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With a sigh, I slip into the clothes Helena brought. This time, the nightwalkers provided me with a sleek woman's suit with a jacket that was tailored to perfection. It has a slim, single-breasted silhouette that hugs the curves of my body, the fabric soft and comfortable. The pants are similarly sleek and streamlined, with a straight leg and a high waist that flatters my figure. The fabric is stretchy and breathable, allowing for ease of movement. Black, just like my father's.
Once I'm dressed and feeling as composed as I'll ever be, I make my way to the war room, where my father waits outside the closed doors.
"Are they all inside already?" I ask, my heart thundering in my chest. Facing Tristan on the bridge and seeing the others in the distance had been one thing. But the thought of being properly reunited with them made my heart ache. I did not know if they will be happy to see me or if they will hate me for all the trouble I've caused.
"Not all of them," my father replies cautiously, watching me closely for a reaction. "I thought you might want a moment alone with your Rogue Alpha first. Once you're ready, you can call out to me through our link, and I'll send for the others."
"Thank you." I nod politely and move towards the door, but I hesitate.
After a moment, I turn to face my father, this strange, elegant, immortal creature that nearly died for me less than an hour ago. When I was a little girl, and I still dared to dream of a family, I used to try to picture what my parents were like. Oscar and Viktor had eventually beaten such fanciful thoughts out of my head, but I could still remember the image in my mind.
The Night King is nothing like it. His blood-red eyes are too old, and the rest of his face too young. He's too stiff and stuffy, and there is still so much we don't know about each other.
But he loves me. He understands me as much as he can, and he trusts me, even if it's reluctantly. He respects my choices, and he truly wants to do right by me.
No, Marco Silas is not at all the kind of father I might have imagined once. He's better than that. He's real. He's mine.
I reach out and grab his icy hand and squeeze it softly, hoping he knows how grateful I am.
He smiles sadly at me, his gaze flickering down to the place over my heart where the mark is concealed by my clothes. "I am sorry that my love cost you yours, child," he replies softly, letting his hand slide out of mine. "Take as long as you need."
I turn away from him and head into the war room, glancing out at my father one last time before closing the door behind me. He knows that I have to face what comes next alone.
Well, not completely alone.
Once I've shut the door, I turn to face my mate. I could sense him across the room, but I still suck in a breath when I see him.
His hair is even messier than before, chestnut strands framing his chiseled jawline and accentuating his sharp features. The nightwalkers have given him new clothes as well. Every inch of his muscular frame is sheathed in black, from his fitted button-down shirt that clings to his broad chest and powerful shoulders to his sleek black pants that hug his strong thighs and emphasize his muscular build.
From the first moment I met him, I thought he was the most handsome man I'd ever seen, rugged and graceful all at once. But dressed in the nightwalker's signature black, I can't decide if he looks like a mysterious, dark prince or the sinfully attractive bad boy of a romance novel.
He looks at me with that concerned, appraising sort of scan I've become familiar with, like his amber eyes need to take in every inch of my body.
"Well? Say something," I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "Tristan..."
His name is like a prayer on my lips, but before I can muster up the apology I've been trying to formulate in my head from the moment I saw him on that bridge, he storms across the room, closing the distance between us.
He throws his strong arms around me, pulling me into an embrace with such force that I nearly stumble forward into his chest. For a second, I'm too stunned to move or speak, and I just stand there with a lump in my throat as he hugs me tightly. His body is warm and solid against my own, and it wraps around me like I was made to fit into him.
I breathe in his scent of honey and smoke, melting against him and returning his embrace. I don't know how long we stand there, clinging to each other as if our lives depended on it. I can feel his heart beating through his shirt, a sound that seeps into my skin and echoes my own.
A tear slides down my cheek, and I bury my face into his chest.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and the words start tumbling out of me. "I'm so sorry. I didn't run away. I didn't mean to— I didn't mean for any of this. I know I didn't come back, but I just wanted to protect you. I'm sorry. I'll explain everything, but I... I didn't run away from you."
"For fuck's sake, flower," he says suddenly, his voice soft and breathy as he pulls away to look down at me, something tender and almost playful dancing in his eyes. "I thought I'd told you to stop apologizing so much."
I blink up at him, unable to fathom the affection in his gaze, and he brushes his thumb across my cheek, gently wiping a tear away. I'd been prepared for anger. I'd braced myself for distrust and disdain. But this... I don't know what to do with this.
"I did not come here because I resent you or blame you. I never have. Frankly, I don't think I'm capable of it, so please stop asking me to forgive you. Okay?"
I nod obediently, stunned into silence.
He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine. His breath is warm against my skin when he speaks, the heat spreading quickly within me. "I missed you, little flower," he says slowly, his voice a low rumble that makes my toes curl. He tilts his chin, his lips brushing softly against mine, and my breath catches in my throat. Only the knowledge that this curse could kill us both is enough to make me turn my face away.
He frowns, and I take a deep breath, clenching my eyes shut. I can't trust myself to look at him.
"I missed you too. You cannot imagine how much I missed you. You have no idea how..." My voice cracks as my fingers dig into his shoulders; whether it's to hold him back or to steady myself, I cannot tell, "...how much I want you."
