Page 73 of Unveiled

Connor’s hackles lifted, not in warning but in instinctive awareness, as if some old memory had stirred, reminding him that wolves were not meant to stand alone. A low thrum pulsed through the clearing. Adrian pricked an ear, responding to something Connor felt down to the bone, the bond settling deeper, adjusting, aligning.

The earth beneath them seemed to vibrate.

Adrian’s wolf moved first, circling Connor carefully, keeping a respectful distance but refusing to break eye contact. Connor answered with a slow, deliberate turn of his own. A silent exchange, cautious but not unfriendly.

Their circles closed, inch by inch. When their shoulders finally brushed fur against fur, the bond pulsed so sharply Connor froze, his claws digging into the frosty soil. Adrian froze too.

A deep sound rolled through Connor’s chest. Not a growl but a recognition he hadn’t allowed himself to name. Adrian answered with a quiet, steady sound of his own.

And for the first time since the mark awoke, the thread between them eased, no longer pulling or demanding, simply settling, warm and steady.

Two wolves stood together in the rising dark.

The sky above them shivered like the Veil itself had taken notice.

Chapter Twenty

Connor

Adrian insisted he was fine. Connor knew better.

He’d run over to Glengáill in the early morning, when the dew was on the ground and the kits in the burrows had only started to stir from a lazy sleep. He’d enjoyed a breakfast of pheasant and was satiated. For a while. All he had to do now was convince one stubborn Frenchman to lean on him for support.

Connor found Adrian walking around the village. His posture was too straight, his movements too measured. The kind of careful that came from wanting to look normal when everything inside was breaking. The mark shimmered faintly beneath the fabric of his shirt. But Connor saw it. He always saw it. It was mirrored on his body too, but without the pain Adrian seemed to suffer.

A cluster of villagers approached Adrian near the fountain, their voices anxious, overlapping, clutching shawls and half-formed fears. Adrian lifted a hand to reassure them, forcing a smile. Connor watched from the gatehouse steps, his chest tight.

Adrian had always been composed, elegant even in chaos, but today Connor saw the Frenchman’s shoulders were rigid, his breaths short, his skin too pale against the morning frost. And when one villager reached to touch his arm, Adrian flinched. Only for a second, but Connor saw it. He was at Adrian’s side before he was fully aware of moving.

“Enough,” Connor said, stepping between Adrian and the crowd with the subtle, immovable force of a stone wall.

The villagers blinked in surprise. “Connor, we were only—”

“He needs air,” Connor said briskly. “Back up.”

They backed up. People always backed up when Connor used that tone.

Adrian exhaled sharply, the sound half frustration, half relief. “I was handling it.”

Connor turned on him instantly. “You were about to fall over.”

Adrian bristled. “I was not.”

“You swayed.”

“I shifted my weight.”

“You looked ready to pass out.”

Adrian stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Connor, I am perfectly capable—”

“No, you’re not.” The words landed like a thrown blade.

Adrian froze. His jaw worked for a moment before he hissed, “I do not need a bloody guard.”

“You’re not getting a guard,” Connor said. “You’re getting me.”

“That’s even worse.”