Page 80 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights

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When he finally returned to the cottage, we were going to have words. Many of them. None particularly pleasant.

Rory

Ileaned against the ancient rowan tree, its gnarled bark rough against my skin. The “Kissing Tree,” we’d called it as teenagers—not for any romantic reason, but because its twisted trunk had split and rejoined, creating what looked like two trunks embracing. It stood a good fifteen-minute walk from the manor, our unofficial meeting spot for night runs.

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The dinner still clung to me like smoke—every sideways glance, every pointed comment, every moment where I’d felt like a specimen under glass. But worse than all of that was the memory of Maxwell’s voice, soft and certain, spinning that beautiful lie about falling for me in a coffee shop.

For one ridiculous moment, I’d let myself believe his words. I’d sat there, frozen, as he painted this picture of someone—him—going an hour out of their way just for the chance to see me. Someone tongue-tied and nervous, grateful for my attention rather than exasperated by my existence.

Nice fantasy.

That’s what I’d thought, and fuck, the sadness that had washed over me in that moment had been mortifying. Here was Maxwell, playing his part perfectly, and I’d nearly let myself get swept away by the pretence. Nearly let myself imagine what it would feel like to be loved like that—completely, desperately, without reservation.

But it wasn’t real. None of it was real. After this, we’d go back to London, back to him thinking I was an idiot, back to the careful distance we maintained betweenus.

The decision to join the run had crystallised in that moment of bitter clarity. If I was going to be here, if I was going to face all this pain, then I needed to do something useful. Something that justified putting myself—and Maxwell—through this torture. We needed to do everything possible to find information about Dev.

The thought of returning to the cottage later had icy dread shooting through me. That cold hatred would return to Maxwell’s eyes after days of… whatever this was between us.

But maybe, if I could learn something tonight—anything that might help us find Dev—then the cost would be worth it.

The moon called to me, its pull irresistible despite being three nights away from full. I quickly removed most of the piercings from my ears, stuffing them into my jeans pocket, then stripped off my remaining clothes. I left it all in a haphazard pile near the trunk, burying my dead phone within the nest.

Finally time.

A mix of relief and excitement coursed through me. My wolf form felt right in ways my human form never did. No more constant buzz of thoughts, no more feeling too loud, too much, too inadequate.

The night air prickled against my naked skin as I closed my eyes and let the change take me.

First came the burning—fire racing through my veins like I’d downed six espresso shots at once. My bones cracked and reshaped with excruciating precision, each snap a familiar agony that still made me want to scream. My jaw elongated, teeth sharpening to points as my spine curved and shortened. I fell forward onto hands that were no longer hands but paws, claws digging into soft earth. The world fractured into kaleidoscopic colours as my senses heightened—too bright, too loud—the way my mind felt on my worst days, but purposeful now, directed.

Then, as the last of my muscles shifted into place, my scattered human thoughts shattered.

Pain fades. Power floods.

Scents assault first—damp earth, rotting leaves, rabbit trail three hours old. Mouse heart patters beneath fallen log. Moon pulls. Not thought. Command.