Chapter 28
HEALING MOON
The longest journey you will ever make is the one back to yourself
Della
Yellowstone: Sea meets Mountain
The air in Montana isn’t just clean—it’s wild. It stings your cheeks, fills your lungs with pine, sagebrush, and that faint, sulfuric breath of the earth itself.
After a couple of days of hiking, breathing in every wonder and yelling at the geysers, as promised, we’re in the Lamar Valley. A classic scene: cars lined up along the shoulder, people leaning out with binoculars. Usually it’s for bears, but today? Wolves.
“Pull over,” Silvia says, voice low.
I steer onto the gravel. We get out and slide into the quiet crowd. Two hundred yards out, a gray wolf slips from the grass. It’s massive, a ghost of muscle and fur, moving with a fluid, terrifying grace like it owns the place.
It stops. Turns its head. And stares right at us. No, at her.
Silvia, who’s never met a silence she couldn’t fill, goes totally still. Her camera hangs forgotten. She takes a slow step forward. Then another.
“Silvia,” I whisper, grabbing for her arm. “Wait.”
She’s locked in, staring at the wolf’s yellow eyes. There’s something ancient in that gaze—cold, hungry, and absolute. I see her stepping off the gravel, into the grass and panic spikes.
“Silvia, stop!” I hiss. “You’re too close.”
“He sees me,” she murmurs, dreamy, almost sleepwalking. “Della, look at his eyes…”
She’s moving faster now, drawn like a moth to a flame, oblivious to the murmurs of the tourists behind us, oblivious to the danger. I lunge to grab her jacket, but I miss.
"Silvia!"
Suddenly, a shadow looms over us partly blocking out the sun.
A hand—huge, rough—lands on Silvia’s shoulder, halting her momentum with the abrupt, jarring force of a wall.
"That's far enough."
The voice is a low rumble, a sound like tectonic plates shifting deep underground.
Silvia gasps, blinking as if waking from a trance and spins around. She tilts her head back.
The man holding her is a mountain in a green and gray uniform. He is tall, broad-shouldered, built like a cliff. He’s not looking at the wolf—he’s staring at Silvia.
His eyes are the color of moss and river stones, set in a face carved by wind and sun.
"He's not a dog, ma'am," the ranger says, his tone flat, and utterly unshakeable. "He will tear your throat out before you can blink."
For a second, Silvia just stares up at him, breath caught. She’s all wild energy, churning and restless.
He’s a mountain—silent, unmoving. The unstoppable wave crashing into the immovable rock.
"I..." Silvia stammers, her cheeks flushing a deep red. "I just... his eyes. I couldn't look away."
"Then look at me," he commands. It’s not a pickup line but an order for safety, a way to break the predator's hold. Or is it?
Silvia swallows hard.
"I'm looking."
He holds her gaze, just a beat too long. I catch something shift in his eyes—a flicker, like he recognizes the storm inside her. He lets go, but doesn’t step away. Still shielding her, body between her and the wild.
“I’m ranger Brad Wilder,” he says, tipping his hat. “Stay on the pavement. Wild things out here don’t care about rules.”
He glances at me, nods, then heads for his truck—NATIONAL PARK SERVICE painted on the side. He walks like he’s got roots.
Silvia lets out a long, shaky exhale, her hand going to the spot on her shoulder where he touched her. She watches his truck drive away, her eyes wide.
"Holy..." she whispers. "Did you feel that?"
I laugh, the tension draining out of me. "The wolf or the mountain?"
"The mountain," she breathes. "Definitely the mountain."
We turn back to the valley. The wolf is drinking from the stream now, oblivious to us. I touch the teal sapphire at my throat.
I watch the animal—how it stands alone, how it doesn't need permission to exist.
That is what I was, I think. Before the fear. Before the warehouse.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, shielding the screen from the glare. The daily poem from Dorian.
I look for you in the falling rain,
And the wind that calls your name.
I trace you in the melting sun
And the shining moon.
I look for you in everything…
And find you in my heart,
My love.
My Goddess.
I look from the text to the rugged horizon Brad Wilder just disappeared into.
Dorian is trying. He’s fighting his own nature, learning stillness. And I’m here, breathing air that tastes like freedom.
* * *
Salt Lake City & Moab: The Delicate
Leaving Yellowstone is like waking up from a wild dream you almost want to sink back into. South of the park, the world shifts—green fades, red takes over.
We stop in Salt Lake City for a day, wrapped in spa robes, the air thick with eucalyptus and quiet luxury. The grime from the road disappears under hot water and rough towels. Wet sauna, dry sauna, hot stones massage, facial, floating… we try them all.
