiet here.
It was quiet there too.
Back in Tárnov, I knew how to endure loneliness. I knew how to build walls around myself, to survive without the warmth of connection. But this place that breathes with life makes the absence of my mother, of everything I’ve lost, unbearable.
My pulse quickens with the urge to leave and find him when I look at the door. I want to ask why he did all this, why he would go to such lengths for someone he doesn’t even know.
I’m his mate.
I shake my head again. I don’t need to think about him. Yes, he’s great. So far, he’s shown me nothing but kindness. But I’m here for a different reason.
I glance back at the door, taking a few steps closer. Furrowing my brows, I look down at my body. The fur is wrapped tight, I know it won’t slip. Besides, all the vólkins I’ve seen were bare. But then again, Theron’s eyes widened when he saw me bare.
I tighten the fur into a firm knot and open the door.
As I step out of the house, the cool night air brushes against my skin. The forest hums in the distance, and I feel freedom. For a couple seconds.
Two vólkins stand near the entrance, their giant forms silhouetted against the glow of the flowers and the barely noticeable moon.
As they see me, both bow low, their paws pressed to their chests in that gesture of respect I’ve yet to grow accustomed to.
I’m still wet down there . . . Can they tell? Oh goddesses.
“Your Majesty,” one of them says. “Are you going on a walk?”
A walk? The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but now that he mentions it, it feels like exactly what I should say. So I nod.
I had no idea there were guards. They’re so quiet.
The two vólkins exchange a glance, subtle, but I catch it. Then the other speaks. “My apologies, but Theron has instructed us to keep you safe. Please, allow us to accompany you.”
My brows knit together. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
I don’t need nursemaids.
The first vólkin hesitates, his ears twitching as he glances at his companion. “I truly apologize, but w—”
“Am I not your leader?” I interrupt, taking a step toward them.
Both vólkins straighten, their eyes wide. “Of course . . . of course you are,” the second stammers.