Chapter 15
ELIZA
Iwake to find Declan's side of the bed empty and cold.
The sapphire ring on my finger catches the pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains of Clifftop House—his mother's ring, his promise. I touch it with my thumb, grounding myself in the solid weight before I reach for the mate bond.
He's close. Tense. Angry.
I find him downstairs in my aunt's study, surrounded by maps and the rest of the brotherhood. They all turn when I enter, and the expressions on their faces tell me everything.
"Connor killed again."
"Last night." Declan's voice sounds like he's been screaming. Or maybe like he hasn't slept. "A druid-blood carrier. Thomas Sinclair. Seventy-three years old. They found him at the northern convergence point just after midnight."
A hollow ache opens inside me. While we were making love, while he was giving me this ring and promising forever, someone was dying.
"Don't." Declan crosses to me, his hands gentle on my shoulders despite the steel in his words. "Connor's timeline was already accelerating. This would have happened...” He stops, but his fear bleeds through the bond anyway.
"How many seals are broken now?" I force myself to focus on facts. It's what I'm good at.
"Four." Finn speaks from where he's leaning against the desk, his aquamarine eyes distant. "Three previous murders plus Thomas Sinclair. That leaves three seals intact. Connor needs two more regular bloodline carriers, then you."
"Then we don't have time to waste." I look at each of them—Jax, Tessa, Rafe, Grayson, Kian, Finn. The brotherhood that's sworn to protect this island. "The counter-ritual. We try it today. Now."
"The eastern shore." Grayson's voice rumbles low and certain. "The convergence point there is defensible. Steep cliffs on three sides, ocean access for Finn if we need him in the water. Far enough from the village that civilians won't be caught if Connor attacks."
"When Connor attacks," Jax corrects. "He carved 'three more to go' into the stone where he killed Thomas Sinclair. He knows we're trying something. He'll come for Eliza the moment he realizes what we're doing."
"Then we make sure we're ready for him." Declan's hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. His determination pulses down our connection. "Moira's already at the eastern shore, setting up protective wards. We move in thirty minutes."
Moira Flynn stands at the edge of the eastern shore convergence point like she was born there.
Her red hair whips in the pre-dawn wind, and the salt-water magic radiating from her makes the air taste like the ocean.
She's drawn symbols in the sand—intricate patterns that hurt to look at directly, as if they exist in more dimensions than my eyes can process.
"You know the theory." She doesn't look up from the final symbol she's drawing. "Practice is going to hurt like hell."
"I've had worse," I say, though I'm not sure that's true.
Moira's expression suggests she knows I'm lying.
"The counter-ritual requires three components: blood, blessed salt-water, and storm-calling.
Your blood anchors you to the convergence point.
The salt-water carries the magic. And the storm-calling?
" She meets my eyes. "That's where it gets dangerous.
You're going to channel Declan's storm magic through your body while simultaneously using your will to reinforce the seal.
Lose control—if the storm overwhelms you—it could burn you out from the inside. "
"Comforting."
"I'm here to teach you how to survive this. Grayson?"
The massive grizzly shifts back to human form, his transformation rippling through the pre-dawn air. He walks over, naked and unbothered by the cold, and crouches beside Moira's symbols.
"Storm-born shifters spend years learning control. You don't have years."
"So what's the shortcut?"
"Visualization. Imagine the storm as something physical. Something you can hold, shape, direct. For me, I visualize the ocean's currents—steady, powerful, inevitable. For Declan, it's the wind itself." He draws a line in the sand, connecting two of Moira's symbols. "What works for you?"
I think about the transformation. The hunt. The moment Jax attacked me and I felt lightning wanting to strike. The storm isn't something external—it's connected to Declan.
"A thread. Golden. It connects me to him. When I pull on it, the storm answers."
Grayson nods. "Good. That's your anchor. When you call the storm, visualize pulling on that thread. Don't grab it—pull it gently. Let the power flow through instead of trying to force it."
"And if I pull too hard?"
"Then the storm will rip through you like lightning through a tree." Moira hands me a knife—simple, sharp, with a bone handle. "Which is why you're going to practice control first. Cut your palm. Not deep—just enough to bleed."
I take the knife. My hands are steadier than they should be. Maybe I'm too scared to shake, or maybe some part of me has accepted that this is happening whether I'm ready or not.
