Page 70 of Claws for Celebration
He talked to her constantly, sharing stories about their first meeting, reminding her of the promises they'd made to each other, describing the future they would build together once she recovered. Sometimes he thought he saw her eyelids flutter inresponse, but she remained stubbornly unconscious, her body focused entirely on the monumental task of recovering from magical expenditure that should have killed her outright.
"I've been thinking about what you said," he told her on the third evening, his voice hoarse from days of continuous conversation. "About wanting to expand the bookstore's rare books section. There's a dealer in Asheville who specializes in occult manuscripts. We could take a long weekend, make it a combination business trip and romantic getaway."
The healing crystals around the bed pulsed with gentle light, their energy slowly helping to restore the magical pathways that Moira had burned out during the banishment ritual. But progress was measured in tiny increments, each improvement so small that only their mate bond allowed him to detect the changes.
"Twyla's been cooking nonstop," he continued, absently stroking his thumb across her knuckles. "She says she's preparing for a celebration feast when you wake up, but I think she's just worried and needs something to do with her hands. Yesterday she brought enough soup to feed half the town, all of it infused with healing herbs and fae blessings."
On the fourth day, Dr. Simonson arrived from the Cherokee Nation's supernatural council, bringing healing techniques that combined modern medicine with ancient shamanic practices. She examined Moira with the thoroughness of someone accustomed to dealing with magical injuries that defied conventional treatment.
"Her soul is trying to return," Dr. Chen explained after completing her assessment. "But the trauma of channeling that much power has left her afraid to fully inhabit her body again. She needs an anchor strong enough to overcome that fear."
"What kind of anchor?" Lucien asked.
"Love," the doctor said simply. "The certainty that she has something worth coming back to. Keep doing what you're doing. Keep reminding her that she's not just a weapon or a Guardian Witch, but a woman who is cherished for exactly who she is."
That night, Lucien climbed carefully into bed beside Moira, gathering her close against his chest so she could feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his body. Through their bond, he poured every ounce of love and devotion he possessed, painting mental pictures of the life they would share.
"We're going to have such a good life together," he whispered into her hair. "Quiet mornings with coffee and books, evenings by the fireplace planning magical protections for the town. Maybe we'll adopt a cat who thinks he owns the bookstore. Or a dog who insists on greeting every customer like they're his long-lost family."
He felt a flutter of amusement through their connection, so faint he might have imagined it, but enough to make hope bloom in his chest.
"You're going to love spring in Hollow Oak," he continued, emboldened by that tiny response. "The mountain laurel blooms in May, and the whole forest looks like something from a fairy tale. We can take walks on the trails behind the bookstore, maybe find some of those medicinal herbs Elena's always talking about."
As the fifth day dawned with no change in Moira's condition, Lucien found himself running out of stories about their future and turning instead to memories of their brief but intense courtship.
"Do you remember the night you first touched my panther form?" he asked, his fingers threading through her mahogany curls. "You weren't afraid at all. Just curious and gentle and absolutely fearless in the face of something that should have terrified you. That's when I knew you were extraordinary."
Elena appeared in the doorway with fresh tea and a concerned expression. "How are you holding up?"
"She's getting stronger," Lucien said, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Elena or himself. "I can feel her fighting to come back. She just needs more time."
"And you need food that isn't delivered by worried townspeople," Elena replied firmly, setting down a tray that contained more than just tea. "Eat something, or I'll have Twyla come up here and force-feed you."
As evening settled over Hollow Oak and the fifth day of vigil drew to a close, Lucien felt exhaustion weighing on him like a physical burden. But he refused to give up, refused to accept that the woman who'd saved the entire supernatural world might not survive the aftermath of her own heroism.
"Come back to me," he whispered against her temple, pouring the last of his strength through their bond. "Come back to us. We're all waiting for you."
Through their connection, he felt something shift, a stirring that suggested his endless vigil might finally be making a difference. But whether that shift meant recovery or something else entirely, only time would tell.
42
MOIRA
The first thing Moira became aware of was warmth. Not the burning sensation of magic overwhelming her system, but the gentle, steady heat of sunlight streaming through familiar windows and the solid presence of someone holding her hand like a lifeline.
The second thing was the sound of Lucien's voice, rough with exhaustion.
"Mountain laurel blooms in late spring and requires well-drained acidic soil," he was saying, his thumb tracing absent patterns across her knuckles. "Native to the Appalachian region and beloved by local wildlife, though all parts of the plant are toxic to humans when ingested."
"Planning to poison someone?" she whispered, her voice coming out as barely more than a croak.
The botanical guide hit the floor with a satisfying thud as Lucien's head snapped up, his dark green eyes wide with disbelief and relief in equal measure. "Moira? Oh, thank God. You're awake."
"How long?" she asked, though part of her wasn't sure she wanted to know. The last clear memory she had was thedimensional breach closing behind Malphas's banished form, followed by pain beyond description and then... nothing.
"Five days," Lucien said, his free hand coming up to her face with reverent gentleness. "Five days of you scaring the hell out of everyone who cares about you."
Five days. No wonder he looked like he'd been through a war zone, with dark circles under his eyes and several days' worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, and his clothes looked like he'd been sleeping in them.
