Page 18 of Moonlit Desires

Thorne remains standing for three heartbeats, chest heaving, golden fur matted with blood both his and not his.

Then his legs buckle. He collapses to the forest floor, body already beginning to shift back—bones retracting, fur receding, the beast melting away to reveal the man beneath.

The transition appears agonizing, his features contorting with each change, muscles spasming beneath skin that can't decide what form to take.

When it's done, he lies half-transformed—mostly man, but with patches of golden fur still covering portions of his body, claws retreating to fingernails, fangs shortening to merely pointed canines. His golden eyes remain entirely wolf, watching Lyra with a mixture of pain and wary anticipation.

Blood seeps steadily from the wound in his side, staining the torn remains of his shirt.

The gashes are deep, four parallel furrows that expose muscle and hint at the white of ribs beneath.

Each labored breath he takes sends a fresh rivulet of silver-tinged blood down his flank to pool on the forest floor.

Lyra kneels beside him, her initial shock giving way to concern. Her hands hover over the wound, uncertain where to begin. "You're hurt," she says, the obvious statement all her stunned mind can produce.

Thorne's laugh is more grimace than humor. "Astute observation, princess."

Her hesitation lasts only a moment before determination takes its place. She tears at the hem of her own shirt, ripping a long strip of fabric free. It's hardly sterile, but it's better than nothing. "Hold still," she commands, voice steadier than her hands as she begins to bind the wound.

Thorne winces as she presses the makeshift bandage against the gashes, but makes no sound of protest. His eyes never leave her face, studying her with the intense focus of a predator—or perhaps, she realizes, with the wariness of someone who expects rejection.

"Why?" he asks as she works, his voice rough with pain. "Why help me? You've seen what I am."

Lyra tears another strip from her shirt, exposing a sliver of midriff to the cool forest air. "I've seen what you are," she agrees, tying the new bandage over the first to create more pressure. "You're my guardian. You protected me."

"That's not what I mean." His hand catches her wrist, claws not fully retracted, though his grip remains careful. "You saw the beast. The monster. Why aren't you afraid?"

She meets his gaze without flinching, those golden eyes so unlike any human's.

"Because it's not a monster that's bleeding on the forest floor right now.

It's not a beast that's looking at me with fear of rejection.

" Her free hand moves to cover his where it grips her wrist. "It's just you, Thorne. All of you."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then a vulnerable hope so raw it makes her chest ache. "Most can't see past the fur and fangs," he says quietly. "Even at Court, they tolerate my presence only because Kael vouches for me."

"Then they're fools," Lyra says with unexpected heat. "What I just saw wasn't mindless savagery. You knew exactly what you were doing. You controlled the beast."

"Not always," he admits, releasing her wrist as another spasm of pain crosses his features. "Sometimes... sometimes it controls me."

Lyra finishes binding the wound as best she can, the white fabric already blooming with silver-tinged stains. "Can you stand? We need to get you back to the Court."

Thorne nods, though his face is pale beneath the remaining patches of fur.

With her help, he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly before finding his balance.

He's heavier than she expected, solid muscle even in his partially human form.

When his arm slips around her shoulders for support, she feels the unnatural heat of him through her thin shirt, his body temperature several degrees warmer than any human's.

"Lean on me," she instructs, fitting herself against his uninjured side.

"This isn't how this is supposed to work," Thorne mutters, though he accepts her support. "I'm meant to protect you, not the other way around."

"Consider it a temporary reversal of roles," Lyra replies. "Besides, you've already fulfilled your protective duties quite thoroughly for one day."

They begin the slow journey back toward the Court, Thorne's weight heavy against her smaller frame.

Despite his injury, he remains alert, golden eyes scanning the forest for further threats.

The silver trees, which had seemed so menacing before, now appear to bend away from their path, creating a clearer route through the dense woodland.

"The forest is helping us," Lyra observes, noticing how the path ahead becomes more distinct with each painful step they take.

Thorne nods, his breath warm against her hair. "It recognizes blood freely given in defense of the royal line. Ancient pact." His words come in short bursts, evidence of the pain he's fighting. "Your mark... also helping. Calling to the old magic."

She glances down, noticing for the first time that the silver light from her royal sigil has spread, extending tendrils of illumination that reach through the fabric of her clothing to touch the forest floor.

Where the light meets earth, the phosphorescent moss brightens in response, creating a glowing pathway that stretches ahead of them toward the distant Court.

"I'm sorry," Thorne says suddenly, his voice dropping lower. "That you had to see me like that. Not everyone can accept... both sides."

Lyra adjusts her grip around his waist, careful to avoid the wound. "Maybe that's because I know what it's like to be caught between worlds. Not quite human enough for one, not quite fae enough for the other."

A smile touches his lips, sharp canines still more prominent than they should be. "You might be the first person at Court who actually understands."

The silver trees bend further away from their path, branches lifting to allow shafts of late afternoon sunlight to penetrate the canopy.

The beams fall across the forest floor like spotlights, illuminating their way home with golden clarity that hadn't been present before.

It's as if Silverwood, having tested them both, now offers its blessing in the form of safe passage.

"Will you be alright?" Lyra asks, noticing how Thorne's breathing grows more labored despite his attempts to hide it.

"I heal quickly," he assures her, though the silver blood seeping through the makeshift bandages suggests the wounds are far from trivial. "Advantage of the beast."

They continue in silence broken only by their footsteps and Thorne's occasional sharp intake of breath when the path jostles his injury.

The forest around them grows less dense, the trees spacing themselves more naturally, the underbrush less tangled and threatening.

Even the fog has retreated, leaving the air clear and sweetened with the scent of night-blooming flowers that open prematurely in their presence.

As the first spires of the Court become visible through the thinning trees, Thorne pauses, turning to face Lyra despite the pain the movement clearly causes him.

"Thank you," he says simply. "Not for the help, but for seeing me. Really seeing me."

Lyra nods, understanding the distinction. "I'm beginning to think that's what I'm here for. To see what others have overlooked. To recognize what's been forgotten."

Thorne's golden eyes hold hers for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between them—a recognition of kindred spirits caught between identities, belonging fully to neither yet somehow stronger for the division.

Then he straightens, taking more of his own weight despite the fresh blood this releases from his wound. As they approach the Court's silver gates, he assumes as much dignity as his injury allows, unwilling to appear weak before those who already question his place among them.

Behind them, the Silverwood rustles with a sound almost like approval, the silver trees bending one last time to touch branches in an arch over the path they've traveled—marking the way for when they might return, this time as welcome guests rather than intruders to be tested.