Kathy watched Michael’s resting face in the dim quiet of the infirmary, illuminated only by the soft, pulsing glow of the soft light in the ceiling. He looked peaceful now—or as peaceful as someone with a wounded wolf could. His chest rose and fell evenly, his muscles no longer trembling beneath the weight of a fractured spirit.
His wolf had finally… rested.
Not healed. Not whole. But no longer fighting the impossible battle of clinging to a life that was never his to reclaim. He had accepted—however reluctantly—what was, instead of drowning in the ghost of what was supposed to be.
Kathy pressed a hand over her own heart. She could feel it. The faint spiritual tug through an unfulfilled mate bond. A dull ache. A hollow place carved into her chest where something soft and warm should hav
