24. Stellan
STELLAN
The compound is quiet in the aftermath of victory.
Three days have passed since we took Bloodtusk's stronghold, three days of recovery and mourning and the strange, fragile peace that comes when the fighting finally stops.
Dragan escaped, retreated with whatever forces he has left, and everyone knows the war isn't truly over.
But for now, the immediate threat has passed. For now, we can breathe.
The compound itself bears the scars of war.
The east wing is still being repaired from the first assault.
Black marks stain the concrete where fires burned.
Memorial markers have been placed for Marcus and the other brothers we lost, simple iron crosses that will eventually become permanent monuments.
The cost of victory is written everywhere, in the wounds that are healing and the empty chairs at breakfast.
But there's life too. Roman is recovering, his gruff voice echoing through the halls again, making Margot roll her eyes even as she refuses to leave his side.
The other couples have emerged from the crisis closer than before, their love tested by fire and proven true.
Even Barrett seems softer somehow, his silver eyes finding Kira across crowded rooms, his hand reaching for hers under tables.
I spend the days healing, physically and otherwise.
The wounds from the battle are closing, the knife wound in my side reduced to a dull ache, the various cuts and bruises fading to shadows of what they were.
But the deeper healing is slower. The knowledge of what I became on that battlefield, of how close I came to losing myself entirely, takes longer to process.
Esmerelda stays with me through all of it.
She doesn't push, doesn't try to fix, doesn't do anything except be present.
When I wake from nightmares, she's there, her hand in mine, her voice soft in the darkness.
When the beast stirs restlessly, she reaches for me, and her touch settles something that nothing else ever has.
She's learned to read my silences, to know when I need space and when I need to be held.
She's learned me in ways no one ever has.
On the third morning, I wake before dawn, watching her sleep in the gray light that filters through the window. She's beautiful like this, peaceful, all the worry lines smoothed away. Her hand rests on my chest, over my heart, like she's checking even in sleep to make sure I'm still breathing.
I love her. The thought doesn't surprise me anymore, doesn't come with the fear it used to carry. I love her, and she loves me, and somehow that's become as natural as breathing.
But there's something I need to do. Something I've been building toward since the first time she brought me coffee and didn't flinch when I looked at her, since she started looking past the scars and the silence to see what lay beneath.
I need to take her to meet my sister.
"Esme." I brush the hair from her face with careful fingers, watching her eyes flutter open, that slow, sleepy awareness that always makes something in my chest tighten. "Wake up, little one."
"Mmm." She stretches against me, her body warm and soft, yawning into the pillow. "What time is it?"
"Early. Still dark." I trace my thumb along her cheekbone, feeling the silk of her skin. "I want to take you somewhere."
She blinks at me, more alert now, searching my face with those perceptive eyes that always see too much. "Where?"
"Somewhere I've never taken anyone." I cup her face in my hand, my palm nearly spanning the width of her delicate jaw, needing her to understand the weight of what I'm asking, what I'm offering. "Somewhere important to me."
She doesn't ask questions. Just nods, trusts me, lets me help her up and guide her through the quiet compound to where the bikes are kept. The morning air is cool, tinged with the promise of spring, and she presses against my back as we ride, her arms wrapped tight around my waist.
The cemetery is twenty minutes outside of Redstone, a quiet place called Sacred Ground. I've been coming here for thirteen years, always alone, always before dawn when no one else is around. The gates are open when we arrive, the grounds peaceful in the early morning light.
I park near the eastern edge, where the oak trees cast long shadows across the headstones. Esmerelda slides off the bike behind me, her hand finding mine as we walk between the rows. She doesn't ask where we're going. Just walks beside me, solid and present and unafraid.
Third row. Seventh stone.
I always count. Even here. Especially here.
The headstone is simple, smaller than some of the others around it. Time has weathered it slightly, but I keep it clean, keep the grass trimmed, keep the space as neat as I can manage with my massive, clumsy hands.
MIRA EMILIA VARGAS BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER "She walked in sunlight"
"This is Mira," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. "My sister."
