Chapter 25: Chapter 25

LUXURY

The wheels of the chair groaned against the uneven forest path.

I kept my grip firm, navigating carefully over the jagged bones of roots and rocks beneath us. The damp scent of soil clung thick to the air, mingling with something older—something ancient and heavy.

Magic.

It curled through the trees, unseen but suffocating, a pulse in the earth itself. It pressed into my skin, coiled around my bones like unseen chains, whispering of past rituals, of blood spilled and bonds broken.

I hated this place.

And yet, I knew it.

My fingers clenched tighter on the handles of Selene’s chair. Madame Verda moved ahead, gliding through the undergrowth without sound, her presence barely disturbing the land she walked on. But I felt the way it shifted around her.

She was being guided.

Not by sight.

By something far older than her own knowledge.

By the pull of a path carved in my own past, one I had walked too many times as a boy. A path that led to where my father had stolen everything.

I exhaled through my nose, steadying the rage simmering just beneath my skin. Now wasn’t the time.

Selene shifted in the chair, breath hitching slightly as she adjusted. I caught the way her fingers curled into the blanket over her lap, her body still aching from the shift.

I hated it.

Hated that she was here, after everything—still suffering, still forced to claw her way back to what was rightfully hers.

My father had taken from her too.

He had taken from both of us.

The deeper we went, the stronger the pull became. My body recognized it first—an instinctive tension coiling through my muscles, something embedded in the marrow of my bones.

This place lived in my skin.

In my soul.

I had walked this path before, guided by a man I had once thought was shaping me into a leader. A man I had trusted, obeyed—who had made me believe these rituals were sacred. That they would bring me closer to my mate.

Lies.

A bitter taste coated my tongue.

Ahead of us, the witch stopped.

She inhaled deeply, fingers twitching at her sides as if she were reaching for something just beyond her grasp. The air shifted.

Then—softly—she spoke.

“It’s here.”

I stopped the wheelchair.

Selene’s breath caught.

Silence swallowed the clearing whole.

Not the silence of a sleeping forest.

This was wrong.

The wind had stilled. The trees stood rigid, as if they too feared to breathe.

And I knew—this was the place.

Memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden.

The scent of burning herbs. The thick, acrid taste of iron on my tongue. My father’s hands, strong and unyielding, pressing into my shoulders.

“A mate is a gift, Luxury,” he had told me, his voice calm, unwavering. “But gifts can be dangerous if given to the wrong person.”

I had been too young to understand.

Too young to realize he wasn’t giving me a gift.

He was taking it away.

I dragged in a slow breath, forcing the memories back into the grave where they belonged.

He wasn’t here.

But I was.

This time, I wouldn’t be the victim.

Selene’s hand reached for mine, her fingers cool against my burning skin.

I turned slightly toward her, but she didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

I tightened my grip around her hand before looking toward Madame Verda.

“What do we do?”

A long pause. Then, in that slow, deliberate way of hers, she spoke.

“Set up the fire.”

I moved without hesitation.

There was no uncertainty in my steps, no hesitation in my hands. I knew this ritual, had been trained in it, used for it.

This time, I would wield it for myself.

I gathered the wood quickly, placing it with precision. The witch whispered under her breath, her voice melting into the stillness, drawing unseen symbols into the earth.

Selene watched silently.

She was here, but part of her was still trapped in that vision—the one she had told me about in the dark. The one where her wolf had been locked away, caged and forgotten.

I wouldn’t let that happen again.

Not now.

Not ever.

The fire sparked to life with a sharp hiss, the flames licking hungrily at the wood. It burned hot, and I felt it crackle in the air, its tendrils curling into the night, whispering to something unseen.

The smoke carried a scent I couldn’t quite place—thick and cloying, layered with an ancient weight that pressed against my ribs.

Magic.

Not the gentle kind. Not the kind that whispered and coaxed.

This magic was old. Hungry.

It knew me.

It recognized the blood in my veins, the history etched into my bones.

I stood before the flames, my body rigid, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. I could feel the pull of the ritual wrapping around me, reaching deep, clawing into my lungs with every breath of that thick, suffocating smoke.

This was going to hurt.

The witch’s voice came soft but firm.

