Epilogue
ISOLDE
T he sky above Isolde was bright and clear and blue .
She floated on her back, gazing up at that cloudless expanse of midday sky, letting the lake water cool her heated skin.
When the sun rose that morning, she’d been waiting to greet it on the banks of the lake.
She’d sat there in the tall, lush grass and watched it ascend into the sky, and when it got too hot, she let the water cool her off.
It would be fall soon, and the air would turn chill. Clouds would cast the sky in gray and the lake would freeze over. For now, though, summer still shone down on Lake Hall.
Six months had passed since the night of the blood moon. When she woke that morning with the golden light of dawn in her eyes, Isolde had been convinced she’d died after all. That was the only explanation she could think of for the way the light did not burn her eyes or hurt her skin.
But—no. She was whole and healed and her heart beat steadily in her chest, at that same familiar rhythm from the days when she was human. She was alive.
She was still a Vampire. She still had her strength and her speed. Her darksight still took over at night, and she still needed blood to sustain her.
But she could eat now. She could drink wine and gorge herself on summer berries. She could walk in the sun and not get sick—only sunburnt, but her Vampire healing took care of that quickly enough.
Not only was Isolde alive—she was mortal.
Movement on the lakeshore caught her eye, and she let her legs float downward until she was upright, treading in the deep water.
Bounding across the wide field that separated the manor from the lake, his brown fur gleaming in the sun, was Bastian. Everett walked some distance behind him in his human form, carrying a basket in one hand.
It never failed to mesmerize Isolde, watching Bastian in his Wolf form.
He moved the same way he did in his human form, confident and graceful, but there was a certain wildness to him when he shifted.
His powerful haunches, the way his muscles bunched and rolled beneath that shiny brown coat, the intensity of his golden stare… Isolde couldn’t look away.
He couldn’t look away, either, as he ran toward her. Reaching the shoreline, he took a great leap over the water, his lithe body arcing toward her. Water sprayed Isolde’s face as he plunged into the lake, and she couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up her throat.
When Bastian’s head broke the surface, he was back in his human form. “Hello, moonbeam,” he said, a grin on his handsome face as he swam toward her.
Isolde grinned right back. “Hi.” She wound her legs around his waist when he reached her and smoothed the wet hair out of his eyes. “How’d everything go?”
Everett had taken his official oath to be sworn in as leader of the pack that morning.
He’d been in charge since Anselm died, but the loss of his father had been too fresh, and he hadn’t wanted to take the oath right away.
Bastian had been prodding him to do it for months, afraid that if they didn’t cement Everett’s leadership soon, they would no longer be able to control the dissent that was growing among the pack.
Isolde had opted not to attend the ceremony.
The fact that she could eat and drink and walk in the sun made the Wolves a little more accepting of her presence at Lake Hall, but she was still widely distrusted, and despised by many.
No one dared to lay a finger on her, though—not now that Bastian could shift at will.
“It went fine,” Bastian said, one hand splaying on Isolde’s back as he treaded water for both of them. “Everett panicked right before we went into the hall and I almost had to drag him in by his collar, but he recovered quickly enough.”
“Good.”
Bastian was right to worry about a coup.
They’d kept the details of Anselm’s death fairly vague, but many of the Wolves were suspicious—and rightfully so.
Talk of abolishing the Pact was still rampant, too, and while this was a subject Bastian refused to entertain, Isolde suspected that her presence at Lake Hall wasn’t helping matters.
With Everett sworn in, though, hopefully things would improve. Now he had full authority to discipline anyone who threatened the sanctity of the Pact—which was especially important after everything that had happened with Selene and Anselm.
“Left him in the dust, I see,” Isolde said, nodding toward Everett, who was still making his way across the field. “And with my lunch in that basket, I assume?”
“He’s too slow.” Bastian leaned in to plant a kiss on Isolde’s mouth. “I couldn’t wait to get to you.”
“You’re a shameless flirt. Do you know that?” Isolde teased, even as she hauled Bastian closer and kissed him back.
“Only with you,” Bastian replied. He drew away, untangling Isolde’s legs from his waist. “Come on. I have something for you.”
“Is that so?” Isolde let him pull her toward the shore. “Something better than blackberry pie?”
“I certainly hope so.”
Everett reached them just as they climbed out of the water. He set the basket he was holding in the grass.
“Hello, Isolde,” he said, not quite meeting her gaze.
The scar Isolde had left on his face, which sliced through one eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose to the opposite cheek, was a livid shade of red in the sunlight.