Esmerelda's hand tightens around mine. She doesn't say anything, just moves closer, her shoulder pressing against my arm in silent support.
"I've come here every month for thirteen years.
Told her I was sorry." I stare at the headstone, at the name carved into stone, at all that remains of the girl who used to make me laugh.
"Told her I understood why she was afraid.
Told her I wished I could take it back, could undo what I did, could have protected her without becoming the monster she saw. "
The words hurt, the way they always hurt—like pressing on a half-healed wound that never quite closes. But there's something different this time, something fundamental that has shifted inside me. Something that softens the jagged edges of the old grief, makes it bearable instead of suffocating.
"Today I want to tell her something different," I say, and my voice is steadier than it's been in years.
I lower myself to one knee beside the grave, my massive frame folding carefully as I press my palm flat against the cool, weathered stone.
The marble feels solid beneath my fingers, real and permanent.
Behind me, I feel Esmerelda waiting, patient and unwavering, giving me the space and time I need without question or expectation.
"Mira." The name feels sacred on my tongue, holy in a way nothing else has ever been. "I met someone."
The old oak tree rustles overhead, its ancient branches swaying gently, leaves whispering secrets in the warm morning breeze.
"Her name is Esmerelda. She sees what I am, the beast and the man, and she loves me anyway. She reaches for me when I'm in the dark. She calls me back when I'm lost. She's not afraid of the monster, Mira. She just sees me."
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of thirteen years pressing against my chest.
"I understand now why you were scared. I was scared too. I've been scared my whole life, terrified that everyone would see what you saw, that no one could ever love the thing I become. I pushed everyone away because I thought that was the only way to keep them safe."
A tear tracks down my face, but I don't wipe it away.
"But I don't think I'm just a monster anymore. I think I'm also a man. A man who can love someone without destroying them. A man who can have a future, not just a past full of blood and regret."
I open my eyes, looking at the headstone, at the inscription that always makes my chest ache.
"I think you'd like her," I whisper. "She's kind, the way you were kind.
Gentle with everyone, even when they don't deserve it.
And she's stubborn. So stubborn she wouldn't let me push her away, no matter how hard I tried.
She brought me coffee every day during the lockdown.
Sat with me when everyone else kept their distance.
Saw through every wall I'd built and refused to be scared off. "
I trace the letters of her name with my finger, feeling the carved stone beneath my touch.
"She's not afraid of the beast, Mira. She reaches for me when I'm in the red. She calls me back with her voice. You would have liked that about her, I think. The bravery. The way she sees something broken and wants to hold it instead of fix it."
A bird calls somewhere nearby, breaking the morning silence.
"I'm always going to carry you with me. The seven fingers, the counting, all of it. You're part of who I am. But I'm learning that carrying you doesn't mean I have to be alone. I can love her and still love you. I can move forward and still remember."
I press my forehead against the stone for a moment, breathing in the earthy scent of the cemetery, feeling the coolness against my skin.
"I'm always going to be sorry for what you saw. For who I was in that moment. But I'm learning that being sorry isn't the same as being broken. I can carry the grief and still move forward. I can honor what we lost and still build something new."
I stay there for a long moment, kneeling in the damp grass, feeling the weight of thirteen years finally beginning to shift. Not lifting entirely, never that, but settling into something I can carry without being crushed.
I stand slowly, my joints protesting, and turn to find Esmerelda watching me with tears streaming down her face.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For bringing me here. For letting me meet her."
"Thank you for making me want to."
I pull her close, wrapping my arms around her, pressing my face into her hair. She holds me back, her small body warm against mine, her hands splayed across my back like she's trying to hold all of me at once.
"I love you," I say, and the words feel different here, in this sacred space, with my sister's memory as witness. "All of you. The caretaker and the woman underneath. The one who reaches for broken things and refuses to give up."
"I love you too." She pulls back to look at my face, her hands cupping my jaw. "The gentle man and the beast. The one who counts to seven and growls at brothers who get too close. All of it, Stellan. Every part."