Page 165 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
My fingers moved carefully over his body, cataloguing damage. A deep gash across his left shoulder wept crimson. Puncture wounds dotted his neck where Callum’s teeth had found purchase, though none looked dangerously deep.
Images flooded my consciousness—myself as Rory had seen me, gun raised, face set in grim determination. Then terror that had consumed him when Callum lunged transformed into something else entirely: fierce, overwhelming relief that I was alive.
Then new images crashed through: Dev, unconscious under those blankets in the buggy.
“I’ll check on him,” I murmured, stroking Rory’s fur. “But stay here.”
I approached the buggy cautiously, lifting the edge of the tarp. Dev lay naked beneath, chest rising and falling steadily. Human form, breathing normally. But Christ—his skin was a patchwork of healing wounds. Angry red welts crisscrossed his torso, some still weeping, others sealed with the pale pink of recent scar tissue. I gave his shoulder a light slap.
A soft moan escaped his lips.
“He’s okay,” I called back to Rory, returning immediately to his side.
Time crawled past. Rory’s whines grew more insistent, restless energy building despite his injuries. Through our connection, I caught flashes of his desires—the burning need to shift back, the desperate urge to chase after Isla. He tried to rise twice, but I pressed gentle hands to his shoulders.
“Not yet. Give it time.”
I tried Seb and then Kit on the sat phone. Neither call connected. Were they airborne already?
I kept my Glock ready, scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. But the forest remained silent around us, empty of everything except the sound of Rory’s breathing and the distant call of birds.
Rory began to wriggle against my hands. A low whine escaped his throat, and I felt his determination crystallising—he was going to shift back whether I liked it or not.
“Don’t,” I warned, pressing my palms more firmly against his shoulders. “Not yet.”
But he ignored me completely, of course. His body began to change beneath my touch, and I braced myself for the agony.
This time was different. Instead of the violent, bone-snapping transformation from before, Rory moved deliberately slowly. The shift rippled through him like waves, each change measured and controlled. His bones lengthened gradually, joints popping with soft clicks rather than sickening cracks. Golden fur receded in patches, revealing human skin beneath.
The pain that flooded through our bond was manageable—a deep ache rather than white-hot torture. Ifound myself mesmerised, watching the impossible process unfold in exquisite detail. Muscles reforming themselves, rippling his skin. Muzzle shortening as his skull reshaped itself. His injuries seemed to rapidly close in front of my eyes.
Wonder filled me, pure awe at witnessing something so fundamentally magical. Rory caught between worlds, neither fully human nor wolf but something beautiful and impossible.
“Hi,” he eventually panted, human head on my lap, blond hair tousled, blue-green eyes bright.
“Hi,” I replied, stroking his hair, fingers combing through the disheveled strands.
“You found me.”
I shrugged. “That was your doing. Don’t bond us together if you don’t want me to be able to track you down.”
A soft laugh bubbled up from Rory’s chest, the sound rippling through the air like music. Something warm and bright unfurled within me at that laugh—pure joy washing away the lingering adrenaline and horror of what I’d just done.
He shifted, pushing himself up, then climbing onto me so he was sitting sideways across my lap, one arm draped around my shoulders. This close, I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were still slightly dilated from the transformation.
I leaned in, drawn by an irresistible pull, and pressed my lips to his.
The kiss began soft, tentative—barely a whisper of contact. Rory’s lips were warm beneath mine, slightly chapped. I felt his breath hitch, then his mouth opened slightly, inviting me deeper. My tongue traced the seam of his lips, tasting him slowly. His hand found the back of my neck, holding me close but not demanding more. We moved together with deliberate slowness, each press of lips measured and precious.
Time suspended itself around us. The forest fell away, the bodies, the blood, everything except the gentle exploration of his mouth against mine. His emotions flooded through me, to the point I could taste his exhaustion, his relief, the lingering tang of fear transmuted into somethinginfinitely sweeter. When we finally broke apart, I rested my forehead against his, breathing in the scent of pine needles caught in his hair.
“We’re alive,” Rory whispered, wonder threading through his voice.
…he’s okay…he’s okay…it’s okay…
“We’re alive,” I confirmed, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. “I’m okay.”
Rory caught me up on everything Isla had said. GREY. Her mother, mysteriously not dead. How he’d begged her to let him help her. After she’d been responsible for so much harm, I wasn’t sure I would have extended her the same courtesy.