The blade bites into my palm. Blood wells up immediately, dripping onto Moira's symbols. The moment it touches the convergence point, power pulses through my bones.
"Now visualize your thread. Don't pull yet. Just see it. Feel it. Know that it's there."
I close my eyes. Reach for the mate bond. And there it is—golden and bright, connecting me to Declan where he stands twenty yards away with Jax. The thread pulses with each of his heartbeats.
"I see it."
"Good. Now pull. Gently. Just a trickle of power. Enough to make the hair on your arms stand up."
I pull. The thread vibrates like a plucked string, and storm magic floods through me—
Too much. Too fast. Lightning explodes behind my eyes. I gasp, nearly dropping to my knees. Every nerve ending lights up with electric pain.
"Control it!" Moira's shout penetrates the agony. "Don't let it control you! Push back!"
I push, visualizing the thread going slack. Slowly, agonizingly, the lightning fades. I'm left gasping, my palm still bleeding onto the symbols.
"Again."
"That nearly killed me...”
"And the actual ritual will be ten times worse. So you practice until you can control the flow. Again, Eliza. Gentler this time."
I pull. Fail. Pull again. The storm magic fights me each time—wanting to explode, to consume, to destroy. But gradually, painfully, I learn its rhythm. Learn to coax instead of command.
My hands shake by the time I can hold it steady—a gentle trickle that makes my skin tingle but doesn't burn. Sweat drips down my spine despite the cold wind. The cut on my palm throbs with each heartbeat.
"Good enough." Moira produces a clay vessel from her bag—ancient, covered in symbols that hurt to look at.
Inside, water glows with faint blue light.
"This is consecrated with sea-witch magic that's been in my family for ten generations.
Once I pour it, you have maybe two minutes before the magic destabilizes.
In those two minutes, you need to call the storm, channel it through the salt-water into the seal, and hold it steady while the convergence point absorbs the power. Understand?"
"Two minutes to save lives or die trying. Got it."
Moira almost smiles. "You're braver than most. Ready?"
I look at Declan. His eyes are gold, his wolf close to the surface, every line of his body radiating the need to stop this, to pull me away from danger. But he doesn't move. He trusts me.
"I'm ready."
"Then kneel in the center. Hands over the primary symbol."
I kneel. The sand is cold and wet beneath me. My bleeding palm hovers over the largest symbol—a spiral within a circle within a triangle, lines so precise they look machine-made.
Behind me, the brotherhood takes defensive positions.
Jax and Tessa move to the cliff paths, eyes scanning the tree line.
Rafe melts into shadows near the rocks. Kian prowls the perimeter in tiger form.
Grayson shifts back to bear, positioning himself as a living wall between me and any threat.
Finn slips into the waves, barely visible in the dark water.
Moira begins to chant in a language I don't recognize. Old Irish, maybe, or something older. The words carry power that makes my teeth ache. She pours the blessed salt-water over my hands.
The cold bites first. Then something deeper—a burn that spreads from my palms up my wrists. Magic, channeling through my skin into my blood.
"Now! Call the storm! Pull on your thread!"
I reach for the mate bond. Grab that golden thread connecting me to Declan. And I pull.
The storm answers.
Lightning cracks across the sky. Thunder shakes the ground beneath me.
Power floods through me—Declan's storm magic, carried by the mate bond, amplified by the transformation that made me more than human.
It burns. Every cell lights up with electricity, and for a moment I'm not sure where I end and the storm begins.
"Control it! Don't let it consume you! Channel it into the seal!"
I visualize the power flowing from me into Moira's symbols, into the convergence point beneath the sand. The storm magic resists—wants to explode outward, wants to strike and destroy. But I hold it. Shape it. Force it downward into the earth.
The convergence point flares. Bright white light erupts from the symbols, and I feel something shift in reality itself. The seal is there—invisible but tangible, a barrier between this world and something else. And it's weak. Cracked. Bleeding power.
I pour the storm magic into the seal. My will shapes it. The mate bond amplifies it. Everything I am—wolf, pack, Declan's mate—flows into that single purpose: strengthen the barrier. Keep Connor out.
The seal strengthens. I feel it knitting together, cracks closing, the barrier solidifying. It's working. The storm blood Declan gave me is enough—barely, but enough.
Then I hear the howls.
They come from the tree line—multiple wolves, moving fast. Connor's loyalists, attacking while I'm vulnerable.