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"The fight is over, little flower. I'm not going to bite," he says with a chuckle behind me when I refuse to face him.
This is ridiculous. I shouldn't be embarrassed right now, considering the day we've had. We faced certain death together, killed together. It's not like anything is going to happen right now. We have to get dressed and go downstairs to face the aftermath of a war. This is hardly the time to be prudish. Besides, even if we had the time and energy to act on any feelings, the crescent-shaped mark on my chest is still very much there.
I suck in a breath as I feel him step forward beside me, his body not touching mine but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, his breath tickling my skin.
"You know, there's nothing wrong with looking at your own mate. You can look and take whatever you want from me, my little flower," he says softly, his fingers reaching forward to brush against the back of my hand with the ghost of a caress that makes me shiver. But there's that faint tingling in my chest like the mark over my heart recognizes his touch as something far from innocent.
Nope.
I'm not doing this. Not today. Or is it tonight already? It doesn't matter.
I can't risk the curse hurting him while he's injured, and frankly, I'm not sure I can survive the torment of his embrace only to be ripped away from it by the vengeful magic inside me. It's been a long day, and I'm too tired for such taunts. I can handle the rush of battle, the weight of my exhaustion, the numbness and shock, and my gnawing concern for the others. But my heart can't take almost having him.
I step away from Tristan, hating the cold that comes with the distance I create between us, as I walk over to the wardrobe.
"What are you doing?" he asks. In response, I merely throw the blanket back at him without looking before slipping on a shirt. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No! Of course not. I just can't... I'm not..." I reply quickly, stumbling over my words. I turn to face him, grateful that he's draped the blanket around to cover himself as I struggle to find a way to explain the emotions that threaten to undo me. "I don't think I'm strong enough to see you like that right now. Not if... if I can't have you."
A melancholic sort of resignation fills his amber eyes, and I wonder if it mirrors my own. He gives me a small nod, and I know he understands.
We can wash up later. Right now, I just want to get dressed and get back out there. I don't want to be alone with him, and I don't want to stop moving. It feels like if I slow down for too long, I'll never be able to get back up again. Too much has happened, and there is still too much to be done.
And if I stand still for too long, then something worse than exhaustion will wash over me: the realization that even though Viktor is gone and the war is won, I'm still cursed. I still can't be the one thing I wanted more than anything else.
I may be the flower of the Rovers, Princess of Nightwalkers, Luna of the Banes, and Queen of Wolves. But I can't be Tristan's Luna. I can't be his true mate.
Even with the battle won, the bond between us, my wolf and powers manifested, and all this love in my heart... I still can't be his.
Chapter Ten
As night began to fall and the wolves shifted back into their human forms, I suppose it's appropriate that the nightwalkers provided clothes for those who needed them.
Clad in black as the last of the sunlight fades, we really are dressed for a funeral.
We decide to burn the dead, gathering them into a massive pyre in the citadel right outside the castle. The ashes that remain will be scattered over the forest outside the city walls and returned to the earth. One day, those grounds would come to be known as the Forest of Day in honor of those who fought in a war that began at dawn and ended at dusk. It will become a sacred place with no distinction between packs, ranks, or species.
I don't know what happened to Viktor's body specifically, and I don't want to know. The only thing that really matters is that he's gone. He can never hurt anyone ever again. All that really remains of him is everything he failed to destroy.
"You look like shit." Mark's voice draws me back to the present, and Tristan offers his Beta a wry smile in response to the insult.
Honestly, we've all looked better.
Tristan is still clutching a broken arm wrapped in a makeshift sling. Mark has a split lip and is covered in bruises, and there's a deep gash on Nico's leg that will surely leave a nasty scar—not that he seems to mind, with Lucy fussing over him.
We're all covered in grime and blood, but she's the filthiest out of us all, with crusty crimson soaked up to her forearms and sweat streaking her dust-covered face. Her curly black hair is clumpy and matted, and her clothes are stained and torn.
I can't help but think of Lucy's words before the battle and how she said she couldn't tear down an enemy, but she could pick up a friend. It looks like she did just that.
And me? I don't even want to think about what I must look like right now. Then there's Amara...
Oh gods, Amara.
She lies on a cot in the grand hall of the nightwalker's castle, which has been converted from a grand ballroom into a sort of infirmary. Mark is sitting behind her, his arms wrapped protectively around his mate as she leans back against him, her fingers entwined with his.
When she sees me, she smiles, but then immediately winces from the movement. Three gashes run from her left temple, over her brow, and down her left eye. The cuts go across half of her face, and though all claw marks should look the same no matter who inflicted them, something inside me recognizes the handiwork, and my stomach twists itself into a knot.
"Don't make that face, sweet flower," she says softly, her voice raspy as she chastises the horror in my eyes.
