Chapter 32 Walk with me
“Even now, I can feel him,” Elara whispered, her voice barely steady. “The thought of him trying to stop me. I… I don’t know if I can face that.”
Faye moved closer, stopping just short of touching her. “You are no longer under his control, my lady. You are under royal protection now.”
Elara let out a hollow laugh that surprised even herself. “I don’t know if that matters. He is powerful. And he knows me. Knows how to corner me. How to make me doubt myself.” Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. “I can’t go back there. Not really. Not freely.”
She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, her resolve was quiet, stripped bare of drama or bravado. “I just want to see my father’s grave. That is all. I will not stay. I will not step under his roof again.”
Liora and Faye exchanged a glance, then exhaled together. Relief softened their expressions, though concern lingered beneath it.
“If that is your wish, we will inform Emissary Matthew,” Liora said. “He will ensure it is done safely.”
“You will not be alone,” Faye added. “You will not be trapped again.”
Elara nodded. “Thank you.”
She rose and crossed the room slowly, her gaze drifting over the chamber. The bed was large and warm, the hearth low and steady, the curtains thick enough to keep the cold away. Everything here whispered safety. Ownership. Choice.
Northwood had offered none of that.
For nine years, she had slept wherever they decided she deserved. Dungeon stone. Stable hay. The servants’ quarters, which had somehow always been worse. Ever since Hector died, there had been no room that belonged to her.
Her chest tightened.
“Lyra,” she murmured inwardly, “why do they treat me like this?”
It does not matter, Lyra replied softly. What matters is that we are safe now.
Elara let the answer settle, even if she did not fully believe it yet.
Faye cleared her throat. “About what you said earlier, my lady. About mates.”
Elara turned. “Yes?”
Faye hesitated. “Why do you believe it would not be possible for you to be the King’s mate?”
A bitter smile touched Elara’s lips. “Isn’t it obvious? He is the Lycan King. Royal blood. And I am nothing. A nobody from another pack.” Her voice dropped. “And besides… Draven was meant to be my mate.”
The words fell heavy.
Liora and Faye stared at her. “What?” they said in unison.
Before Elara could ask why they looked so startled, a knock sounded at the door.
A maid’s voice followed. “My lady, the Lycan King requests an audience.”
Elara’s heart leapt painfully. “Now?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Her fingers trembled as she stood.
This fear was not only of Ronan. It was everything tangled together. The attack. The bruise. The way her past refused to stay buried.
"If I walk into that room, she thought, what will he decide for me?"
Faye leaned close. “Breathe. You are not that girl anymore.”
Elara nodded, drawing in a shaky breath. She straightened and followed the maid into the corridor.
The palace halls were quiet, but alive. Every step echoed too loudly in her ears.
The study doors opened.
Ronan stood inside, tall and imposing against the glow of the hearth. He turned the moment she entered.
“Leave us,” he said.
The door closed behind her.
Silence.
“Thank you for coming,” Ronan said.
She nodded. “You asked for me, Your Majesty.”
“Please,” he said gently, gesturing to a chair. “Sit.”
She obeyed. He remained standing.
“I wanted to check on you,” he said. “After the square.”
“I’m fine,” Elara answered automatically.
Ronan did not contradict her. Instead, his gaze dropped briefly to her shoulder, where fabric concealed the bruise she had not told him about. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“There is something you should know,” he said.
She looked up at that. “About what?”
“The rogues,” Ronan replied. “They did not stumble upon you by chance.”
Her fingers curled in her lap.
“They followed your scent,” he continued evenly. “Not closely. Not deliberately at first. But when you stepped into the square, it spread farther than it should have.”
Her breath hitched. “My… scent?”
“Yes.” His tone remained calm, but Fenrir stirred beneath his skin, restless. “It is not wolf. Not witch alone. It carries more than one signature. To predators, it stands out.”
She stared at him, unease creeping up her spine. “So they could feel me?”
“They could track you,” he said plainly. “From a distance.”
The room felt smaller.
“That is why they moved so quickly,” Ronan added. “And why this cannot happen again.”
Her fingers twisted together. “Is it dangerous?”
