Page 20 of My Fated Mate

Suddenly, she glances towards the rising sun. "Oh dear, Thorne, I completely lost track of time. I promised Elara I'd help with the morning bread."

I try to hide my disappointment.

"Of course," I force a smile. "Duty calls." The words sound hollow even to my own ears.

She hesitates, then leans in, brushing a kiss against my cheek. The touch sends a jolt through me, and I groan my pleasure.

"Thank you, Thorne," her whisper is warm against my ear. "For the conversation, and for the... swim." Her cheeks flush a charming pink, and I can't help but grin.

She has to be the fated mate.

As she turns to leave, a primal urge to stop her grips me. But then, with a casual gesture, she pushes her hair aside, revealing the nape of her neck.

My breath catches.

This is it.

Finally. The moment of truth.

The fated mark, a crescent moon swirling with intricate markings, should be there, a beacon on her pale skin.

But it's not.

There's nothing. Just smooth, unmarked flesh. The world seems to tilt on its axis. Disappointment crashes over me, a cold wavethreatening to extinguish the embers of hope that Elowen had kindled.

What the fuck is happening?

Elowen is not the answer, after all?

Elowen does not bear the mark, but the pull between us is undeniable.

Is the prophecy a lie, or is there another way to interpret it—one that doesn't negate the powerful connection I feel with my mate?

The path ahead may be shrouded in uncertainty, but one thing is clear – Elowen is not the fated mate I need.

Chapter 6

ELOWEN

The lingering taste of mint and something wilder, something uniquely Thorne, still clings to my lips.

I lick them again, the memory sending a jolt straight to my core. One stolen kiss under the cloak of night shouldn't have this much power.

Sunlight streams through the window, dappling my room with warmth.

I groan, burying my head deeper into the pillows.

Sleep had evaded me last night, chased away by the replay of stolen glances, whispered secrets, and the searing heat of his touch.

A commotion outside my window pulls me from my tangled thoughts. I peek through the thin curtains to see Thorne leading his men in a rigorous training session.

Dawn paints the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting long shadows as they lunge and parry, the metallic clang of swords echoing through the crisp morning air.

He moves with a predatory grace that sends a shiver down my spine. Every muscle in his body ripples with power and control, starkly contrasting the arrogance that often clouds his features.

Here, on the training grounds, he's in his element, a leader who commands respect and inspires loyalty.

And then my traitorous gaze dips lower.

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