Page 17

CHAPTER 17

M alrik paced the length of his bedchamber, his movements restless and agitated. The moonlight streaming through the windows cast long shadows across the floor, but his eyes adjusted easily to the darkness. Every few steps, he paused to glance over at Bella. The sight of her in his furs—peaceful, trusting, utterly vulnerable—filled him with a potent mixture of possessive satisfaction and gnawing guilt.

She looked so small against the vastness of his nest. Her golden curls spilled across the dark furs, and one hand was tucked beneath her cheek while the other reached toward the empty space where he should be lying. The memory of her body against his, the sweet sounds she’d made as he’d brought her pleasure, burned through him like wildfire.

His claws flexed and retracted as he walked, a physical manifestation of his internal struggle. With each passing day, more of his rational mind returned. He could feel his thoughts clarifying, memories crystallizing from the fog that had enveloped him for so long. The beast remained, prowling beneath his skin, but it no longer consumed him entirely.

And therein lay the problem.

The more his Vultor side reasserted itself, the more clearly he understood the magnitude of what he’d done. He’d taken her from her father, from her life, and kept her prisoner in his broken fortress. The fact that she seemed content, even happy, only intensified his shame. She deserved better than a half-beast who couldn’t even maintain his true form.

He ran a hand over his face, surprised to find smooth skin where fur had been. Looking down at his arms, he saw the transformation had progressed further than ever before. His form was almost entirely Vultor now—muscled and powerful, but no longer monstrous.

The beast within him growled its displeasure, fighting to resurface. It didn’t trust this change, didn’t understand why their mate should want them in this form when the beast was stronger, more capable of protecting her.

He moved to the window, staring out at the mountains silhouetted against the night sky. The borders of his territory stretched before him, but for the first time in years, he found himself thinking beyond those boundaries. To the Vultor enclave. To responsibilities abandoned.

To all he had lost.

Bella shifted, her eyes blinking open to find him. She pushed herself up on one elbow, hair tousled from sleep.

“Malrik?” Her voice was husky, confused. “Why are you over there?”

He didn’t answer, transfixed by the sight of the furs falling away to reveal the curve of her shoulder. His beast growled with satisfaction at the mark he’d left there—not a true claiming bite since he hadn’t broken the skin, but dark enough to be unmistakable.

She patted the furs beside her, a simple invitation that twisted something in his chest. As if he belonged there. As if she wanted him there.

He hesitated, torn between desire and the growing certainty that he should let her go. She deserved better than a cursed male who couldn’t even maintain his true form.

“Come back to bed,” she murmured, eyes already drooping. “It’s cold without you.”

The beast surged forward at her words, possessive and pleased. Mine , it growled. Needs me .

Despite his misgivings, he couldn’t resist her call. The beast wouldn’t allow it, and truthfully, neither would the male. He crossed the room in three long strides and slid beneath the furs, curling his larger body around her smaller one, and gathering her against his chest with a low rumble of contentment.

She nestled against him, fitting perfectly within his arms. Her scent—warm and sweet, now mingled with his own—filled his nostrils, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

“That’s better,” she sighed, already drifting back toward sleep. “You think too much when you’re over there.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. She knew him better than anyone ever had, this tiny human female who had somehow reached past the beast to find the male beneath.

He didn’t fall asleep immediately, savoring the weight of her against him, the trust implicit in the way she slept so peacefully in his arms. Both sides of his nature—Vultor and beast—were momentarily soothed by her closeness.

Eventually, his own eyes grew heavy and sleep claimed him.

He stood before the grand mirror in his chambers, adjusting the formal robes that marked him as a noble of the highest rank. The fabric was rich, the design elegant, but his attention was on his face.

Something was wrong with his eyes. The usual green had changed to an odd yellow, and the pupils seemed more elongated than they should be. He blinked, and for a moment, they flashed with an animal glow.

“A trick of the light,” he muttered, turning away.

But it wasn’t. He’d been experiencing moments of disorientation, flashes of rage that seemed to come from nowhere. His control was slipping.

The warning signs had been there for months. His temper, always quick, had become unpredictable. He’d found himself drawn to the forest more often, hunting not for sport but from some primal need. And the dreams—dreams of running on four legs, of tearing into prey with fangs and claws.

He’d dismissed it all. He was Malrik, son of the High Alpha. He was stronger than some primitive curse.

Until the night of the diplomatic reception, when one of his guests had made some perceived slight, and Malrik had nearly transformed in front of the entire assembly. Only his advisor’s swift intervention had prevented disaster.

“It is the curse of the unmated,” his advisor had said later, voice low and urgent. “You must find a mate, my lord. Someone to anchor your soul before it is too late.”

