Chapter 31
CADE
By the time we make it back to Solara, all I want to do is go straight to our room and keep Rowan wrapped in my arms.
She’s getting stronger by the minute, but she still has tremors that move through her, and the need to heal her burns through me.
I almost didn’t survive watching her defeat Malrik. I thought I would die right there in the stands. Maybe I would have if she hadn’t won. I don’t know, but I do know I will do whatever it takes to make sure I never feel that way again.
That she’s not put into that much danger.
Letting Rowan face this on her own was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I know it was the right choice for her. She needed it more than the rest of us did.
As we walk toward the pack house, we say quiet goodnights to Marius, Jocelyn, Liz, and Iris. Archie is still curled around Rowan’s neck, and I don’t imagine he’s going anywhere else until we get inside.
The pack, as a whole, is quiet. Some of them are still at The Keep, searching for those who might have been stolen from Solara, but most are here, checking on one another in low, murmured voices.
The usual energy of the pack—the hum that always sits just beneath the surface—is still there, but it’s softer now.
Like everyone is instinctively deciding on calm after everything we just went through.
Rowan may have done the heavy lifting tonight, and I’m not saying that was nothing, but we all felt her pain, right alongside her.
We gave our energy as a whole. All six packs. We connected to her in a way I never knew could be possible, and when that happened, I knew I wasn’t the only one willing to die to make sure she won.
As much as I never want to experience that again, I can’t deny the beauty in it either. Especially now with her safe.
I keep my arm around Rowan as we walk. Not tight enough to trap her. Just enough that she doesn’t have to stand on her own if she doesn’t want to.
She hasn’t said much since we left The Keep.
A few quiet responses here and there. A small smile when Archie made a comment under his breath.
But mostly, she’s been here without really being here, her attention drifting somewhere just out of reach as her body catches up with what she just forced it through.
Her steps slow as we reach the entrance to the pack house, and for a second, I think she might stop entirely, but then she leans just slightly into me instead. It’s small, but it means everything.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, low enough that it stays between us, then I pick her up, cradling her in my arms as Archie wiggles to her chest.
Instead of protesting like I half expect, her fingers curl lightly into my shirt in response, the contact grounding in a way that settles something restless in my chest.
Inside, the house is already shifting into recovery mode. Lights burn low. Voices stay quiet. Someone has a pot of something simmering in the kitchen that smells like herbs and broth, and a few of the younger wolves move quickly through the halls with blankets and clean clothes.
Normal things. Necessary things.
The kind that reminds you life keeps going, even after everything else stops.
I carry Rowan toward the stairs, intent on getting her somewhere quiet, safe, and where she can finally let go without worrying about who’s watching or what’s expected of her next.
She deserves that and so much more. She deserves to rest without the weight of the world pressing against her ribs. At least for the rest of the night. Tomorrow’s another day to finish the cleanup of what’s been left behind.
With quick movements, I open Archie’s closet, and he jumps inside without needing to be told. Rowan blows him a kiss as I carry her to our bedroom without further interruptions, but as soon as I close the door behind us, the air shifts.
It’s subtle. Most wouldn’t catch it, but I’ve spent too long learning how to read danger not to feel it the second it slips into the space.
Magic.
Old. Controlled. Intentional.
I stop and let Rowan out of my hold when she begins to move. She doesn’t pull away from me, but I feel the slight tightening in her posture, the way her awareness sharpens even through the exhaustion dragging at her.
“We can’t even get five minutes,” I mutter under my breath.
The room stills as the sorceress appears.
Talira doesn’t arrive with a burst of power or a dramatic entrance. One moment, the space near the far wall is empty, and the next she’s simply there. Composed as ever, her presence cutting cleanly through the room without raising her voice or her magic.
I shift slightly, angling my body just enough to keep Rowan behind the line of my shoulder without making it obvious. She doesn’t need me to shield her, but that doesn’t stop the instinct from settling into place anyway.
Talira’s gaze lands on us immediately. It lingers on Rowan for a long second, taking in everything my mate is now—not just the woman, but the power beneath her skin, the quiet shift in the air around her that marks something fundamentally changed.