His hazel eyes were hollow—had been since Isolde woke and found him cradling his father’s lifeless body.
Despite the fact that he’d saved her, that he’d helped her kill Selene, Isolde still hadn’t forgiven Everett for the part he’d played in Anselm and Selene’s schemes, or for what he’d done to Bastian.
But she was trying to be civil. For Bastian’s sake.
“Everett,” Isolde greeted. “I hear the ceremony went well.”
“It was alright.” He shifted on his feet, now avoiding Bastian’s gaze, too. “I’ll see you both at supper.”
He turned and walked off, following the curve of the lake, his shoulders folded inward.
A crease marred the space between Bastian’s brows as he watched his brother go. “He’s not the same.”
“His father died,” Isolde said gently.
“So did mine. There’s something else going on inside him. Something worse.”
Isolde curled her hand around Bastian’s arm, tugging him down onto the blanket she’d laid in the grass. All three of them had bad things going on inside them after the blood moon. Bastian was plagued by nightmares. Isolde couldn’t see the color red without her lungs seizing in her chest.
But they were alive. They’d survived.
“He’ll be alright.” Isolde pressed a kiss to the scar on Bastian’s shoulder. She leaned further and kissed the top of the long scar on his back, from when Everett had dealt him the Punishment. “He just needs time.”
Bastian watched Everett’s retreating form for another moment, and then that crease between his brows smoothed out. As he faced Isolde and set the basket Everett had brought before her, a smile replaced the frown.
“Open your present.”
Isolde shot him a questioning look. He only shrugged, his smile turning sly.
She flipped open the wicker lid of the basket and found a heap of fresh blackberry pies, with a little jar of sugared cream. Below those were a layer of sandwiches and a bowl of plump blueberries.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Isolde said, fishing out a pie and shoving half of it in her mouth at once, “but I thought you said it was better than pie?”
“Keep going,” Bastian said. His eyes were like whiskey in the sunlight as he nodded to the basket.
Isolde scooped out the pies, and the sandwiches, and the berries. Beneath all that, she found an oblong bundle, wrapped in dark linen.
Carefully, she lifted the bundle out of the basket. Bastian watched as she folded the fabric back.
“Oh, Bastian,” Isolde breathed. “They’re beautiful.”
Wrapped inside that dark fabric was a set of daggers.
They were made of fine, polished silver, the handles engraved with a delicate pattern that resembled frost on a window.
The pommels were shaped like crescent moons, and the crosspieces curled outward in the shape of ancient, twisting tree branches.
Set just beneath the crosspieces, a pair of pale, pearlescent stones glinted in the sun.
“Moonstone. To match your hair,” Bastian told her softly, watching her examine the stones.
“I bought them from a trader who came to Lake Hall years ago. Thought they were pretty.” He reached out and smoothed his thumb over a damp strand of Isolde’s hair, his eyes swimming with that familiar reverence.
“Funny, that,” Isolde said, feeling a little breathless.
“I promised to make you knives that were tailored to you, if you recall.”
“You didn’t have to do this.” Isolde drew one of the daggers free, smoothing her fingers over the gleaming black leather of the new sheaths that accompanied them. “I love the ones you gave me before.”
“Consider it a wedding present,” Bastian said.
Isolde nearly lost her grip on the weapons as her gaze snapped to him. “I wasn’t aware we were married.”
“We aren’t.”
“Are you asking, then?”
The corner of Bastian’s mouth curled upward.
His eyes shimmered, the gold around his pupils nearly glowing.
“We may not have an eternity,” he said, “and either way, I still promise to love you for the rest of our mortal lives, but I would very much like to spend whatever time we have with you as my wife.”
Bastian reached toward her then and pushed the damp hem of her chemise toward her hips.
He took the sheaths out of her hands and, just like he had on that horse, months ago, he wound the straps around her legs.
His fingers were gentle where they brushed her skin, as he fastened the buckles and fitted the sheaths snugly to her thighs.
When he was finished, Isolde rose up on her knees. “I’m yours. For the rest of our little eternity,” she whispered, and crushed her mouth against his.
Bastian lay back in the grass, bringing Isolde with him so that she rested on his chest. He tasted like salt and honey and sunshine, and Isolde drank him down—his taste, his scent of rich, spiced earth, the strength of his arms. Bastian held her close, his hands tangled in her hair, his nose pressed against her skin.
They stayed that way until the sun set, and the moon began to rise.