Page 25 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“He was showing me the gardens,” Fiona says, her voice soft but steady. “Maya was surprised I hadn’t seen them yet.”
I nod, feeling suddenly foolish about my intervention. “I’m sorry I interrupted. Elina didn’t actually needed him.”
Fiona looks up at me, her gray eyes unreadable. “I know.”
The simple acknowledgment speaks volumes. She knows I lied. Knows I sent Karis away deliberately. Yet she doesn’t ask why, doesn’t call me on the jealousy that must be obvious to anyone paying attention.
“Are you adjusting well?” I ask, searching for neutral ground.
“Yes.” Her answer is easy, direct. None of the desperate need for approval that colored our early interactions. “Maya says I learn quickly.”
“She’s right,” I agree, searching for something, anything, to say that might bridge the gulf I’ve created between us. “The library staff tells me you’ve read more books in two months than most people do in years.”
A small smile touches her lips. “There’s so much to learn. So much I didn’t know existed.”
The wonder in her voice makes my chest ache. Despite everything—the torture, the captivity, the loss—she approaches the world with such hunger for knowledge, such openness to beauty.
“You haven’t shifted,” I say abruptly, immediately regretting the accusation in my tone.
Her smile fades. She looks down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. “No.”
“Why not?”
She’s silent for so long, I think she might not answer. When she does, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid.”
The admission worries me. I sit beside her on the bench, careful to leave space between us. “Afraid of what?”
“Of losing control again. Of hurting someone.” She looks up, meeting my eyes with sudden intensity. “Of feeling that rage again. It was...consuming.”
I understand now, with perfect clarity, what Griffin meant about her wolf dying of neglect. She’s rejecting a fundamental part of herself out of fear. Fear due to trauma, yes, but also fear born of inexperience and isolation.
“Shifting doesn’t have to be violent,” I tell her gently. “With practice, with guidance, it can be peaceful. Natural.”
“Would you show me?” she asks, the question startling in its directness. “Would you teach me how?”
The request catches me off guard. After weeks of distance, of barriers carefully constructed by me, she’s asking for my help—my specific help—with something deeply personal, with something that makes her feel vulnerable.
Every instinct screams at me to refuse, to maintain the separation I’ve worked so hard to establish. But looking into her eyes, seeing the fragile hope there, I find I can’t deny her this support.
“Yes,” I say, the word escaping before I can reconsider. “I’ll teach you.”
Her smile blooms slowly, like the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon. “When?”
I should suggest tomorrow. Give myself time to prepare, to reinforce some of the walls I feel crumbling around me. Instead, I hear myself say, “Tonight. After sunset. The forest behind the eastern guardhouse is private. No one will disturb us there.”
She nods, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “Thank you.”
As I walk away, I’m already regretting my decision. Not because I don’t want to help her, but because I want to help her too much. Because the thought of witnessing her shift, of guiding her through something so intimate and primal, makes the mate bond hum with anticipation.
Griffin was right. I am a coward.
The forest is quiet except for the distant call of night birds and the gentle rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. I arrived early to scout the area and ensure we’ll have complete privacy. The last thing Fiona needs is an audience for something so exposing.
She appears at the edge of the clearing at exactly the appointed time, a dark cloak wrapped around her shoulders against the chill. Her hair catches the moonlight, which makes it turn silver at the edges. She looks ethereal, almost otherworldly.
“You came,” I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
She steps closer, her footfalls nearly silent on the forest floor. “I said I would.”
