Page 102 of The Moonborn's Curse

"I'm under pressure you can't even imagine. I'm trying to keep the tribe safe, Seren. I don't have time or energy for anything else."

Her throat burned. "Not even for us?"

They didn't speak for a long time after that. They went to bed without touching.

Later that night, in the dark, his voice found her.

"When I touch you," he whispered, "when we're together—I'm stronger. Faster. My vision sharpens. My shifts are smoother, and quicker. It's like the bond... fuels me."

He paused, his voice rough with exhaustion and truth.

"But when I'm away from you—" He exhaled. "It hurts, Seren. It's like something in me is being pulled too tight. Like I'm running with half my breath. I feel it every hour I'm not with you. And still... I stay away."

Her breath caught, but he continued, eyes dark in the low light.

"Because I have to keep the tribe safe. I have to keep you safe. And I don't know how to be what they need and still be the mate you deserve. But there's no one—no one—more important to me than you."

She turned toward him and touched his chest lightly as if to quiet the storm beneath his skin. Her voice was barely audible.

"I love you."

But he was already asleep.

She swallowed her ache and turned away, the words hanging between them like smoke that never fully cleared.

Seren continued with her duties.

She still rose early, still walked the trails, still helped the healers and gathered herbs for the Oracle. Still met with Astrid for Lunara training, answering questions in low, measured tones. But her hands, once steady and sure, trembled sometimes. And her laugh—when it came—sounded like something borrowed, not quite real.

Astrid noticed.

She didn't say anything at first, just watched. But after the third week, she pulled Seren aside and said gently, "You're not eating."

Seren only shook her head with a smile that didn't touch her dull grey eyes. "I'm just tired."

But she was growing thinner, her face paler, her eyes dulled. Her body, once warm with energy from the bond, now seemed to carry its weight like a chain.

She watched Hagan from a distance—at the training fields, in the council circle. He moved with effortless confidence now, stronger, faster, more sure than ever. There was ease in his body. Vitality in his voice. He looked like a man fulfilled by his purpose. Veyr and Dain were never far. And neither was Lia.

He said all the right things—when he remembered to come home. He always gave her a perfunctory kiss before dropping off to sleep like the dead. The food she made with love was uneaten.

Words were not the same as presence. And presence wasn't the same as choosing.

She told herself it was just the weight of duty. The strain of leadership as Draken piled more and more on Hagan's shoulders. But still, there was a dread curling in her chest like frost.

The bond hurt. Her mating mark throbbed sometimes.

Nights were the only time they had any contact. And not all nights. Some passed with only silence. Some with his arm draped over her in sleep, his breath warm on her neck but his thoughts unreachable. It was like the desire and comrade of before never existed. A tether still held them—but it felt frayed now, slackened in her hands while his side held firm. What was happening?

She was holding on alone.

And part of her had begun to wonder if he even knew.

And one morning, she woke early. The pan hissed gently as she flattened the dough with her fingers, folding grated white radish into the soft wheat mixture. She filled each one with a mix of crushed spices and green herbs, pressing them gently before flipping them on the hot pan. The smell was sharp and familiar—comforting in its simplicity.

She finished the flatbreads with a dollop of hand-churned butter and a bowl of cool, tangy yoghurt streaked with crushed mint.

She left his plate covered, a soft cloth over it to hold the warmth. Hagan was still dead to the world.

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