Page 18

CHAPTER 18

B ella stood frozen at the window long after Malrik’s howl had faded into the night. The word “cursed” echoed in her mind, his anguish so raw it had left her shaken.

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the keep. The nest of furs behind her still held their combined scent and body heat, but without him, it felt empty.

“What happened to you?” she whispered to the darkness.

Part of her wanted to follow him, but the practical side of her brain knew better. The mountains were treacherous at night, even for someone who knew them well. And if Malrik didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t find him.

She crawled back into the furs, burying her face in the spot where he usually slept. She kept expecting to hear him return, to feel his weight settle beside her on the furs. But the minutes stretched into hours, and still he didn’t come back.

The vast bedroom felt empty without his presence. She’d grown accustomed to his warmth, the rhythmic sound of his breathing, even his occasional growls and snuffles in sleep. Without him, the silence pressed in on her from all sides.

“He’ll come back,” she told herself firmly. “He always does.”

But as the night deepened, doubt crept in. What if this time was different? What if whatever had happened to him tonight had driven him away for good?

Sleep came in fitful bursts, interrupted by every sound from outside. Each time she jerked awake, hoping to hear his return, only to be met with silence.

Dawn arrived with pale fingers of light stretching across the room, and still no Malrik. She got up, splashed water on her face, and pulled on her coveralls. The familiar routine should have been comforting, but her hands moved mechanically, her mind elsewhere.

She wandered through the keep, touching the walls as she passed. It was remarkable how much they’d accomplished in such a short time. The main corridors were clear of debris, several rooms had been restored to functionality, and the little cleaning robot whirred along diligently, scrubbing away years of grime.

In the kitchen, she programmed the POTTS for breakfast but found she had no appetite. She left the food untouched and continued her aimless circuit of the keep.

The ballroom looked different today—less imposing, more melancholy. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams that streamed through the high windows. She remembered how Malrik had watched her explore this room, his eyes reflecting something like nostalgia.

Had he hosted balls here? The thought of him in formal attire, moving with his usual grace, made her smile despite her worry.

She crossed to the terrace doors and looked out at the garden. The stark contrast between the wild, overgrown sections and the areas Malrik had cleared made her chest ache. He’d worked so hard to create something beautiful for her.

“Where are you?” she murmured, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement.

Back inside, she tried to focus on work. The lighting system was her current project, but after dropping the same circuit board three times, she set it aside with a frustrated sigh. She couldn’t concentrate. Every few minutes, she found herself looking up, expecting to see Malrik’s huge body filling the doorway.

The thought suddenly struck her that she could leave. The outer doors weren’t locked. The path back to the village was straightforward enough. Her father was probably worried sick. She could walk away right now.

The idea lasted exactly three seconds before she dismissed it.

She told herself it was because she’d made a promise to repair the keep. She’d given her word, and she didn’t break her promises. That was all.

But even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. She wasn’t staying because of some bargain. She was staying because the thought of leaving Malrik alone in his pain was unbearable.

“Cursed,” he’d said. What did that mean? Was it just a figure of speech, or something more literal? She decided to return to the library. If Malrik couldn’t—or wouldn’t—explain what was happening to him, perhaps she could find some answers there.

The room was exactly as they’d left it the night before—the massive chair still pulled toward the center of the room, the book they’d been reading still open on the small table beside it. She ran her fingers over the leather binding, remembering the warmth of his body as she’d sat on his lap, the rumble of his chest as he’d occasionally commented on the story, the pleasure he’d brought her.

Setting that memory aside, she began searching the shelves methodically. Most of the books were in Vultor, but there were several sections with texts in the common trade language.

She ran her fingers along the spines, looking for anything that might help. A thick volume caught her eye—”Vultor Physiology and Social Structures.” She pulled it down and settled into the massive chair they’d shared just yesterday.

Hours passed as she flipped through pages, absorbing information about Vultor biology, their dual forms, their pack hierarchies. Some of it she knew from general knowledge, but much was new to her.

It wasn’t until early afternoon that she found something promising. A section titled “Mating Bonds and Biological Imperatives.”

“The mating bond is sacred among the Vultor,” she read aloud, her voice hushed in the quiet room. “Once a Vultor recognizes their true mate, a biological imperative activates, compelling them to complete the bond. Separation from a recognized mate causes extreme distress.”

