Chapter 44
Nova
Iwake with Dane’s arm draped heavily across my waist, his chest pressed to my back. My body aches in all the places he claimed me last night—bruises blooming beneath my skin where his fingers dug in, my lips tender from his desperate kisses, my thighs sore.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But the physical pain isn’t what catches in my throat. It’s what waits for us outside this cabin.
Dane’s breathing changes, shifts from the steady rhythm of sleep to something more alert. His hand tightens at my waist, thumb tracing small circles against my skin.
“They’re gathering already,” I say, hearing the low murmur of voices outside, boots crunching on frost-covered ground.
“I know.” His voice is rough with sleep and something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or resolve.
“You doing okay?” I ask, the words are small but necessary. The pack is preparing the funeral pyre for Marcus. Loyal, steady Marcus who never hesitated when it mattered most.
Dane presses his face into my hair, inhales deeply. His lips brush my shoulder—not seductive, just grounding. “I don’t know yet.”
I roll over to face him, our legs tangling together under the sheets. His eyes are clear, focused. The steel-gray has reclaimed the gold burn from last night, but something else remains, something that wasn’t there before. A kind of quiet certainty.
I reach up, tuck a strand of ash-brown hair behind his ear. His hand catches mine, holds it against his cheek for a moment. This man who stepped between me and Faelan’s magic without hesitation. Who took the hit meant for me.
I press my forehead to his, just for a heartbeat. We breathe the same air, share the same unspoken thought; it’s time.
We rise together, the bed creaking beneath our shifting weight. Neither of us speaks as we dress. The silence isn’t cold or distant; it’s charged with purpose. I pull on my clothes while Dane does the same, his movements efficient, deliberate.
He steps behind me as I fasten my pants, reaching around to adjust the collar of my jacket. I kneel to tighten the laces of his boots when he sits on the edge of the bed. These aren’t romantic gestures.
The cabin feels too small suddenly, like it can’t contain what we’ve become. What we still have to do.
Dane moves toward the door, and I fall into step beside him. He reaches for the handle at the same moment I do, our fingers brushing. He doesn’t move away, just wraps his hand around mine as we turn the knob together.
Outside, the pack has assembled. The pyre is built. Marcus’s body lies wrapped in cloth, ready for the flames. They look to us—not to me, not to him, but to us—as we step through the doorway.
Not Alphas apart, but Alphas aligned. Shoulder to shoulder, we walk toward grief, not like it might break us, but like it already tried and failed.
The morning air burns my lungs as we step outside. After the warmth of Dane’s cabin, the frost-bitten ground feels hostile, unforgiving. Just like everything else waiting for us today.
The pack has formed a loose circle around the pyre. Their faces are masks of control and grief.
Ben stands closest to the structure, shoulders squared, eyes rimmed red but dry.
His right hand rests on the hilt of his knife—not as a threat, but as an anchor.
Across the pyre from him, Harper has positioned herself at the far edge of the circle, her gaze fixed on the wrapped body.
She doesn’t look at Ben. He doesn’t look at her.
The distance between them speaks volumes.
Callum paces the northern edge, checking the bindings on the wood one final time. His movements are precise, almost mechanical. Lyanna watches him from a distance, her hands folded at her waist, silver bracelets catching the weak sunlight.
Kari stands apart from the others, her jaw clenched tight enough that I can see the muscle working beneath her skin.
The younger wolves—Mateo, Sera, Devon—huddle together, their postures rigid with the effort of containing their emotions.
They were closest to Marcus. He trained them, protected them, and believed in them when no one else did.
Marcus’s body lies wrapped in white cloth atop the pyre. No blood is visible through the wrappings, but I can smell it—coppery and cold. Death has a scent that cuts through everything else.
Dane moves forward. I match his pace, staying at his right shoulder. We don’t touch, but I feel the heat of him beside me, solid and present. He walks with purpose, not hurry. His face reveals nothing, but I can read the tension in his neck, the controlled rhythm of his breathing.
At the edge of the trees, movement ripples through the shadows. Then they step forward: the entire Shadow Peak pack emerging from the forest in silent formation.
Caleb leads them, his presence steady and resolute. Daya moves to his right, Liam and Elysia flanking the group’s perimeter. Mason and Sasha take positions that speak of tactical awareness, while Rowan and Isla anchor the rear.
Around the pyre, Ash Hollow stands together.
