Chapter 31 Things that cannot stay hidden
Ronan walked out of the dungeon with Matthew at his side and several guards trailing behind them.
The doors slammed shut behind them, sealing away iron, blood, and broken voices. Even so, Fenrir did not settle. He paced beneath Ronan’s skin, restless and sharp, as though the stone itself offended him.
They moved through the lower corridors in silence at first, boots echoing faintly against the floor. Torches burned low here, their light duller, the air heavier.
Matthew was the one who finally spoke.
“You need to talk to her.”
Ronan didn’t slow. “I know.”
“The masquerade ball,” Matthew added after a beat. “Northwood pack is still her family whether we like it or not.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. He turned into the ascending corridor that led toward the upper halls, stone giving way to warmer air as they climbed. “I don’t want to remind her of that place.”
Matthew hummed quietly. “Figured.”
“What kind of mate would I be,” Ronan continued, voice low, “if I dragged her back to the place that broke her?”
Fenrir growled in agreement.
They reached the Moon Gallery, an open passage lined with tall arches and moonstone pillars. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, spilling over the gardens below. The contrast to the dungeon was jarring.
Matthew stopped near the railing, resting his forearms against the stone. “The part that bothers me,” he said slowly, “is Draven.”
Ronan paused a few steps ahead.
“Seven months,” Matthew went on. “Most would’ve moved on by now. Especially with Cierce.”
Ronan didn’t turn around.
“The rumors are loud,” Matthew added. “He’s planning to announce her as his Luna. So why is he still searching for Elara?”
Fenrir’s presence sharpened instantly.
Ronan’s voice was calm when he answered. “Because he doesn’t like losing.”
“And if he comes for her?”
Ronan turned then, eyes cold. “Then I won’t hesitate to shed blood.”
Matthew studied him for a moment, then nodded once. He accepted that answer.
They stood there in silence for a few seconds, the gardens rustling softly below.
“When are you going to tell her?” Matthew asked. "About you both being mates..."
Fenrir perked immediately. "Mate."
Ronan leaned a hand against one of the pillars. “I will. Just not now.”
Matthew tilted his head. “Why wait?”
“Because I want her to be herself around me,” Ronan said. “Not guarded. Not bracing. And she hasn’t shifted yet. I won’t pile truth on top of fear.”
Matthew exhaled slowly. “Avoiding her won’t help. You need to be there, not just protective.”
"I'm not avoiding her." Ronan’s shoulders tensed. “She’s scared of me.”
“She clung to you today.”
“I felt the fear under it,” Ronan replied quietly.
Matthew stepped closer and nudged his shoulder lightly. “I’m not saying this as the Emissary. I’m saying it as your brother and best friend. If you want her to lean on you, you have to be present. Not just watching. Not just protecting from a distance or feeling what she feels. You have to ease her pain as well.”
Ronan looked out over the gardens, jaw tight. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t fully trust himself.
Before he could answer, footsteps approached.
Arwen joined them, her expression serious but controlled. “Did the rogues talk?”
“Yes,” Ronan said. “Enough.”
He summarized quickly. The scent. The probe. Draven. The Hunt.
Arwen’s mouth thinned. “If her scent is that noticeable, we need to mask it before the Hunt.”
“I’ll have the witch create an artifact,” Ronan said. “Something subtle.”
“That should help,” Arwen agreed. “But secrecy never lasts.”
Ronan nodded.
“And Ronan,” she added, softer now, “keeping her safe doesn’t mean keeping her uninformed.” With that, she left.
He didn’t respond.
Ronan walked through the Moon Gallery, Matthew at his side, the guards trailing behind. Sunlight spilled across the marble floor, softening the shadows that still clung stubbornly to the corners. Despite the brightness, Ronan’s mind was elsewhere.
He thought of her—the way she had clung to him in the square, small and trembling, yet brave enough to speak. He replayed her voice saying please, the first time she had willingly asked something of him since that night in the woods. Fenrir stirred beneath his skin, low and insistent, reminding him of the danger anyone posed to her, but also of the fragility of her trust.
