She nods, her gaze dropping to my chest. “I hurt you, and you didn’t even feel it.”
“I did,” I say. “I’d keep the mark as a gift, if I could, but I can’t help that my body heals itself.” My jokes aren’t nearly as good as Kaël’s, but??—
“Watch yourself, vólkin,” Noël warns, grabbing my mane. She narrows her eyes, leaning close to my snout. “If you think I’d fall to my knees and thank you for healing a few cuts, you’re delusional.”
“There’s no need to thank me,human,” I say, the glow of my crystals shining in her eyes. “This is my duty as your mate.”
“Again with this nonsense.” With those words, she pushes me away, drops to the ground, and walks toward the stream. She doesn’t even pause to say, “Go home.”
“I am home,” I reply, following behind her. She doesn’t realizesheis my home.
We walk in silence, and it’s clear I’ve crossed the line again. My mate doesn’t like being called a mate, that much I understand. But she is... Is it because of me? Am I unpleasant to her? She knows I won’t harm her. She’s no longer afraid when I’m near. So then, what is it?
“Your home is Ávera. Go there.”
“Come with me.”
She turns to face me, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t need whatever fantasy you’ve got in your head. I’m not your mate, and you’re not mine. I have too much on my mind, and I must??—”
“How did your mother die?” I ask. The grief feels fresh. Maybe that’s why she keeps denying me.
Her shoulders sag, and she looks away. “I don’t know.”
“Was she ill?”
“No.”
Such anger doesn’t come from the grief of losing someone after a long life. Perhaps my mate is mourning a mother who was taken from her by force.
I should help my mate heal. She needs me as a supportive male before she needs my cock. “Did your mother like any herbs?” I ask as I follow her.
She falls silent again.
I know little of human customs now, but history rarely changes. Even centuries ago, humans spilled each other’s blood for the sake of pride. For worshipping different gods. For daringto speak. For being born on the wrong side of a wall. They called it justice, or righteousness, but it was always blood.
Vólkins fight for dominance, but that’s how nature works. Wolves, lions—we are no different. But even wolves do not take a mother from her child. They never place pride above life.
We reach the waters, and I watch Noël approach the blue roses I grew for her. She kneels beside them, her fingers brushing against the petals. “These beautiful roses were my mother’s favorite,” she murmurs. “And now they’re mine as well.”
And mine.
“This flower is the rarest,” I say, watching her expression as I speak. “They never bloom without purpose.”
Her eyes lift to meet mine. “How do you know that about them?”
“These roses are very ancient,” I explain, crouching beside her. “They belong to only one bloodline in the human race, and we are taught about them from the time we are pups. Their history is rich and sacred.”
Noël’s lips part, her disbelief written across her face.
“In our culture,” I continue, “we bid farewell to the dead in a way that honors their spirit and their connection to the world. Let me show you.”
I move to gather materials, picking up pieces of wood and leaves. “We create a circle, a small arrangement of things connected to the soul we honor. Flowers, herbs, and other elements that had meaning to them. It symbolizes the continuation of life, the cycle that never truly ends. It’s called svytyn prócha.”
Noël watches me, then takes the branches in her hands. “I want to do it myself.”
“I’d like to honor your mother too.”
“Why do you care? You didn’t even know her. And don’t start with any ‘she’s my mate’s mother’ business.”
