Chapter 14 Darius
DARIUS
Ihear her moving through the halls again—light, careful steps, the kind a person takes when they’re trying not to be heard but aren’t afraid to be caught either.
That subtle grace, that warmth she carries like a shawl around her shoulders, it hums through the house now like a heartbeat.
I stay in the study, rooted to this damn chair like I’ve turned to stone, staring into the low embers of a fire that’s as restless as my thoughts.
Everything inside me is coiled tight, caught between the echo of her touch and the ghost of a name I thought I’d buried long ago.
She should’ve run.
She should’ve slammed the door behind her, thrown that journal into the hearth, and screamed at me to stay away.
That would’ve made more sense. That would’ve been safer—for her, at least. But she’s still here.
Still walking the same halls that remember what I did, what I let happen.
And I don’t know if I should be grateful or afraid.
I don’t sleep. My body aches with the tension of holding everything in—the beast pacing just under the skin, the guilt gnawing deeper every time I catch her scent in a room I thought I’d locked her out of.
I avoid mirrors. I don’t want to see the man staring back at me, because he’ll have her eyes.
The way she looked at me after the kiss—that stunned, breathless look like she’d seen something worth staying for—keeps replaying in my head, and it guts me.
When she knocks on the study door, she doesn’t wait for permission.
“I’m coming in,” she says, her voice gentle but unwavering.
She steps inside holding two mugs, steam curling up from them in lazy spirals. She’s in one of Mary’s oversized sweaters again, sleeves nearly covering her fingers, and her hair’s a little messy, like she’d been thinking too hard to bother with brushing it. I can’t stop staring.
“I thought you might want tea,” she says as she walks toward me, the weight of her gaze steady. “Mary said you like black with honey.”
I blink, surprised by that. “I haven’t told anyone that.”
“Sisters know things,” she replies, almost smiling, and holds out the mug like an olive branch. “Or so I’ve heard.”
I take it—not because I want the tea, but because it’s her offering it. When our fingers touch, there’s that same jolt, like every nerve in me sits up and pays attention to her. She doesn’t flinch. Neither do I. But I want to.
“I read the journal,” she says.
It’s not said meekly. It’s not even hesitant. Just truth dropped between us like a stone in still water. I stare at the flames a long moment, my hands tightening around the cup until it groans softly from the pressure.
“I didn’t kill her,” I say, each word dragging out of me like it’s made of iron. “But I didn’t save her either.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just lets the silence stretch long enough for the truth to settle, to find its shape between us.
“She knew what I was,” I go on, my voice low and rough. “Knew the danger, the risks, the madness that comes when the moon turns full and the beast presses closer to the surface. I thought love would hold it back. I thought she was enough to tame it.”
My jaw clenches. I set the mug down on the stone hearth.
“She was brave. Too brave. Thought if she stayed, it would make me human. But the Blood Moon doesn’t care about love, or intentions, or how hard you try to hold onto yourself. That night… I lost control. Not all the way. Not quite. But enough.”
I drag a hand down my face, the memory biting sharper than any claw ever has.
“She left me a note. Said she couldn’t watch me unravel. Said she’d rather walk into the snow than become a cautionary tale for my pack. She wanted to die her own way.”
I exhale hard, shoulders sinking. “I buried her myself. The ground was frozen, and I still dug until my hands bled.”
Tessa moves before I realize it. Her hand settles over mine, gentle but firm. She’s not crying. She’s not trembling. She’s just… there. Grounding me.
“I’m sorry,” she says, voice soft but not fragile.
“She called me a monster,” I whisper. “Not with malice. Just... recognition. And maybe she wasn’t wrong.”
“She didn’t die because you’re a monster,” she says. “She died because she couldn’t carry it anymore. That’s not the same thing.”
I stare at her like I’m trying to memorize every freckle, every shadow in her eyes, because I know this won’t last. This moment. This connection. I don’t deserve it.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” I admit.
Her thumb brushes against my knuckles. “You just did.”
Later, she follows me up the stairs. There are no words exchanged, no promises made, no assumptions. Just a quiet agreement that we’ve walked too close to the edge together now to go back.
I open the door to the master suite, step aside for her to enter first. She does. She curls up on one side of the bed, beneath the heavy quilt, and watches me with an expression that’s all invitation and no pressure.
I lie beside her, leaving space between us. Not out of coldness, but out of reverence.
She doesn’t reach for me.
But she doesn’t turn away either.
We lay like that for hours, eyes on the ceiling, breath syncing up as though even in silence, we’re trying to find a rhythm that makes sense.
She falls asleep first. I stay awake, listening to the soft cadence of her breath, the way she murmurs in dreams, curls in on herself like she’s protecting something tender inside. The beast stirs beneath my skin, but it doesn’t growl. It doesn’t claw. It watches her too, reverent. Curious.
When I finally doze, I dream of snow again.
But this time, it’s not her in it.
It’s someone else—eyes like blood and fire, teeth too white to be anything but cruel.
And he speaks.
Roman.
I bolt upright, breath shallow, heart hammering.
Tessa stirs beside me but doesn’t wake. She reaches out in her sleep, her hand finding mine in the dark.
And I hold on.
Because something in me whispers that if I let go now, I may never find my way back.