Page 76 of Mated Exile

But I won't shy away from the challenge, especially if this is the only way to help them.

Ignoring Bennett's curious and judgmental gaze, I turn towards the center of the circle and stride forward. There are a few murmurs as I walk across the space, and plenty of eyes turn towards me. Roarke follows at a distance. When I stop and stand beside the cauldron, he's there just behind me, a steadying presence at my back. He gives me enough room to do this on my own, though, which is exactly how I need to do that.

As a hush falls over the crowd and I gain attention, nervousness crawls across my skin. I let myself feel it for a moment before letting go. Then I turn towards the cauldron, which is set up on a landing a few feet above the ground. Ascending the steps towards it, I place a hand on its brass bowl, and meet the curious eyes around me.

Clearing my throat, I feel the cauldron amplify my voice. A shiver goes through my spine.

"Evening, everyone." My eyes find the eldest among the crowd, a thin number of council members for a once-sizable pack. "Honored council members." I glance at each statue. "Elder spirits."

A voice calls out, anonymous and belligerent. "What's the shiftless exile want?"

I look for the source, but there's no sign of who it is. Roarke tenses at my back, taking a predatory step forward. I cut him off with a motion of my fingers.

"That's right, it's me. Delilah Glass." Taking a deep breath, I steady myself. "It's true that my father exiled me, that much I can't deny. But he also put me in his will, which called me to return here, to my home. Since I've come back, I've discovered so much, including the curse that's taken hold in the years that I've been gone, and all the suffering you've gone through. For that I'm sorry."

My eyes drag across them, and though I don't reach my awareness out, I feel it. Their pain. Their sorrow. The anger, frustration, and even rage. I let it wash over me and fall away.

"What isn't true is rumors that I'm shiftless. The truth is, I have a wolf—and I always have. My father suppressed it with a chip." Murmurs and gasps go up. I find Sasha in the crowd, my heart squeezing for her. "I only found out recently what he'd done, and elected to have the chip removed. Being reunited with my wolf was bittersweet—because I can only celebrate her spirit within me if I know my pack is whole, and healthy."

This next part is the hardest. I find Roarke and take strength in his eyes. There's a connection that radiates from him, towards every member of the pack, and I know that if need be, we can change how they all feel. But I don't want to do it that way. I want them to accept me because it'stheirchoice.

"I can't fully explain to you why my father did what he did, though I have my guesses. All I can tell is what I now know: my mother wasn't Laura Glass."

Murmurs, again. I have to raise my voice to speak over them.

"My true mother was a witch of the mountains, who died after I was born. I have her powers—those of a witch, and a werewolf. If given the chance, I want to use my gifts to save this pack. To lift the curse, and make us whole again. I hope that you'll let me."

Thirty-Two

Kieran

Though I'm at the back of the crowd when Delilah makes her announcement, I can hear her strong, sure voice ring out over everything. It buoys me to hear the hope and certainty in her tone—even though I fear for her safety.

There's no mistaking the unease that ripples through the wolves assembled at hearing a wolf-witch hybrid is in their midst. I catch a few snatches of conversation from the crowd as I push closer to the center of the circle, where Delilah stands beside the empty cauldron. My eyes catch Roarke's gaze as he takes a step towards her, protective, and I know he'll keep her safe.

A few voices speak snatches of fears and worries. One rises above them, deep and snarled with anger. "What's to say you aren't the one whocausedthe curse in the first place?"

"That's right, exile!"

Delilah's eyes widen, their bright green catching the setting sun. I feel my wolf snap and snarl, desperate to surge from my skin. It's all I can do to control him.

A moment later I feel a warmth ease through my chest. Peace and steadiness spread through my veins. Looking around the crowd, I see a similar effect on those around me, but it's not enough to quell the hatred or fear. A familiar blue-eyed figure stands in the midst of the warmth. Though I can tell Roarke is trying, there's only so much he can do.

I prepare to rush up the cauldron's steps, yank Delilah to my chest, and run out of here with her, if that's what it takes.

Just when I'm about to do it, a sudden flare of light splashes across my vision. Turning my head away, I hold my hand up, the world whiting out. When I blink the light away and my eyes focus I nearly stumble at what I see.

The cauldron beside Delilah has come to life with an eerie blue-white flame.

It's the same magic flame that lights up when an alpha holds a Mating Ceremony. The fire is the lifeblood of the pack, flaring up to represent our strength. In the past few years it's gone dim and dark, turning a deep blue only about a foot or two tall.

Right now it surges with brightness and life, dancing at least a dozen feet in the air. The heat it throws off is scorching, enough that I step back. But Delilah, whose hand still rests at the edge of the brass cauldron, doesn't seem affected by it at all. She watches the flame with wide eyes, her face splashed with bright light, hand still resting on the lip of the cauldron.

I lose myself in her beauty for a moment, unable to fully breathe.

Then a voice calls out, "She's been chosen! Whether the rest of the pack accepts her or not is no matter. The elders have voiced their approval."

The voice is strong and confident, though the man who steps out of the crowd is far from it. At over eighty years old, Michael Sea is a thin and slightly stooped figure, though still over six feet tall. His white hair is stirred by his steps as he strides out into the center of the circle, using a cane in his right hand to hold himself up, the leg injured in an old skirmish between the pack and the military.

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