Wren
The last echoes of the feast and howls faded below us as my mates stole me up the final stretch of path. The cliff shelf felt sacred tonight—private, ancient, ours. Lanterns cast a warm golden circle over thick furs piled in the center. Moonflowers glowed along the mother’s grave-path like living stars, and the Flower Moon hung huge and silver above, pouring light across the valley and painting everything in silver and gold.
Zephyr pulled me into the circle first, his hands steady on my waist. “Wife,” he said again, tasting the word like it was the finest wine. His storm eyes were dark with moonlight and centuries of want.
“Wife,” Caius echoed, stepping in behind me, pressing a kiss to the fresh mark over my heart. His lips lingered, and I felt the bond hum—warm, alive, connecting