Matthew’s voice drew him back. “She’s likely still on edge. After today… you need to be mindful of how you approach her.”
Ronan didn’t reply immediately. His eyes scanned the garden below, but he wasn’t seeing it. He was imagining Elara in her chambers—alone for the first time since the attack, brushing water from her hair, staring at the bruise that shouldn’t exist. Arwen’s words from earlier echoed in his mind: keeping her safe doesn’t mean keeping her uninformed.
He tightened his jaw, feeling the weight of the Queen’s authority press on him—not as a command, but as a reminder. He had to balance protection with patience. He had to let her breathe, even while the world threatened to collapse around them.
Matthew nudged him gently. “She’s not just a girl in danger. She’s your mate. Don’t forget that when you plan your next move.”
Ronan exhaled softly, the first trace of tension leaving his shoulders. “I haven’t forgotten.”
By the time they reached the corridor leading to the upper halls, Ronan’s thoughts had settled into a single thread, "She needs me present, not distant. She needs me to be steady. And I will."
As the guards fell back, giving them privacy, Ronan’s pace slowed. He was thinking about the fragile balance of today—the rogues, the square, her voice, her fear—and how every step he took toward her chambers was a step toward ensuring she would feel safe again.
Meanwhile,
Elara sat before the mirror long after the room had gone quiet.
The candlelight flickered softly, catching on silver strands of hair still damp from the bath. Her reflection looked calm. Too calm. Like someone who had learned, very carefully, how not to show cracks.
Her shoulder throbbed faintly.
She shifted, the fabric of her sleeve sliding down just enough to expose the bruise again.
It had darkened.
Not spread. Not burned. Just… there. The shape still wrong. Too deliberate.
Elara frowned and pulled the sleeve back into place.
Liora stood near the window, arms folded, gaze angled outward as if she were still guarding the square. Faye lingered closer, pretending to fuss with the tea service even though neither of them had touched it.
“Liora,” Elara said quietly.
The warrior turned at once. “Yes, my lady?”
Her fingers twisted together in her lap. “What will the King do to them?”
Liora didn’t answer immediately.
That alone told Elara enough.
“It depends,” Liora said finally, choosing her words with care, “on his mood.”
“Oh.”
The word came out smaller than she intended.
Faye glanced over, her expression tight. “They attacked you, my lady. I wouldn’t be certain he plans to spare them.”
Elara swallowed.
The image of chains. Of blood. Of the way Ronan’s voice had gone cold in the square slipped into her mind uninvited.
She stared at her hands. “Why is he so… concerned?”
Neither woman answered.
Elara lifted her head, confusion threading into her voice. “I don’t understand it. I’m not important. I’m not from his pack. Wouldn’t it be considered improper for him to keep someone like me here without rites? Or negotiations?”
She shook her head faintly. “We’re not even mates. That’s not possible.”
The room went very still.
Too still.
Faye froze mid-motion.
Liora’s breath hitched.
They exchanged a look so fast Elara almost missed it, but the tension behind it snapped something sharp in her chest.
“What?” Elara asked. “Why are you looking at each other like that?”
Faye cleared her throat. “My lady… have you thought about returning to Northwood?”
The question landed wrong.
Elara blinked. “Why would I—”
Faye and Liora mindlinked instinctively, the worry flashing between them.
"She isn’t thinking of going back, is she?"
"She wouldn’t. Not after everything."
Elara hesitated.
And that hesitation was answer enough.
“Yes,” she said softly.
Both women spoke at once.
“What?”
“Why?”
Faye stepped forward, voice urgent. “My lady, you were abused there. You were imprisoned. Why would you ever—”
“I don’t want to live there,” Elara interrupted quickly. “I don’t want to go back.”
She paused, fingers curling into her dress. “I just… I want to see my father.”
Her stomach tightened as the thought settled. "But if Draven learns… he’ll never let me go ever again. He won’t care about my wishes. Not after everything he’s done.