Moonbound Alpha

Chapter 7 - Wolf’s Vigil

Ronan POV

Elara weighed nothing in my arms as I carried her through the hall. No one dared disturb me or get in my way.

The door opened, and I kicked the door shut behind us to cross the room in long strides, laying her down on the bed with more care that I have ever given a woman.

She exhaled, a thin small sound, lashes fluttering. Her skin is too warm beneath my fingers, feverish not with sickness but with cost. Witchfire always takes payment. I knew that before tonight.

Seeing it carved into her body is something else entirely.

I shrug off my cloak, draping it over her without thinking, then stop because I am thinking too much. The fabric traps her heat, but also traps in the scent and my wolf surges at the thought of marking what’s already mine in a way I didn’t understand yet.

I step back, breathing to keep control.

“Easy,” I mutter, to myself or to my wolf, I don’t know anymore.

I crouch beside the bed, pressing two fingers to Elara’s throat. Her pulse races, then stumbles, then steadies when my hand settles. The moment contact is made, something inside my chest clicks into place with a sensation like a lock clicking closed.

Her breathing evens out from my touch.

I pull my hand back, my heart slamming in my chest with the realization. My boots thud against the rug as I start pacing.

I was lost in thought, only jolting out of it when Elara made a sound. It is a small, broken sound, the pain she is experiencing in her sleep.

She hasn’t woken yet, her brow furrowed. Her lips parted, but her scent, gods help me, is everywhere now. It smells like home, settling my wolf. I know it isn’t her perfumeI am smelling, it is the scent of home.

And just like that, my wolf settles. What I have been fighting since I met her, settles into my psyche.

Time loses its bearing.

Minutes stretch until they feel like hours. Shadows shift across the wall with every flicker. My wolf is pacing in my head, and he does not like waiting.

I can feel him moving around, a restless pressure that makes my hands curl into fists. He wants to touch her, to check her breathing, to press closer, shield her, mark the room with our presence until nothing dares to threaten her again.

Mine, my wolf declares. I hadn’t heard him speak in years, but he is speaking to me now. His instincts allowed him to claim her as his. She is hurt. We need to guard her, fix her.

She is not yours. Though as I say it to him, I know that isn’t true.

He can tell I am lying, the huff in my mind is unimpressed.

I stand and pace the length of the room, boots silent on the rug. Each step away from the bed tightens something in my chest, and each step closer eases it. I hate that I notice it. I hate that my body has already learned to need her.

Elara shifts on the mattress, a low sound sleeping from her lips. It is a sound of pain, not fear.

I was at her side before I even realized I had moved.

Her hands twitch against the blanket, fingers flexing like she’s grasping for something just out of her reach. Her skin glistens faintly, a sheen of sweat catching the light. The silver beneath her veins pulses once, answering something deeper.

I hover around, unsure. Touching her feels like a line I won’t be able to uncross.

Another sound escapes her, sharper this time.

“Enough,” I growl, not to her, but at myself.

I reach out and grip the edge of the mattress instead of her, knuckles turning white as I restrain myself. My wolf makes a snarling sound, furious at the compromise I had made. My pulse is thundering in my ears, too fast and too loud.

“Breathe,” I softly command her though I know it is stupid. She can’t hear me. Yet, her chest stutters… then falls into a steadier rhythm.

I sink into a chair nearby, watching and guarding her.

My alpha training catalogues her symptoms. Her pulse too fast, skin too hot. The magic is still active, but slowly stabilizing. The man in me notices the curve of her mouth when she relaxes, the faint crease between her brows that doesn’t fade even when asleep.

My wolf notices everything else.

The way her scent shifts as the hours pass, witchfire fading into something softer, deeper like earth after rain, crushed herbs and warmth. It wraps around my senses, grounding and dangerous all at once.

Mine, my wolf insists again. He is calmer now.

Midnight passes unnoticed.

Elara dreams about Selene. At first it is only movement, her lashes fluttering, lips parting on silent words. Then sound slips free, soft enough that I thought I imagined it.

“Selene…”

The name ghosts through the room, barely more than a sigh.

The name doesn’t belong to casual prayers. It belongs to temples half-buried, and rites no one admits still work. My wolf is awake at her voice. His ears pricked, but not alarmed.

“Elara,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t wake.

“Moon’s child,” She murmurs next, her voice trembling.

I feel it then, the shift. It is subtle, but undeniable. My heartbeat slows, syncing to something beyond my chest. I press two fingers to my wrist out of instinct and realize my pulse is matching hers. Not leading, but following.

Elara turns her head slightly, breath hitching. Her lashes flutter open a crack, unfocused eyes sliding toward me without seeing.

“Ronan,” she whispers.

The sound of my name on her lips hits harder than any enemy has ever.

I lean forward without thinking, elbows braced on my knees, close enough now to feel the heat of her skin against my knuckles. I don’t touch her. I don’t trust what I will do if I touch her.

“I’m here,” I say instead.

Her lips curve faintly, a ghost of a smile as if she heard something comforting even if she doesn’t know why. She sinks deeper into sleep, her breathing even again.

A realization settles into me: the recognition I felt she is feeling too.

As dawn breaks, Elara stirs again.

I rise quietly and step closer, drawn by the pull I no longer pretend not to feel. Her hair has fallen loose across the pillow, dark strands tangled with a single streak of silver I hadn’t noticed before.

I hesitate then carefully, I reach out and brush it aside.

The silver catches the dawn, luminous and fine, threading through her hair exactly like the veins of the wards. The sight hits me so hard my hand trembles at the realization.

I turn away, pressing my palm flat against the wall, grounding myself as the man who commands and survives. The alpha in me does not bend to her prophecy.

Behind me, Elara inhales sharply.

I turn back just as her eyes open fully, clear now. She is aware and far too knowing.

She looks at me, really looks, and for a heartbeat, I see something ancient looking back at me.

“The Hollow,” she whispers, voice rough with sleep, “marked you long before it marked me.”