Chapter 68
The sitting room was quiet in a way Holden had never quite grown used to.
There was no wind tearing through trees, no distant howls, no restless shifting of bodies preparing for a hunt.
Only stillness. The kind that belonged to houses like this, where everything had its place and nothing was meant to disturb it.
He stood near the pianoforte with one hand resting on the polished wood, the other drifting over the keys without pressing them.
His fingers traced their smooth edges as though trying to understand something he had never been taught to use.
Music. He had always heard it, but he had never understood it.
The faint creak of the staircase drew his attention upward.
He did not mean to look, but he did, and then he could not look away.
Aurelia descended slowly, one hand resting lightly along the railing, her movements so gentle she seemed to float rather than walk.
The soft fabric of her gown followed each step, catching the light just enough to make his stomach flip.
Shit. There it was again.
That strange pulling sensation whenever he looked at her. Why had he been so desperate to see her again when they had only spoken briefly at the festival the night before? Was it because he could not stand the sharp little twist of jealousy that came whenever another gentleman smiled at her?
Not that any of those men stood a chance. Holden knew she needed someone who would not be frightened by that wildness in her. Someone who could meet it, draw it out, and remind her she did not have to keep every unruly part of herself locked away within these manor walls.
His heart beat harder than it ever had in battle, louder than any hunt, heavier than anything that had ever tried to kill him. He straightened without realizing it, his hand still resting near the keys as she reached the bottom step. The piano let out a violent, jarring chord.
“You are going to break it if you keep staring at me,” she said, though her mouth curved as she approached.
Holden huffed a quiet breath. “I wasn’t staring.”
“You were,” she said easily. “Rather obviously, I might add.”
“Can you blame me?”
Her brow lifted slightly, but she did not answer. Instead, she moved closer and brushed past him to the pianoforte, her fingers taking his place on the keys with a practiced familiarity.
“You have never played?”
He shook his head. “Closest I ever came to music was being told my mother used to sing.” His gaze dropped, his voice quieter now. “Lullabies, mostly. I do not remember much.”
Aurelia paused for a moment before pressing the keys lightly. A soft, simple melody filled the room. “You were very young,” she said. “It is not unusual.”
Holden watched her hands move, watched the way something in her relaxed as she played. “Teach me,” he said, settling beside her on the piano’s wooden bench.
She glanced at him. “You?”
“Why not?”
“You do not strike me as particularly patient.”
“I am full of surprises.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “That, I do not doubt. Though, I suppose it would not hurt to have you try.” She shifted closer beside him and guided his hand toward the keys. “Start here.”
His fingers struck the keys harder than he meant them to. He blamed her scent for scattering every bit of focus he had.
“Lightly. You do not attack it as though you are trying to kill something.”
He snorted. “That is how I do most things.”
“Yes,” she said, adjusting his fingers. “I have noticed.”
Her hand brushed his, and the touch lingered just long enough to change the air between them. Holden felt it at once, that pull, stronger now and much closer than before. He looked down at her, his voice dropping. “Are we going to pretend that night did not happen?”
Her shoulders tensed. “What night?”
He smiled faintly. “The one where you could not keep your eyes off me.”
Her cheeks flushed. “That was part of the dance. Do not flatter yourself.”
“And the way you became so flustered around me?”
“That was… circumstantial.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It will not happen again,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual edge.
Holden leaned in. “Not even a little?”
“Holden.”
“What?” His voice shifted into something lower, more dangerous. “You don’t miss it? The way I made you forget yourself for half a breath?”
Her blue eyes flared, and that was answer enough to send heat through him. Her breath caught, only slightly, but he heard it. Felt it. He lifted his hand and tipped her chin gently between his fingers, giving her every chance to pull away.
She did not.
“Let’s stop pretending there is nothing between us, Aurelia,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her jaw in a slow, reverent stroke. “Because I have no control where you are concerned.”
Heat or no heat, he knew she wanted him.
He knew he was the one her thoughts returned to during that final phase of her cycle, just as his thoughts had returned to her on those long nights alone.
Females had to find release during that final phase, or the need would become unbearable.
And Aurelia, by the look of her now, seemed perfectly composed.
Which told him enough. She had spent three nights alone in her chambers, and he knew exactly what she must have done to endure them.
Aurelia caught her bottom lip between her teeth. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and whatever restraint he had left fractured.
He drew her into a careful, testing kiss, and gods, the way she melted against him nearly ruined him. Her hands rose into his hair, pulling him closer as her body leaned into his, as though she had been waiting for this all along, no matter how fiercely she had tried to deny it.
The kiss deepened. His mouth moved over hers with growing hunger, and when his tongue brushed against her lips, she opened to him fully. She let him in, let him taste the answer she had refused to speak aloud, and Holden felt the last of his control slip.
His hands slid to her breasts, and she arched into his touch, a small moan escaping her before she could stop it.
The sound dragged a rough breath from him, and he nipped at her bottom lip.
He wanted more. Wanted to hear more. Wanted to ask her to choose him, to stop fighting what already pulled between them.