Derek and Torres flank the eastern edge, their faces tight with grief.
Elena and Mateo hold the western side. Reyna and Wyatt have positioned themselves near Kyle, who stands pale but steady.
Kevin remains near the lodge entrance, ready to provide whatever the pack needs after the ceremony.
Rafe shifts position, moving to the north end of the clearing, facing outward—a show of support rather than defense. Ansel mirrors him, taking the south position with the same quiet vigilance. Not protecting against Shadow Peak, but with them. Guarding the circle while Ash Hollow grieves.
They spread around the clearing’s edge, far enough to respect territory boundaries, close enough to witness.
Close enough to protect. They’ve come to honor Marcus, yes—but more than that, they’ve come to send a message.
While Ash Hollow grieves, Shadow Peak stands guard.
No attack will come. No threat will breach this sacred moment.
The gesture hits deeper than words. In a world where pack loyalty runs thicker than blood, this is solidarity. This is “we’ve got you” made manifest.
The breath Dane releases is slow, controlled. Relief disguised as composure. Only someone standing this close would feel the tension leaving his frame. His gaze finds Caleb across the clearing for just a moment. The nod he gives is almost imperceptible—Alpha to Alpha, acknowledgment without words.
The pack parts as we approach.
We reach the circle’s edge. Dane stops, and I halt beside him. The pyre looms before us—wood stacked in the ancient way, steep and narrow, built to burn hot and fast. Someone has placed Marcus’s knife at the base, blade gleaming in the pale light.
Dane takes a single breath, deep and steady. The pack might see their Alpha, composed and certain. But I feel the slight tremble in his exhale, the rage and grief he holds beneath his skin.
The clearing waits. The forest waits. The dead waits.
Dane steps forward, lifting his chin. His voice runs low and clear across the clearing.
“Callum. The boundary.”
Callum steps forward from his position, a leather pouch in his hand.
He takes a knee at the eastern point of the circle and pours a line of ash onto the ground.
The ash is bone-white against the dark earth, tinged with herbs I recognize from Lyanna’s workshop—sage, wolfsbane, and juniper. Protective elements. Boundary markers.
He moves clockwise, each step measured, each pour precise. Where the ash falls, the ground seems to darken further, as if the earth itself recognizes what’s happening.
When Callum completes the circle, Lyanna moves forward without being called.
She kneels at the same eastern point and presses her palm to the ash.
Her lips move in a chant too quiet to hear, but I feel the ripple of magic spreading through the ground.
The ash line glows briefly, then settles back to white, now sealed with fae intent.
“North,” Dane calls.
Kari steps into position at the northern arc of the circle. Her spine is straight, her face carved from stone. She draws her knife—not the one she fights with, but something older, simpler—and holds it point-down over the ash line.
“South.”
Ben moves to the southern point, mirroring Kari’s stance.
“East and west.”
Two more wolves step forward—Devon, the youngest of Marcus’s trainees, and Wyatt, who trained and fought with Marcus for years in Storm Ridge. They take their positions, completing the cardinal points.
The circle is formed. The boundary is sealed. Only then does Dane unsheathe his Alpha blade—a hunting knife with a worn wooden handle and a broad, gleaming edge.
“Marcus Everett,” Dane says, his voice carrying to every corner of the clearing. “Blood of Storm Ridge. Heart of Ash Hollow. Tonight we send him to the next run.”
The entire pack responds as one: “Clear trails and open skies.”
Dane kneels at the base of the pyre where Marcus’s blade rests. He takes it in his left hand, tests the edge with his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. He lets the droplet fall to the ground, then passes the knife to me.
I don’t hesitate. The blade is cold in my palm. I draw it across my thumb as Dane did, feeling the sharp bite of steel, watching the blood well and fall. I pass the knife to the nearest wolf—Callum, his eyes fixed on the pyre.
The knife moves through the circle, each wolf making the same gesture. Blood for memory. Blood for honor. Blood for pack. Even the youngest participate, their faces solemn with understanding.
When the blade returns to Dane, I notice it’s clean—someone wiped away the blood, leaving it ready for its final purpose.
Dane holds it over Marcus’s body for a long moment, then lays it at the base of the pyre beside Marcus’s own blade.
A gift for the next run—an Alpha’s acknowledgment that Marcus died as pack, despite everything.
The circle is complete. The rite is prepared.