Chapter 19 Where’s my mate? 2
Where’s my mate?!”
Ronan thundered as he stepped out of the bathroom.
Steam still clung to his skin, curling off his shoulders and down his spine. Water dripped from his hair onto the obsidian floor, each drop echoing far too loudly in the sudden silence of the chamber. The only thing covering his nakedness was a loose black robe, hastily tied, barely holding together under the sheer violence radiating off him.
His aura exploded outward.
It slammed into the palace like a living thing. Heavy, suffocating and feral. Servants collapsed where they stood. Candles guttered and went out. Windows rattled. Even the patrol guards stationed at the far borders of the territory stiffened, breath catching as the Lycan King’s rage rolled across the land.
The doors to his chambers blew open with a violent crack.
Ronan stood frozen before the moon-rock bed.
Empty. The sheets were disheveled and his heart dropped into his stomach.
“No,” he said hoarsely.
He stepped forward, slow at first, eyes scanning the bed as if she might suddenly appear if he stared hard enough. The silver pillows still held the faint impression of her head but her scent was long gone.
That familiar pull, the one that had anchored him through seven endless months of waiting, watching, hoping, was glitching.
Worse.
He reached inward.
Nothing.
The bond was silent.
A sharp, animal snarl tore from his throat.
Fenrir surged inside him, enraged, pacing violently against Ronan’s ribs. "She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone."
Ronan snapped.
He spun and stormed out of the room, bare feet slamming against stone, robe flaring behind him like a shadow. The guards outside barely had time to react before Ronan had one of them by the throat.
His fingers locked tight, lifting the man clean off the ground.
“Where is she?” Ronan growled, eyes blazing gold-red, pupils blown wide. His voice vibrated with barely restrained savagery. “Tell me where my mate is.”
The guard choked, boots kicking uselessly. “Y—Your Majesty—n-no one—no one left the room—”
Ronan’s grip tightened.
“Lie to me again,” he hissed, “and I will tear the truth out of your bones.”
"W-we dare not lie to you, your majesty."
The second guard dropped instantly to his knees, forehead hitting the floor. “Queen Arwen ordered—ordered that no one enter the chamber, sire. No one has crossed that door since she left.”
Ronan released the first guard abruptly, sending him crashing into the wall. He staggered down, coughing violently.
“No one leaves,” Ronan repeated, chest heaving. “Then how is she gone? Black magic?”
The air felt thick. Pressurized. Like the palace itself was holding its breath.
“Ronan!”
Arwen rushed towards the room, her gown swaying as she took in the chaos. The shattered doors, the guards on the floor, the empty bed.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
Ronan rounded on her, eyes wild. “What’s going on,” he snarled, “is that my mate has disappeared.”
Matthew arrived seconds later, breathless, taking in the scene with alarm. “Ronan... listen to me—”
“Don’t,” Ronan snapped, pointing at him. “Do not tell me to calm down.”
Matthew swallowed. “Be rational.”
Ronan let out a harsh, broken sound. “Rational?” His voice cracked as he gestured to the empty bed. “She’s been unconscious for seven months. Seven. Months. She wakes up... and she’s gone. And you want rational?”
Arwen moved past him, her gaze sharp as she inspected the chamber. The bed. The floor. The doors.
“Ronan,” she said carefully, “have you tried reaching her?”
He turned on her instantly. “Of course I have!” His fist slammed into the stone wall beside him, cracking it. “All I get is fear. Raw fear. She’s terrified, wherever she is.”
His chest tightened. “She could be hurt or... or in danger. I can't lose her not after I just found her.”
He whirled toward Matthew. “Mobilize the men. Lock down every gate. If a single hair on her head is harmed—”
“Enough.”
Arwen’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
She stepped directly in front of him, forcing his attention. “Ronan. Look at me.”
He hesitated—but did.
“She didn’t leave the palace,” Arwen said firmly. “No wards were breached. No alarms triggered. No one took her.”
“Then where is she?” Ronan demanded, voice shaking with barely controlled fury.
Arwen exhaled. “You are flooding the bond with panic.”
Ronan snarled. “Because she’s scared!”
“Yes,” Arwen agreed. “And so are you.”
Silence fell, heavy and tense.
“Try again,” she said, softer now. “But this time—be calm.”
Ronan laughed bitterly. “Calm?”
“Do it,” she insisted. “Or you’ll only drown her in your fear.”
His jaw clenched. Fenrir growled, restless, but Ronan forced himself to still. He closed his eyes, fists trembling at his sides.
He reached inward. Not with rage but with restraint. Then, the bond flickered. A sharp pulse of emotion hit him. Fear, confusion, the sense of being trapped and something else. Small and close.
Ronan’s eyes snapped open. He turned slowly and his gaze dropped to the space beneath the bed. His eyes caught sight of the faintest movement.
A soft, shuddering breath.
“Elara,” he whispered.
The room froze.
And then—
“Found her,” Ronan said, voice breaking as relief and fury crashed together.
Under the bed.
Hiding.
Terrified.
Alive.