Her heart quickened as she read, learning how mated pairs shared a deep connection, how they balanced each other’s beast and Vultor sides.

Then she found it—a small section at the chapter’s end, titled “The Curse of the Unmated.”

“Vultor who reach maturity without finding a mate may experience periods of instability between their dual natures. As the years pass, this can develop into what is colloquially known as ‘the curse of the unmated.’ The beast side gradually dominates, suppressing the Vultor consciousness until it is completely subsumed.”

Her hands trembled as she continued reading.

“Once fully manifested, the curse is considered irreversible. The afflicted becomes permanently trapped in beast form, with only primitive instincts remaining. Such cases are rare but documented throughout Vultor history, often in individuals who rejected potential mates out of pride or ambition.”

She closed the book with a snap. That couldn’t be right. Malrik wasn’t permanently trapped—she’d seen his Vultor side emerging more frequently, heard him speaking in complete sentences. He was fighting his way back.

But the text had said the curse was irreversible.

She stared into space, thinking back over their time together. Malrik had been almost completely beast when she’d first arrived. Then, gradually, he’d begun to change. His speech had improved. He’d shown more control, more awareness of his surroundings.

What had caused that change? Her presence?

A memory surfaced—that first morning together, when she’d woken in his arms. The feel of his body against hers, his hand no longer furred and clawed. The word he’d growled against her neck.

“Mate.”

Was that it? Was she truly his mate? Was that why his Vultor side was emerging?

It seemed impossible. She was human, not Vultor. And yet…it would explain so much. His possessiveness. His refusal to let her leave. The way he always needed to be near her, touching her.

The way she felt drawn to him, despite everything.

She leaned back in the chair, mind racing. If she was his mate—if her presence was helping him break free of this curse—what did that mean for them? For her?

Could that be it? Was she somehow his mate? Was that why his Vultor side was emerging more frequently when he was with her?

The idea should have frightened her, but instead, a warm feeling spread through her chest. If she was his mate—his true mate—then perhaps she could help him break this curse.

The sound of movement in the corridor outside jerked her from her thoughts. Her heart leaped as she recognized the familiar cadence.

Malrik.

She rushed to the doorway just as he appeared at the end of the hall. The sight of him made her breath catch. His clothes—the pants and vest he’d worn for their dinner—hung in tatters from his body. Blood seeped from dozens of scratches across his chest and arms, as though he’d fought his way through a thornbush. His fur was matted with dirt and leaves.

But it was his eyes that held her—wild and glowing with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. Not with fear, she realized, but anticipation.

He stalked toward her, his movements fluid despite his obvious exhaustion. There was purpose in every step, a determination that made her pulse quicken.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond, but each step brought him closer, his huge body seeming to fill the corridor. There was something different about him—not fully beast, not fully Vultor, but something in between. The intelligence in his eyes was unmistakable, but so was the primal hunger.

When he reached her, he stopped, looming over her. His chest heaved with each breath, and she could smell the forest on him—pine and earth and something uniquely him.

“Malrik,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for her, one clawed hand cupping her face with exquisite gentleness. His eyes searched hers, looking for something she couldn’t name.

“Mine,” he growled, the word rumbling from deep in his chest.

The book’s words echoed in her mind. Once a Vultor recognizes their true mate, a biological imperative activates. The mating bond is sacred.

In that moment, she understood. This wasn’t just about a bargain or repairs or even friendship. This was about belonging. About finding the one person in the universe who saw past the beast to the soul beneath.

“Yes,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his face. “Yes, I am.”

With a sound that was half growl, half moan, he swept her into his arms. She went willingly, wrapping her arms around his neck as he cradled her against his chest. Despite his intimidating appearance, his hold was gentle, reverent even.

As he carried her through the keep, she knew they were heading towards his chamber—towards the nest of furs that had become theirs. She should have been nervous, perhaps even afraid, but all she felt was a profound sense of rightness.

“Yours,” she whispered against his neck, feeling his arms tighten around her in response. “And you’re mine.”

The curse of the unmated, the book had called it. But Malrik wasn’t unmated anymore.

He had her.

And she, against all odds and expectations, had found exactly where she belonged.