He’d sneered at the other male. “Superstitious nonsense. I will master this… inconvenience.”

But as the days passed, the episodes grew worse. His servants began to avoid him. Even his most loyal guards kept their distance.

“Bring me candidates,” he finally ordered, desperation overcoming pride. “Females suitable for mating.”

They came—the daughters of other noble houses, beautiful and accomplished. But none stirred anything in him beyond irritation. Each rejection seemed to accelerate his decline.

The last candidate had been different—not a noble, but a healer’s daughter with quiet dignity and kind eyes. Something in him had responded to her, a flicker of hope.

But that night, the beast had surged forward with unprecedented strength. He’d destroyed his chambers in a blind rage, terrified by his loss of control.

By morning, he knew what he had to do.

“Leave,” he told his household. “All of you. This keep is no longer safe.”

They obeyed, fear overcoming loyalty. Only his advisor remained, standing at the gate as Malrik retreated into the shadows of his home.

“Find her,” his advisor had called after him. “Find your mate before it’s too late.”

But it was already too late. The transformation took him that night, his human consciousness submerged beneath the beast’s instincts. Malrik was gone, and only the beast remained…

He jerked awake, his heart pounding. The dream—no, the memory—lingered, sharp and clear. He’d forgotten so much, buried beneath years of animal existence.

But now he remembered. All of it.

He carefully disentangled himself from her and sat up, raising a hand to rub his face. The sensation of skin against skin—not fur, not claws—made him freeze.

Slowly, disbelievingly, he looked down at his hands. grey-skinned, strong-fingered hands. Vultor hands. His gaze traveled up his arms—muscled but smooth, bearing only the normal amount of hair a Vultor male should have.

He rose silently from the bed and moved to the wardrobe where a cracked mirror still hung. The face that looked back at him was his own—not the beast’s, but the face he had worn for most of his life. Angular jaw, high cheekbones, pointed ears that swept back against his skull. His eyes still held an unnatural yellow glow, but they were Vultor eyes, not the beast’s.

He was himself again. Whole. The realization made him stagger, and he gripped the edge of the wardrobe to steady himself.

How? Why now? The answer came immediately: Bella. Their connection, their intimacy, had somehow broken through the final barriers of the curse. She had called him back to himself.

A wild, desperate hope surged through him. If he could maintain this form, perhaps he could truly be what she deserved. They could build a life together, not as beast and captive, but as partners.

Even as the thought formed, he felt the transformation beginning—a prickling sensation beneath his skin, a pressure building in his skull. The beast, sensing his moment of weakness, pushed forward.

No. Not now. Not when he was so close.

He fought it, concentrating on Bella, on the memory of her touch, her smile, the sound of her voice reading to him. For a moment, the pressure receded.

Then it surged back, stronger than before. His bones began to shift, muscles stretching painfully as fur erupted across his skin. He gripped the edge of the dresser, feeling the wood splinter beneath his strengthening claws.

The hope that had flared so brightly moments before collapsed into ash. This was his punishment—to be given glimpses of what he had lost, only to have it snatched away again.

And now there was Bella—beautiful, brave Bella who had kissed him, who had looked at him without fear. What would happen when the beast fully returned? He would never hurt her, but he’d never let her go.

Despair washed over him. He would never be free. Never be worthy of her.

A low, mournful sound built in his throat, rising until it burst from him in a howl of anguish that echoed through the keep.

She bolted upright in bed, eyes wide with alarm. “Malrik? What’s wrong?”

He turned to her, knowing she could see the transformation progressing—fur already covering his arms, his face elongating into a muzzle. But his eyes—his eyes were still his own.

“Cursed,” he managed to say, the word guttural but clear. “I am cursed.”

She slid from the bed, reaching for him. “Malrik, wait?—”

But he couldn’t bear her touch—not now, when he understood exactly what he was denying her. Before she could reach him, he turned and fled, racing through the corridors of the keep and out into the night, across the terrace, and into the garden he’d begun to restore for her.

The cool night air hit his lungs as he raced into the forest beyond, the transformation completing with each powerful stride. His consciousness receded as the beast surged forward, drawn by the scent of prey and the freedom of the wild.

But not completely. Not this time.

Even as the beast reveled in its strength, a part of Malrik remained aware. Watching. Remembering.

Remembering Bella.

The beast paused atop a ridge, lifting its muzzle to the sky. Another howl tore from its throat—not of anguish this time, but of determination.

The curse would not win. Not again. Not when he had finally found something worth fighting for.

Someone worth becoming whole for.

The beast turned back toward the keep, toward the female who smelled of sunshine and metal and home. It would return to her. He would find a way to break the curse. He had to.

Because for the first time in years, he wanted more than survival. He wanted a future.

A future with Bella.