Page 38 of Addicted to His Bite

I raise my hands, and a wave of soft, golden light flows from my palms, expanding to form a shimmering, translucent wall in front of me. My Purna magic, once a confusing, latent thing, is now a part of me I command with confidence and precision.The recruits watch, their eyes wide with awe, then turn to try it themselves.

A small figure beside me mimics my stance, his own small hands glowing with a faint, silvery-gold light. Lyren. At six years old, he is already a paradox, his movements a perfect, breathtaking blend of my human tenacity and his father’s Vrakken grace. He is learning to balance the two halves of his soul, the fire of my Purna and the ice of Eoin’s bloodline.

“Like this, Mama?” he asks, his small shield wavering but holding strong.

“Perfect, my little lion,” I say, ruffling his silver hair. The love I feel for him is a fierce, steady sun in the center of my universe.

The training session ends, and the recruits disperse, their tired, friendly chatter filling the air. I sheath my dagger—a habit I do not think I will ever lose, but one that is no longer born of constant, gnawing fear—and look for Eoin.

I find them at the top of the high cliffs that border our valley, the place Lyren has named ‘the Jumping-Off Point.’ Eoin stands at the edge, his massive, black wings unfurled, magnificent in the afternoon sun. Lyren stands before him, his own small, downy wings, a mirror of his father’s, spread wide and trembling slightly.

Eoin is teaching him to fly.

“Do not fight the wind, Lyren,” Eoin’s voice is a low, patient rumble, a sound that never fails to send a shiver of warmth through me. “Become a part of it. Let it lift you. Trust your wings. Trust yourself.”

I watch, my heart in my throat, as Lyren takes a deep, shuddering breath, his small face a mask of terror and exhilaration. He runs, a few clumsy steps, and then he leaps from the edge of the cliff.

For one horrifying, stomach-plummeting moment, he falls. Then, with a clumsy, powerful flap, his wings catch the updraft.He does not soar. He glides, a wobbly, uncertain arc that carries him down toward the valley floor, his whoop of pure, unadulterated joy echoing off the cliffs. Eoin is there in a heartbeat, a blur of silver and black, catching him with an easy grace, swinging him around as Lyren’s ecstatic laughter fills the air.

I watch the scene, and a wave of emotion so powerful it makes my knees weak washes over me. The monster from my nightmares, the cold, apathetic Enforcer who saw my son as nothing more than a specimen, is gone. In his place is this. A devoted mate. A gentle, laughing father. My Eoin.

I walk to the cliff’s edge as he flies back up, Lyren held securely in his arms. He lands beside me, and his arm immediately comes around my waist, pulling me against his side. Lyren scrambles from his father’s arms to mine, throwing his arms around my neck.

“I did it, Mama! I flew!”

“I saw,” I say, kissing his cheek, my voice thick with tears. “You were magnificent.”

We stand there for a long time, the three of us, watching the sun begin to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. This is my life now. Not a desperate, day-to-day struggle for survival, but a series of beautiful, perfect moments strung together like jewels.

The psychic link between Eoin and me is a quiet, constant cord of pure love and contentment. It is the steady hum of his devotion, a silent conversation that never ends. Through it, I know he is no longer afflicted by The Fading. My Purna magic, shared through our sacred mating bond, has healed him, and in return, his Vrakken longevity has settled into my very bones. We are each other’s cure. We are each other’s eternity.

“What are you thinking about?” Eoin murmurs, his lips brushing against my temple.

I look out over our home, at the lights beginning to glow in the small cabins, at the sight of my people, Vrakken and human, sharing the evening meal together. I think of the long, brutal path that led us here. The violation, the pain, the terror. It is all still a part of me, a scar on my soul. But it no longer defines me.

I lean my head against his shoulder, my heart full. We know we are still hunted. We know the Matriarch’s threat is a shadow that will likely hang over us for the rest of our days. But we are not afraid. We are damned, we are hunted, and we are, finally, terrifyingly, happy.

“I was just thinking,” I whisper, my hand coming to rest on my still-flat stomach, where a new, tiny spark of Purna light has just begun to glow. “That this valley is going to need a bigger training yard.”