The bond.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
He would go slowly with her. He would let her torment him, test him, drive him mad, so long as she did not run from him entirely. So he pulled back instead, just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breath uneven.
“You are trouble, Lord Holden,” she teased.
His mouth curved. “You like it.”
She did not deny it.
He watched as she turned back to the piano, her composure returning piece by piece. But he saw it now, the side of her that did not belong to silk gowns and quiet drawing rooms. The side that fought, shifted, and belonged beneath open sky just as much as he did.
He would not say it. Would not push her.
Not when, at last, she was letting him close.
“We could not be more different,” she breathed, her fingers roaming over the keys. “And yet I find myself drawn to you more with each passing day.”
Holden went still, and before he could stop himself, the thought slipped free.
Fuck, you are so beautiful.
Aurelia turned to him in an instant, her wide eyes searching his face.
“What?” he asked, confusion catching in his chest. “You heard that?”
She did not pull away. Did not panic. Instead, a shy smile touched her lips, and after a few long, quiet seconds, her voice brushed against his mind in return.
You are quite handsome yourself.
Then she returned to the piano as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
Holden sat there, stunned, before letting out a long exhale.
He would do it. All of it. Every ridiculous part of this life.
He would sip tea with her every morning if she asked.
He would sit through endless songs, learn every note she played, brush her hair until she fell asleep.
He would stand in crowded ballrooms and pretend to be a lord of whatever damned place she needed him to be.
None of it mattered, so long as she chose him.
Because he had already chosen her.
And there was no going back.
***
The festival was over. They had made it through, though Alaric would carry the proof of it for the rest of his life.
New scars marked his body now, reminders of the battle, of the guards who had fought beside him and fallen.
The thought pained him, but they had fought with honor in Lord Aron Duskwood’s name.
They had fought for his children. For the land.
For the chance that others might live to see another morning.
And somehow, Alaric had survived.
Call it luck or training. He did not care. He was alive, and that meant he could see Heidara’s face every day. He would have followed her like a dog across the world if she asked, and she knew it, though she had never once demanded it of him.
He was ready to step away from noble life, though not entirely.
He would manage his family’s trade business, oversee the routes, maintain the Stonebridge connection to the Duskwoods and Lord Cillian.
But he no longer needed marble halls, endless tea, or wealth wrapped around him like a blanket.
He enjoyed those comforts from time to time, but they were not where he belonged.
He had found his true calling in the land itself.
He understood his mother better now. Understood why she had loved being outside, tending her enormous garden while his father never once complained as she planted more and more.
He had allowed her that piece of herself because he knew it mattered.
Because some parts of a person were not meant to be pruned back for the sake of propriety.
But Alaric was not meant for gardens alone.
He was meant for trails, forests, mountains, and rivers.
Meant to guide, to travel, to feel the ground and stone beneath his feet and understand what others could not.
He could help the packs when they needed him and still serve his family in his own way. A different way. A freer one.
He watched as Heidara packed her dagger belt, sliding her two favorites into place.
The one on her right had seen the most use, its bone handle worn smooth from her grip, though it remained the blade she sharpened most carefully.
The one on her left was kept for necessity, which, with Heidara, meant something swift and unpleasant for anyone foolish enough to threaten her.
She glanced up and caught him smiling.
“What is it?” she asked, tilting her head.
He crossed to her, unable to help himself. “You are unbelievably perfect.”
A soft hum left her as she strolled toward him.
Alaric caught her by the hips and pulled her into a kiss, slow and certain and full of everything he still did not know how to say.
She drew back, her mouth brushing his. “Are you ready for our next adventure?”
He smiled against her lips.
“Always.”
They were leaving for the next few weeks to explore beyond the southern borders and make certain no trace of darkness remained.
Groups of Sunweavers would travel with them, Cillian among them, though only for a short while before his new duties called him home.
Moonshade, Glaciermaw, and the two other packs were departing as well, each setting out to find a place of their own.
Obren seemed oddly reluctant to go and promised he would return soon, if only to learn more about the southern debutantes, which he claimed was far too promising an opportunity to abandon entirely.
Beau, at least, would finally be gone. Alaric could admit the male had come to fight, and that he had saved Heidara during the battle, but gratitude did not erase what he had done to her.
Civility was all Alaric could offer him, and even that had limits.
Still, much as he hated to admit it, he had come to enjoy the company of Moonshade.
Ravena and Coren, especially, were people he hoped he would see again.
Alaric was not a wolf, but they had accepted him as their guide and treated him as one of their own. That was enough.
It was time to move onward now, and into whatever came next.
A new beginning waited for him on the road ahead, and he meant to enjoy every moment of it with Heidara at his side.
He almost told her about the vision that had found him that morning: Heidara’s hand laced with his, both of them aged by a long life neither of them had once dared to imagine.
A quiet promise. A future already reaching back for them.
But some truths did not need to be spoken.
Alaric would keep this one for himself, and spend every year he had proving it to her.