It’s the most pampering, completely relaxing experience I have ever had.
After all the spoiling, while getting dressed, I catch my reflection in the mirror. The bruises are just yellow smudges now. The cut on my arm? Just a thin, pink scar.
For a second, I almost look whole. Feel whole.
* * *
Moab is where everything actually changes.
We roll into Arches National Park before sunrise on day six, the land painted in rust, ochre, that deep, impossible orange you only get in the desert.
"We're hiking to the Delicate Arch," Silvia announces, tossing me a water bottle. "It's three miles. Uphill. On solid rock."
"You're trying to kill me?" I groan, tying my laces. “Last time I went to the gym it was for a sports client campaign.”
"I'm trying to make you sweat out the demons, Della. Let's go."
Silvia is leading the way with such ease but to me the hike is brutal. My lungs burn, my calves scream, and the sun beats down on the red slickrock with unforgiving intensity. But I keep pushing… through the burn and the exhaustion, forcing my body to remember what it can do.
I am not weak. I am not broken.
And then, we turn the corner around a massive rock wall, and the world opens up.
There it is.
The Delicate Arch stands alone on the edge of a massive sandstone bowl. It defies gravity. It looks fragile, like a strong wind could topple it, yet it has stood against storms, wind, and time for thousands of years.
I walk to the edge of the bowl and sit, taking in the view.
The wind whips my hair across my face. I touch the sapphire at my throat—my ocean drop in the middle of the desert.
I close my eyes and let the realization wash over me.
For so long, I thought I needed Dorian to be the wall that protected me from the world, to be safe.
But looking at this arch—standing alone, carved by the very elements that tried to destroy it—I know the truth.
I don't need him to survive.
I survived Andy and the loss of our baby. I survived Leah and the warehouse.
I don't need Dorian. I want him.
The difference is staggering. It’s the difference between a cage and a home. I choose him, not out of fear, but out of love.
I pull out my phone. I have signal, miraculously.
A message from Dorian is waiting.
Every dawn without you
Is a day without a heart,
An empty world, with us apart.
Every word from you
Is a spark of light,
That makes the world feel right.
Walk your path, my love.
I smile, tears pricking my eyes.
"You, okay?" Silvia asks, plunging down beside me.
"Yeah," I say, my voice clearer now. "Let's go under the Arch."
"Now, look at you!" Silvia exclaims, her surprise and joy evident. "What have you done with delicate Della?"
I stand, feeling strong on my legs, and pass Silvia, taking the lead.
"I just realized being delicate doesn't mean being weak." I turn with a smile. "Are you coming, beach girl?"
I take a deep breath and make a complete rotation with open arms, absorbing the vastness of this ancient place.
And I feel… free.
* * *
Dorian
The precinct interrogation room is small and smells like stale coffee and fear.
I watch through the one-way mirror as Detective Miller flips through the file on the table.
Across from him sits Leah.
Or rather, a version of her. The polish is gone. Her hair is limp, her makeup gone, and that practiced, icy composure has cracked, revealing the frantic, cornered animal underneath.
"This is ridiculous," she snaps, though her voice wavers. "My father built this city. You can't hold me."
Miller doesn't look up.
"Your father is dead, Ms. Kingsley. And according to the documents provided to us this morning... his legacy is a little more complicated than we thought."
I lean against the back wall, watching the color drain from her face. David stands beside me, arms crossed.
"We gave them everything?" I ask, my voice low.
"Everything," David confirms. "The recordings we found on our surveillance system, the direct wire transfers to the two men who took Della and some hints about her father’s network. It's irrefutable, Dorian. She's not getting out on bail. She’s not getting out, period."
I expected to feel triumph in seeing her locked up. I expected a surge of that dark, satisfying rage. Instead, I just feel... done. She looks small and pathetic like a ghost I’ve finally exorcised.
"Good," I say, turning away from the glass. "She’s a problem for the state now. Not for me."
We walk out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights humming.
"You handled that well," David says, matching my stride.
"Don't psychoanalyze me, Dave."
"I'm not. I'm just saying... the old you would have wanted to be in that room. Wanted to twist the knife."
I stop at the exit, looking out at the gray Chicago streets.
"The old me would have killed her," I admit. "And lost Della in the process."
I touch the phone in my pocket, thinking of the message I sent this morning. Walk your path... "I'm learning, David. Slowly."
* * *
I’m at David and Flor’s place. It’s warm and cozy, and smells of garlic and spices—a stark contrast to my empty penthouse.
Flor shoves a plate of pasta into my hands before I can even sit down.