Chapter 242
Casper's POV
Someone's watching me. I can sense it, that prickle at the back of my neck that says eyes on you. But when I glance around, everyone seems focused on their own supernatural drama.
Paranoid much, Casper?
Leo stirs inside me, a lazy shift of awareness. The hell-hound-that's-not-really-a-wolf has been quiet lately. Subdued. Like he knows we fucked up beyond redemption.
"We saved her," Leo reminds me, his voice gravelly in my mind. "We saved our cubs."
Yeah, and lost her in the process.
"Better alive and far away than dead and gone forever."
Can't argue with hell-hound logic, even when it tears me apart.
I'm halfway through my—seventh? eighth?—drink when I feel it. That familiar tug in my mind that means Cassian's trying to reach me through our twin bond.
I've been blocking him. Have been for weeks now. Because if I let him in, I'll feel his worry, his frustration, his own carefully buried heartbreak over Elowen, and I just... can't. Can't handle his pain on top of mine.
But he's persistent. Always has been.
The bond thrums, insistent. Casper. Where the hell are you?
I consider ignoring him. Consider slamming down another drink and pretending I didn't feel anything.
But Cassian will just keep pushing. That's what he does. The responsible twin. The one who didn't completely fall apart when our world imploded.
Busy, I send back, deliberately vague.
Busy drinking yourself to death? Cassian's mental voice is sharp with barely controlled anger. You missed the meeting. All the Alphas are asking questions.
Let them ask.
Casper—
I cut the connection. Just... sever it. Throw up walls and barriers and all the mental shields I learned as a kid when Cassian and I first figured out we could read each other's thoughts.
My phone buzzes on the bar. I don't need to look to know it's him. Calling, texting, probably ready to drive out here and drag me home by my ear if necessary.
Home.
Is it still home without her?
I signal the bartender for another drink. He hesitates this time, actually looks like he might refuse, but something in my expression must convince him I'm not worth the argument.
The new drink appears. I stare at it, amber liquid catching the soft light, and for just a moment I see her reflection in the glass.
Elowen.
My little freckle. My angel. My everything.
"I miss you," I whisper to the ghost in the glass. My voice cracks, roughened by whiskey and tears I refuse to shed in public. "Fuck, I miss you so much."
The reflection doesn't answer. Of course it doesn't. Because she's not here. She's hundreds of miles away with her real family—Ronan, Kade, Alaric. Probably doesn't even remember my name half the time, thanks to Raven's memory manipulation.
Better that way, the rational part of my brain insists. Safer. She's protected.
But my heart—my stupid, stubborn, shattered heart—doesn't give a damn about safety or logic. It just wants her.
"You still okay there, wolf?"
The vampire again. Persistent bastard.
I finally look at him. Really look. He's got that ageless vampire face, could be thirty or three hundred, with dark eyes that have seen too much. Recognition flickers—we're the same, him and me. Both running, both hiding, both trying to drink away whatever's chasing us.
"No," I say honestly. "But I will be. Eventually."
The vampire's lips quirk. "That's what they all say." He raises his own glass—blood, probably, mixed with something expensive. "To eventual peace."
I clink my glass against his. "To eventual peace."
We drink. The vampire returns to his corner. The fae bartender goes back to polishing glasses. And I go back to drowning.
Because that's all I know how to do anymore.
Drink. Miss her. Repeat.
My phone buzzes again. Then again. Then starts ringing outright.
Cassian. Of course.
I let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. Let my twin worry because at least that means he still gives a damn, even if I've stopped giving one about myself.
Around me, Moonrise Den continues its quiet hum of supernatural desperation. A werewolf couple argues in hushed tones near the back. A witch types furiously on her laptop, surrounded by empty coffee cups. A group of fae play cards with a deck that probably cheats.
All of us running. All of us hiding.
All of us pretending this sanctuary can save us from ourselves.
I close my eyes, let the alcohol pull me under its warm, numbing blanket. For just a moment—just one blessed moment—the ache lessens. The constant throb of Elowen, Elowen, Elowen fades to background static.
But then I make the mistake of breathing deep, and I swear I catch a phantom whiff of vanilla and honey.
And the wound tears open all over again.
"Fuck," I mutter, dropping my head to the bar. The cool mahogany feels good against my overheated skin.
The bartender slides over a glass of water. "On the house."
I should thank him. Should drink it. Should do any number of responsible things.
Instead, I push it away and signal for another whiskey.
Because Moonrise Den might be a sanctuary, but it can't save me from my own thoughts.
Nothing can.
Not even eventual peace.