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And he had to walk out past all those faces—Con’s tight jaw, Cathal’s pale grimace, the pity in the eyes of men who’d kill for him but couldn’t meet his gaze—feeling like someone had carved him open and left him to bleed out in front of everyone.

Just an altar, a bouquet, and a hole in his chest—one carved by absence, by the echo of words never spoken and promises never made. The silence hadn’t just hollowed out the room; it had hollowed him, scraped him raw from the inside out. That altar had been the place where he’d planned to build something new, something sacred. Instead, it had become a monument to what he lost the moment she didn’t walk through that door.

He’d written vows for her—words he never spoke aloud to anyone. Promises inked on the back of an envelope and stuffed in his jacket pocket. Promises to protect her, to walk away fromthe blood and power games if it meant giving her peace. He’d planned to tell her she was his future, his tether to something better. Instead, all that hope had curled into ash the moment he realized she wasn’t coming.

But she’d run. Left him standing at the altar, fists clenched, heart cracked clean through. Even so, he’d protected her. From the fallout of her own choices. From Con's wrath, which would’ve lit a fire Finn couldn’t put out. From the truth of what he was, because deep down, he didn’t care if she chose him. He made that decision the moment he first caught her scent. She was his fated mate—destined, bound by something older and deeper than either of them could name. Whether she accepted it or not didn’t change the truth. He would claim her. Sooner or later, she’d know. She’d feel it. And he would no longer hold back.

An hour after she left, Finn stood in the rooftop garden, the wind twisting around him like a living thing. It snapped at his clothes, tugged at his hair, and tried to slice through his skin like glass. But he stood unmoved, chest rising slow and steady, as if the surrounding chaos was nothing more than background noise to the storm inside. Keira was still in his blood, still in his head, and not even the wind could shake her loose.

He didn’t feel it. Never had. Cold didn’t touch him—not since the beast had first stirred beneath his flesh. The city stretched out around him, a glittering sprawl of light and noise, but none of it reached him. Not when every breath he drew still carried a hint of her—warm skin and something wild underneath, like jasmine and danger.

It stirred everything in him: desire that curled low in his gut, rage at her absence, and betrayal that hadn't dulled with time. She was an ache and an addiction, and the scent of her only made him want to hunt or hold—he hadn’t decided which. It didn't calm him. It burned, stoking the need that never truly left. Every inhale dragged her deeper into him, made it harder to think of anything else. She haunted his senses, not like a ghost, but like a fever he didn’t want cured. Not when his blood simmered with the memory of her mouth, her voice, her fight. She was out there somewhere, pretending she had a choice. And he stood in the dark, every instinct alive with the truth—she was his, and the only thing that remained was to make her accept it.

His control snapped the moment the cab pulled away with her in it. She hadn't even looked back. One flick of her eyes would’ve been enough—one second of hesitation, one sign that she still felt the pull between them—but she gave him nothing. And that emptiness opened the door he’d kept shut for years.

The change took him fast.

Not because of rage. Not even grief. It was something more raw—a surge of need and helplessness so visceral it hollowed him out from the inside. She'd left again. No glance back. No signal that she'd felt the same fire threatening to consume him. That void ripped the restraint from him like paper.

A flash of heat. A thunder crack of instinct. Mist spiraled up from the rooftop stones as the beast surged to the surface, all sinew and shadow, sleek and furious. One blink and the man was gone. In his place, the panther landed silent and deadly on all fours, as if he’d always belonged to this darker, more honest form.

It was the only shape that could hold the ache clawing at his chest without being torn apart.

He didn't run. He didn’t roar. He crouched at the edge of the rooftop garden, eyes locked on the street below. Vision sharperthan any human’s. Breath tasting of metal and jasmine. The beast inside him trembled—not from fear, but from intent. She was gone, again. But this time, he wasn’t just mourning.

He was claiming.

Mist gathered again around the rooftop stones, swirling like smoke caught in moonlight. The storm that had wrapped around him in his panther form began to calm, quieting in his blood. Finn took one slow breath, then another—and let the beast release its hold. The transformation was instant. The swirl of color brightened to white, then vanished with a subtle flash of light. In the space where the panther crouched, Finn stood—naked, chest heaving, skin flushed from the raw pulse of instinct.

He stepped back from the edge of the roof, jaw tight, and reached for the small black bag tucked behind a ventilation shaft. He always had a backup. Pulling on jeans and a dark henley, his fingers worked on autopilot, grounding him back in the man, not the beast. Only after fully clothing himself did he breathe deeply.

She was still there. Somewhere.

Finn turned at the sound—the soft metallic sigh of the elevator opening behind him—his senses already confirming who it was. The shadows near the far edge of the rooftop pulled slightly as Donal stepped into view, the ever-present wind tugging at his coat. Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them. No words needed but offered, anyway.

“She must have doubled back on foot,” Donal murmured. “Didn’t approach, but she watched. From the alley. She caught the tail end of it—the swirl of the mist, the shadows twisting, that shimmer before the thunder cracked. It was fast, but enough. She flinched, yeah, but she didn’t bolt. Just stood there like she couldn’t tell if it was real or her mind playing tricks. Like part of her didn’t want to know... and part of her already did.”

Finn’s smile was faint but knowing. “Curious kitten.”

“She saw something.” Donal tilted his head, brow furrowing. “Maybe not enough to name it. But she froze—like her brain was trying to make sense of what didn’t fit. Confused. Maybe even a little afraid. But curious too.”

Finn’s eyes darkened. “The mist?”

Donal nodded. “She caught the tail end of it. Saw it swirl and vanish. Maybe even heard the thunder.”

“She saw the edge of what she wasn’t supposed to,” Finn muttered. “Didn’t know what she was looking at. But it hit her.”

“She’ll have questions.”

“She always did.”

“And if she figures it out?”

Finn’s smile vanished. “Then I’ll have to decide whether to lie again. Or show her exactly what I am.” He didn’t fear her knowing the truth because of what she’d think of the monster—no, the real fear was losing the glimmer in her eyes when she looked at him like he could be more than blood and violence. He didn’t want to see that light flicker out. But he also couldn’t keep hiding behind half-truths and silence. The full truth was what she deserved, even if it destroyed whatever remained between them.

That choice carried weight. If he lied, he might buy them more time—keep her close long enough to remind her of what they were. But if she found out on her own? If she discovered the truth without hearing it from him first? That betrayal could break anything they'd built. And if he told her? If he bared everything—the beast, the bond, the ancient tie neither of them had asked for—she might never look at him the same way again. He could lose her for good. But pretending wasn’t in his nature. Not anymore.

Donal’s expression turned serious. “And if she runs?”