“Do not fight it.”

Easy for her to say.

I exhaled sharply, centering myself, letting my senses expand beyond what my eyes could not give me.

The fire snapped.

The smoke shifted.

Then—another scent.

One I knew.

Leather. Metal. The sharp tang of sweat from someone who had just come from the training fields.

Erik.

His presence hit me a second before his voice did.

“The fuck is this?”

I didn’t turn. Didn’t react. I didn’t have to. I felt the way he prowled into the clearing, his movements cautious but edged with tension.

He was pissed.

The witch didn’t acknowledge him, her attention still fixed on the ritual, on me.

“I heard whispers,” Erik continued, voice sharp, filled with barely contained aggression. “That my alpha was dragged into the trees with a witch.”

I inhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders against the ache building in my muscles.

“You should be handling the council,” Erik pressed. “Should be dealing with the aftermath of war—”

I tilted my head slightly, my tone like steel. “I am dealing with it.”

Erik’s boots scraped against the dirt, his presence shifting like he was scanning the clearing, taking in the setup—the fire, the symbols, Selene seated in the wheelchair, watching silently.

His distrust was a living thing in the air.

I could practically hear his teeth grind together. “This is a bad idea.”

I forced a smirk, though my jaw was tight. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“I know it’s witchcraft.” He spat the word like a curse.

The fire flared.

The magic curled tighter around me, thickening, pressing against my chest like invisible chains.

“I don’t have time for this, Erik.” My voice was rough, strained, the weight of the ritual pressing harder now. “Either stay and shut the fuck up or leave.”

Silence.

Tense.

Charged.

Then—he exhaled sharply. “Not leaving.”

Of course not.

He wouldn’t walk away. Not from me. Not even from ~this~.

He didn’t trust witches, but he trusted me.

I swallowed against the thick pull in my throat, my muscles tensing as the heat from the fire intensified. Madame Verda finally spoke, her voice steady.

“We do not have much time.”

I nodded once.

She moved toward me, placing something cold into my palm. A dagger.

I ran my thumb along the edge, feeling the curve of the blade.

Not ceremonial.

Not ornamental.

This was a weapon.

Madame Verda’s voice came low, a command wrapped in silk.

“Blood for blood.”

The moment the words left her lips, the magic surged.

A pulse of heat wrapped around me, clamping down like a vice. My breath hitched, my body locking tight as something tore through me—like fingers digging into my chest, into my ~soul~, searching for something buried deep.

My knees nearly buckled.

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to stand tall.

A sharp inhale from Selene, the faintest sound of her struggling to push herself upright in the chair.

She felt it.

I tightened my grip on the blade, my own blood singing in my veins, pushing against the pressure of the magic, the force of the bond trying to right itself.

Erik took a sharp step forward. “~Lux~—”

“~I’m fine~,” I bit out, my breath uneven.

Lies.

I wasn’t fine.

This ~hurt~.

It burned through me, turning my insides to molten lead, dragging at something ~deep~, something primal, something that had been locked away for years.

“Cut your palm,” the witch instructed.

My hand trembled slightly as I pressed the blade to my skin, the familiar sting of steel slicing through flesh. Warmth pooled, the scent of iron thick in the air.

The flames crackled, hissing as though the fire itself had come alive.

The magic ~seized~ me.

I gasped, my head tilting back as it pulled—hard—like a chain being yanked through my chest.

Erik cursed.

Selene called my name, but her voice sounded far away.

The clearing spun.

I was being dragged under, swallowed whole by the magic, by the severed bond trying to ~mend~.

Flashes of memory—

A boy in the woods, hands bound in ritual.

A father’s voice, calm and unyielding.

A fire just like this one, but different—dark, twisted, wrong.

I ~saw~ it.

Even in the blackness, even with my useless eyes—I ~saw~ the moment it had happened.

Saw the threads of fate ~cut~.

Saw my own father sever me from the one thing that had been ~meant~ for me.

My breath tore from my throat in a ragged gasp, the weight of it crashing down so hard my knees finally gave.

The dirt hit my palms.

The fire ~roared~.

And in the distance, the wind howled—

Calling for something lost.

Calling ~her~ home.