Mason
It was time.
I felt it in my bones like I had when I was a lad.
The same hunger that forced me to crawl on my hands and knees to the window and beg The Creator to make me the Great Wolf.
Heâd granted my wish.
It had dire consequences.
I still had no idea what my mate was capable of, and yet, I knew it would be all right. I just didnât know how.
I trusted the fact that I had the knowledge of the stars in my make-upâthe way that Gadreel had left it.
I just wished I knew how to access all the information in a way that would help me regain the trust and reverence of my people.
I knew I had my warriors.
But I did not have the rest of the people.
The minute I turned against my true nature was the minute theyâd called me weak. It had nearly killed me.
To call a wolf weak, to hear it throughout the world in harsh whispers and discontent, as if I was a poison set about the wolf race, to end them allâ¦
It had shaken my already broken heart and nearly left me for dead.
Until Cassius.
Ethan.
Stephanie.
Begrudgingly, I even admitted Alexâs sarcasm turned my focus to wanting to murder him more than the people who doubted my strength, my ability to be the Great Wolf, the Alpha.
I rolled to my side and watched her sleep.
My mate.
My goddess.
My vampire.
What beautiful blood she had running through her veins. What an impossible task we had set before us.
My mindâmy entire bodyâbegged me to default, to put on my torn jeans, to grab my flip-flops from the Goodwill, and put my hair in a ponytail.
To march downstairs and hunt some berries, to suffer a crunchy pinecone-filled breakfast.
My body wanted me to be punished.
My soul demanded it.
My mind told me I was no longer worthy.
But my blood â her blood â whispered, âYou are.â
And for the first time in my existence, I chose to believe something other than the negative thoughts in my own brain.
I trusted the blood.
I trusted her.
I closed my eyes. This was so different, living a life of depravity made me feelâbetter. Any wolf would see me and see the suffering. The judgment had never been narcissism, only pity for my state.
It had helped me stay in that condition, their pity.
And so Iâd stayed.
Warriors had stopped begging my return.
And the whispers stopped.
And I was lost.
Because when you lose your purpose, you lose your very soul.
Mine had not been returned to me, until I faced what I was, what I was becoming with her.
I pushed the jet-black hair from her perfect face. She was even pretty when she slept, her earth-toned skin, the kind formed by the hands of The Creator alone, shone in all its glory.
Itâs dizzyingâpieces of onyx twinkled with delight.
Maybe theyâd be so distracted by her beauty they would not remember the old tales.
But I knew some of them were still alive. Some of them would know.
One of them for sure.
My father.