The night Nyra was born. Brexon paced outside the birthing den, growling at anyone approaching. And then, when he held her for the first time, the world shifted.
“My little moonbean,” he whispered. “Perfect, isn’t she?”
I had never seen him weep before, but that night, his eyes shone.
“I will never let her hurt,” he vowed, kissing her soft forehead.
Lies. All of it.
My hands sank into the cold earth. Memories refused to leave me.
The Moon Festival.
Brexon had reserved the entire sacred glade. No other wolves. No elders. No guards. Just us.
Nyra squealed. “All this… for me, Daddy?”
He scooped her up, spinning her. “All for you, my moonbeam.”
She pressed her tiny hands to his cheeks. “And for Mommy too?”
His grin turned playful, almost smug. “Of course it is.”
When the spelllit fireworks burst across the night sky, he slipped his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me into his warmth.
“This is worth every battle I fought,” he whispered against my ear, voice rough with emotion, “A world just for you. For her. For us.”
A sharp, bitter sound tore from my throat—half laugh, half broken breath.
Lies.