There’s no hostility in her stare. No challenge.
Just… Assessment.
Then Talira steps forward.
“I won’t keep you long,” she says, her voice smooth and measured, cutting through the room without effort.
Good, because Rowan doesn’t have long to give. At least not as far as I’m concerned.
She’s done more than enough.
This—whatever Talira has to say—will be quick. Because whether the rest of the world realizes it yet or not…
Rowan doesn’t need to prove anything else tonight, and I’m not letting anyone forget that.
Not even this sorceress.
Talira steps toward us, her presence settling within our bedroom like a line drawn through the sand—clean, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
Her eyes never leave Rowan. “You did what I could not.”
The words are simple, measured, and not offered lightly.
Rowan shifts beside me, not pulling away, but I feel the way her attention sharpens, the way those words land somewhere deeper than anything said to her since we left the arena.
Talira’s chin lifts slightly, her expression unchanged, though something in her eyes has shifted.
“I misjudged you,” the sorceress continues, her tone even, as if she’s stating a fact rather than admitting fault. “What you would become. What you would choose. Your strength and determination.”
Her gaze flicks briefly to me, then back to Rowan. “That won’t happen again.”
Rowan inhales slowly beside me, and I feel the slight tremor in her hand before she steadies it.
“I didn’t mean to let him die,” she says quietly.
Talira studies her for a beat longer, then gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“He was never going to survive this,” she says. “The moment he chose control over balance.” She shakes her head. “His end was never up to you. He did that himself the moment he refused to let go.”
The tension in Rowan’s body eases—just a fraction—but enough that I feel it through the arm I still have wrapped around her.
Talira takes a step back, already withdrawing from the moment as efficiently as she entered it.
“There will be instability,” she adds, glancing briefly toward the window, toward the world beyond Solara.
“Power like that doesn’t disappear without consequence.
All supernaturals will feel it, but the covens most of all.
Some will be tempted to test the limits of what remains.
” Her attention returns to Rowan. “I’ll ensure they don’t. ”
Better her than my mate.
She pauses, just for a second, and frowns like she’s considering something else, but doesn’t like the taste of the words. “If you ever require something beyond the reach of wolves…” She glances between us once more, deliberate this time. “You may call on me.”
Her words aren’t warm. Hell, they don’t even seem entirely sincere, but they’re a promise.
And that’s more than I expected from the sorceress who previously didn’t seem interested in helping beyond sharing old information.
Rowan nods once, the movement small but steady. “Thank you.”
Talira inclines her head in return, and then she’s gone.
No flare of power. No dramatic exit.
The room lightens around us, and I don’t wait.
The second the unwanted presence disappears, I tighten my hold on Rowan and guide her back toward the bed before anything—or anyone—else can interrupt.
“That’s enough,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “You’re done for tonight.”
This time, she doesn’t argue.
If anything, she leans into me more, her weight settling heavier now that whatever she was holding together for that conversation finally slips.
I help her sit, then kneel in front of her long enough to pull off her boots, my hands moving slower than usual, more deliberately.
Not because she’s fragile, but because she’s earned the right to be taken care of in a way that isn’t rushed.
In a way that isn’t about survival or urgency or the next threat waiting at the door.
When I look up at her again, her eyes are already half-lidded, exhaustion finally catching up with everything she forced herself through.
“You don’t have to hold it together anymore,” I tell her quietly.
Her lips curve just slightly at that, something soft and tired and real. “I’m not,” she murmurs.
I huff a quiet breath. “Liar.”
“Maybe a little.”
I continue to undress her, one piece at a time, taking my time, letting each moment stretch instead of rushing through it. My fingers brush over her skin as I go, reminding her without words that she’s here. That she made it. That she doesn’t have to brace for impact anymore.
By the time I’m done, the tremor running through her has changed.
It’s no longer from strain. Instead, there’s release from everything she’s finally letting herself feel now that it’s all over.
I don’t comment on it. I just gather her up again, lifting her into my arms.
She deserves more than I’ll ever be able to give, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.