The Beacon's Answer (2)
"A rejected bond may appear severed, but the Moon's threads do not break so easily. Distance, denial, death itself—none sever what the Goddess binds. Only mutual acceptance of severance by both parties, or the death of the bond's essence, can truly end what was fated."
Tristan's hands trembled as he read the next line.
"A bond echo—the phantom sensation of a fated mate's strong emotion or mortal danger—may manifest across great distances if the connection remains partially intact."
The burning in his chest intensified.
She was alive.
Aveline—the Omega he'd rejected, the girl he'd thrown away like garbage to marry her stronger sister—was alive somewhere. Close enough for him to feel her through the shredded remains of their bond.
And she was in danger.
Or her power had just—
Tristan's mind raced. The timing. The sudden surge. The way the bond scar had erupted like a beacon in his chest.
Five years ago, when he'd last felt anything from Aveline, she'd been fleeing through the woods. Broken. Powerless.
Wolfless.
What could make a wolfless Omega suddenly register on the bond like a supernova?
Tristan grabbed his phone and dialed his head scout. "Derek. I need surveillance teams deployed to every human city within five hundred miles of our territory. You're looking for a woman—mid-twenties, auburn hair, silver eyes. Name was Aveline Mooncrest. She may be using an alias."
"Sir, that's a significant resource allocation for one missing pack member—"
"She's not missing," Tristan interrupted. His reflection in the library window looked wild. Desperate. "She's hiding. And I need her found. Now."
He ended the call before Derek could question him further.
Delilah appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe, her perfect face creased with suspicion. "What was that about?"
"Pack security."
"You never obsess over pack security at four in the morning." She crossed her arms. "This is about her, isn't it? About your precious rejected mate."
Tristan met his wife's eyes and saw the truth she'd never admit—that marrying him had been a victory she'd spent five years regretting, because no amount of Luna status could fill the void of being second choice.
"Aveline might be alive," he said. Because lies had cost him everything once already. "And if she is, the pack's decline—our inability to produce an heir—all of it might be the Goddess's punishment for what we did to her."
Delilah's face went white. "You can't be serious."
"Look at us." Tristan gestured at the dying pack house around them. "Five years of declining birth rates. Five years of losing territory to the Obsidian Pack. Five years of you failing to conceive despite every healer, every ritual, every—"
The slap cracked across his face before he could finish.
"Get out." Delilah's voice shook. "Find your ghost. But don't expect me to welcome her back as your redemption."
She swept from the library.
Tristan touched his burning cheek and felt nothing but the deeper burn in his chest where Aveline's bond echo still pulsed.
He would find her.
He would reclaim her.
And if she fought him—if she'd somehow built a new life in the five years since he'd destroyed her—
Then he'd take that too.
In Veridia City, Ava Cole carried her sleeping son to his bedroom and tried not to think about the two men drinking coffee in her living room.
Maya had insisted on staying. Had even brought a change of clothes from her apartment next door, determined to "keep watch" in case another "gas leak" happened.
Ava wanted to be grateful.
Instead, she just felt trapped.
"He's beautiful," Maya said from the doorway, watching Ronan sleep. "And terrifying. I saw the light, Ava. I saw it."
"I know."
"So what do we do?"
Ava tucked the blanket around her son's small body and felt the weight of every decision she'd made in the last five years crushing down. "We run. Again."
"To where?"
"Somewhere they can't find us."
Maya's hand touched her shoulder. "Sweetie. I think they already have."
In three different cities, three people stared at screens and shadows and memories, and in a small apartment in Veridia, a four-year-old boy slept dreamlessly, unaware that he had just painted a target on his mother's back.
**
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