Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO
DAHLIA
Bran’s voice was thin but steady as he spoke the traditional words. Bear mating ceremonies were simple—no elaborate rituals, no lengthy vows. Two people standing before their community and choosing each other.
“In the old days,” Bran said, “bears were solitary creatures. We lived alone, hunted alone, died alone. But we learned that there’s a different strength in choosing companionship. In trusting another with your vulnerabilities.”
Cal’s hands tightened on hers. His dark eyes found hers and locked there, and in them, she saw everything—the lonely years, the desperate running, the exhaustion he’d worn as armor.
“Callum Ursa,” Bran continued, “speak your truth.”
Cal drew a breath. “You taught me that rest is how we survive. That being still isn’t failing—it’s how sustainable strength is built. You taught me that by making me sleep on flour sacks and feeding me honey and refusing to let me be anything other than exactly what I was.”
Dahlia’s eyes were burning. She would not cry. She would NOT—
“Dahlia Moon,” Bran said gently, “speak your truth.”
She swallowed hard. “I spent my life believing that being needed was enough. That if I gave enough, cared enough, sacrificed enough, I would matter. I forgot that I was allowed to want things for myself.” A tear escaped despite her efforts.
“You saw me when I wasn’t being useful. You wanted me anyway.
Not for what I could give you, but for who I was. ”
Cal raised one hand to cup her face, thumb brushing away the tear. “I will spend the rest of my life asking what you want. And then giving it to you.”
“Then it is witnessed.” Bran’s voice rang out across the valley. “Before both sleuths, before our allies and friends, before the mountains that have held our people for generations—Callum Ursa and Dahlia Moon have chosen each other. Let no one challenge what has been claimed.”
The crowd erupted in cheers. Wolves howled. Lions roared. The witches were all crying now—even Narla, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief while Ember chirped indignantly.
But Dahlia barely heard any of it. Because Cal was kissing her—not the careful, public-appropriate kiss of a ceremony, but a claiming. His mouth on hers, one hand fisted in her hair, the other pressing against the small of her back to pull her closer.
“Cabin,” he growled against her lips. “Now.”
Dahlia laughed, breathless and wanting. “We haven’t even cut the cake.”
“They can cut it without us.” His teeth grazed her ear. “I’ve been waiting for weeks to make you officially mine. Every second longer is torture.”
Heat pooled in her belly. The scars on her torso tingled in anticipation—soon, she would have his marks too. Marks she had chosen. Marks that meant forever.
“Then take me home.”