“It can be,” he admitted. “Especially as your other sides remains unstable .”
She swallowed. “What do we do?”
Ronan hesitated, watching her closely, gauging her reaction. “You will need to wear an artifact. Something discreet. It will dull the reach of your scent. Not erase it. Just… quiet it.”
Her shoulders tensed. “All the time?”
“At least until you have more control,” he said gently. “It is not a leash. It is protection.”
She searched his face for something she could not name. Control. Ownership. Threat.
She found none.
“…Okay,” she said softly.
Ronan exhaled, some tightness easing from his posture. “Thank you for trusting me with that.”
Only then did he continue.
“There is something else we need to discuss,” Ronan said. “Before the Hunt.”
“There is something else,” he continued. “Northwood has sent an invitation. A masquerade ball.”
Her body stiffened.
Ronan noticed. His fists clenched at his sides before he forced them to relax.
“If this is too much, we will not discuss it.”
“No,” she said quickly. “It is not that.”
He waited.
“I told Liora and Faye earlier that I wanted to go back,” she said quietly. “But not for that. I want to see my father’s grave.”
His brow furrowed. “Your father?”
“My foster father. Hector. The former Alpha of Northwood pack.”
Ronan froze.
Understanding dawned, followed swiftly by anger.
“If Hector was your foster father,” he said carefully, “then Draven and Rylan were…”
“My foster brothers,” she finished quietly.
The silence that followed was thick.
Ronan turned away, one hand bracing against the edge of the desk. His fingers curled into the wood, knuckles whitening.
All the alphas had known Hector. His strength. His honor. And his death. A death no one had witnessed. No body. No answers.
And Draven had been trusted to protect what remained of Hector’s household.
Ronan exhaled through his teeth, anger flaring hot and sharp.
The air in the room shifted.
Elara flinched.
She pressed back into her chair instinctively, heart stuttering as the pressure rolled over her. It was not directed at her, but it did not matter. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
Ronan felt it instantly.
The aura snapped back as if he had burned himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said at once. He stepped toward her without thinking, hand lifting. “I didn’t mean to—”
She flinched again.
He stopped.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, panic rising. “That wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Ronan said firmly. “You do not apologize. Ever. Not for that. Not for reacting.”
He lowered his hand slowly, giving her space. “That was my failure.”
She stared at him, startled by the certainty in his voice.
The tension eased, but it did not vanish.
After a moment, she spoke again, softer now. “If you are going to Northwood… I would like to follow you.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
“I won’t take much of your time,” she added quickly, fingers twisting together. “I just want to see his grave. Then I’ll leave.”
Fear bled through the bond, thin but sharp.
Fenrir stirred. "She is still afraid."
Ronan nodded slowly. “As long as I am present, no one will touch you. And if you decide not to attend the masquerade, I will support that choice completely.”
Her shoulders loosened.
She smiled.
Not cautiously. Not politely.
Genuinely.
Fenrir whistled in approval. "Mate looks good when she smiles."
Ronan almost smiled himself. “I agree.”
Silence followed, softer now. Less sharp. Still awkward.
Elara shifted in her seat.
Lyra nudged her. "He does not look like he would hurt you. You could sit closer."
"Absolutely not," Elara replied. "He has a mate."
Lyra snarled. "No, he does not."
Elara’s thoughts drifted briefly to Lady Pandora.
Lyra scoffed. "If he had a mate, he would not guard us like this. And frankly, he is a better candidate."
Elara did not respond.
Instead, she murmured, “What about Draven… he said—”
Ronan cleared his throat abruptly and straightened. His cloak shifted behind him, catching the light. “Would you like to walk with me?”
She blinked. “Your Majesty—”
“Ronan,” he corrected gently as he stepped closer. “Call me Ronan.”
The distance between them closed.
Her heart raced.
He heard it.
Lyra purred. "Say yes."
“I…” Elara hesitated. “But…”
He stepped back slightly. “It’s fine. I understand.”
Lyra nudged harder. "You can trust him."
Elara lifted her gaze to meet his. “Okay,” she said softly. “Your Majesty.”
He frowned.
She corrected herself, quieter this time. “Ronan.”
And this time, he smiled.