Chapter 36

Chapter 36
The local tavern, "The Howling Oak," was a dark, smoke-stained dive where the light struggled to penetrate the grime on the windows. It was the kind of place warriors went when they didn't want to be found. I stepped inside, the smell of stale ale and old regrets hitting me like a physical wall.
I spotted him in the far corner, hunched over a sticky wooden table littered with empty whiskey glasses. Paul. The Lead Warrior. The man who used to command rooms with a single glance now looked like a pile of discarded laundry.
"Paul," I said softly, sliding into the booth across from him.
He lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. His stubble was thick and unkempt, and his shirt was stained. He looked at me, and for a second, he didn't even know who I was. Then, his face crumpled.
"Jules," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "I can’t... I can’t stop seeing her. Every time I close my eyes, I’m at those cliffs. I’m looking at that note. Why wasn't I enough, Jules? Why didn't she tell me she was drowning?"
He reached for a glass, but his hand shook so violently that he knocked it over. Amber liquid spread across the table, dripping onto his lap. He didn't even flinch. He just slumped forward, his forehead resting on the damp wood, and started to weep—deep, chest-heaving sobs that stripped away his dignity.
"She left us. She left Libby. She left me," he moaned. "I gave her everything. I thought we were Mates. I thought the bond was supposed to make us whole. It was all a lie, wasn't it?"
I reached across the table, my fingers brushing his tangled hair. My heart skipped a beat. This was the moment. The vulnerability, the raw, bleeding core of him—it was finally open to me.
"The bond is a mystery, Paul," I whispered, my voice a soothing balm. "Sometimes it blinds us to the truth. Maybe she wasn't who you thought she was. But I am. I’m still here. I’ve always been here."
He looked up, his lip trembling. "I’m a mess. Look at me. I’m a pathetic drunk."
"You’re a man in pain," I countered firmly. I stood up, walked around the table, and pulled him to his feet. He stumbled, his weight falling heavily against me. I caught him, my arms locking around his waist. "And I’m going to take you home. No more of this, Paul. The bottle isn't going to bring her back, and it’s killing the man I... the man the pack needs."
I spent the next three days in his house. It was a battle of wills. I poured every drop of amber poison down the kitchen sink while he watched with hollow eyes. I cleaned the house, scrubbing away the scent of neglect, and I cooked him the hearty meals we used to share when we were young.
When the tremors hit him, I held his hands. When he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, I sat on the edge of his bed and hummed the old songs my mother used to sing until his breathing leveled out. I was the nurse, the mother, the friend, and the savior all rolled into one.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked on the fourth morning, sitting at the kitchen table with a clear head and a cup of black coffee. He looked at me with a soft, bewildered sort of gratitude. "After everything... after the years we spent apart... why me?"
I sat across from him, reaching out to cover his hand with mine. I made sure my green eyes were wide and filled with a carefully crafted, heartbreaking sincerity.
"Because sixteen years ago, a piece of me stayed with you on that porch," I said softly. "I never stopped being yours, Paul. I just waited for you to need me again."
He squeezed my hand back, his grip firm for the first time in weeks. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Jules."
I smiled, a warm, radiant expression that didn't hint at the silver cage or the purple mist waiting beneath my own floorboards.
"You'll never have to find out," I promised.