Chapter 195

The moment I stepped out of the council chamber, the cool hallway air hit me like a shockwave. I felt the weight of what had just transpired pressing down on my chest, and I was trying to steady my breathing, to force myself to walk with purpose, but then it hit, a sharp, piercing pain at the center of my skull, like someone had pressed a thousand tiny needles against my temples at once.

The high-pitched ringing in my ears made the world tilt, the walls bending as if the stone itself were melting. I reached out instinctively, hands fumbling against the cold surface nearest to me, fingers pressing into the carved carvings of the wall for support. The pain was more than physical, it was as if something inside me, some corner of my mind I had long locked away, had been yanked open without warning.

And then it came: the memories.

I stumbled backward, forcing myself to sit on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall, my knees drawn up, arms clutching my head. The flood started small, just an echo at first, like distant footsteps in a corridor. But the footsteps quickly became a roar, a river breaking through a dam.

I saw him. Jaxon. My chest tightened as the memory sharpened, the first moment that truly mattered between us. The woods were alive with nature, the moon casting silver over the trees. I had been cornered by rogues, their eyes glinting in the darkness, their teeth bared in ways that made my stomach churn. Panic had burned through me like fire, and every step I tried to take to run had seemed to lead me in circles.

And then he appeared. Jaxon. He had landed between me and danger, his presence radiating a power so fierce it made my knees weak. I remembered the way he had moved, fluid, predatory, unshakable, shielding me with every ounce of strength he possessed. The memory hit me with such force that I could almost feel the weight of his arm as it blocked the attacknmeant for me, the steadying press of his hand against my back as he guided me to safety.

“Stay close,” he had said, his voice low, resonant, commanding, and yet not without warmth. My heart had ached then, even amidst the terror, at the way his gaze had held mine, protecting, tethering, grounding.

And then the smaller moments came. Not battles, not danger, but the quiet, almost stolen slices of life we had shared in between chaos. The first time he had brushed my hair from my face as I shivered from cold and fear, murmuring, “You’re safe now,” like it was the most important truth in the universe. The way he had carried me through storms, through nights I thought I could not survive. His hands, always protective, never overbearing, guiding me, steadying me when I had lost control.

And the first kiss. I could feel it again, that heady mix of heat and sweetness, of desperation and longing. The brush of his lips against mine, the trembling of my hands as I pressed into him, the thrum of my heartbeat loud enough to drown out every other sound. I had never thought a single moment could feel so infinite. Yet here it was, replaying in vivid color behind my closed eyelids, the scent of him, the faint leather of his jacket, the sharp scent of pine from the woods, the musk of his skin burning into my memory.

Then came the shadowed memory I had buried so deep—the day I severed our bond. My chest tightened so violently I thought I might suffocate. I could remember the ritual, the cold stone beneath me, the chant that felt like tearing my own soul apart, and his eyes, wide, hurt, confused, questioning. I had wanted to protect him, to protect myself, from the curse, from the chaos it had wrought. But the act had felt like betrayal, like I had ripped out the very threads that connected us, threads that even now ached in my chest.

My fingers clutched at my head, nails digging into my scalp as if that could keep the memories from consuming me entirely. My breath came in ragged gasps. The sound of my own heartbeat roared in my ears, drowning out the faint echo of the hallway around me. The memory of him standing there, watching, and me fainting, voice trembling yet firm, telling him it was necessary… It was unbearable.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to hold onto something, to fight, to undo what had been done. But all I could do was sit there, shaking, my body quivering as the memories kept coming, relentless, unyielding.

I could feel the warmth of his hands again, the way he had held me close in the quiet aftermath of our battles, the reassurance in his grip that I could survive anything because he was there. The contrast between that warmth and the coldness of my own choices, my own distance, burned in me like fire.

Then another memory surfaced, jagged and raw: the night I had seen him fall apart, after Callen’s death. His legs had nearly given out beneath him, hands pressed to his mouth, muffling a scream that I could feel even from where I had been. The pain in his chest, the grief that shook him to his core… I remembered the ache in my own heart, the helplessness that had made me push him away even further. The memory made tears spring to my eyes, hot and unrelenting.

I could see him, Jaxon, standing in the shadows, the weight of the pack, the betrayals, the curses pressing down on him, and I remembered the small, almost imperceptible glance he had given me then, as if asking me to stay, to believe, to fight. I had walked away, had chosen my own survival, my own logic over the undeniable pull of what we shared. And the regret of that choice surged through me like a tidal wave now, leaving me trembling, heartbroken, aching for something I could never truly reclaim.

The headache intensified, the high-pitched ringing making my vision swim. I felt as though I were suspended between moments, between past and present, trapped in the agony of what had been, what had been lost, and what might never be again.

My hand shook as I reached for my water I always carried with me, the droplets spilling over my fingers as if mocking me, tiny reminders of my inability to control even the smallest aspects of my life. I pressed my forehead to the cool water bottle, trying to anchor myself, to ground myself, to push the flood of memory back into the recesses of my mind where it belonged.

But the memories weren’t done. They came relentless, each one sharper than the last.. I remembered the sound of his voice, strained, quiet, barely audible above the ritual: “Elvira…”

The single word, the name I had once whispered in tender desperation, reverberated in my mind now like a gong, leaving echoes that rattled my very bones. My hands fell to my lap, trembling as tears streaked silently down my cheeks. I felt hollow, broken, and yet… achingly alive, alive in a way that only memories could make me feel.

I thought of all the moments in between, small touches, fleeting glances, shared laughter in the corridors of the pack tower, whispered secrets in the dead of night, and even the moments of silent understanding when words had failed us. Each one now felt sacred, irreplaceable, and painfully real.

And in that torrent of memories, a single thought crystallized: I could never undo what had happened, I could never erase the pain, the betrayals, the curses. But perhaps, just perhaps, I could remember. And in remembering, I could start to reclaim some fragments of what had been lost.

I stood slowly, gripping the wall for support, breathing through the ache in my skull, letting the memories wash over me without being consumed entirely by them. Each flash of the past, each tender, painful recollection, reminded me that I had survived, that we had survived, and that the threads of connection, though frayed, were still there, still pulsing quietly beneath the surface.

I wiped at my tears, feeling the ache in my chest slowly ease into a dull throb. The hallway around me felt impossibly bright, the sunlight filtering through the high windows, casting long, golden streaks across the floor. I could hear distant voices of pack members moving about, unaware of the storm of recollection that had just overtaken me.

And yet, I felt… ready. Ready to carry the memories forward, ready to face what was coming, ready to confront whatever remained, and the pain that had shaped us.

I took a deep breath, one hand pressed lightly against my temple, and moved forward. Step by step, the memories lingering in the corners of my mind, I walked with a new awareness, a renewed determination, and the quiet, unshakable knowledge that the past, though haunting, was a guide, and that Jaxon, no matter the distance between us, was a part of it.