Mate Me in Moonlight

Chapter 61

POV: Adeline

Night pressed against the cabin walls like something living.

I lay in my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift as clouds passed over the moon. Sleep had become an enemy these past weeks—something that eluded me when I chased it and ambushed me at inconvenient moments, dragging me into dreams that always ended the same way. Fire. Screaming. Ronan's smile through the smoke.

But tonight it wasn't nightmares keeping me awake.

It was the bond.

The connection between Aiden and me had never fully gone silent, even during the worst days of our estrangement. But lately it had grown louder—a constant hum beneath my ribs that sharpened whenever he was near and ached whenever he was far. I could feel him now, somewhere across the compound, as clearly as if an invisible thread connected his heartbeat to mine.

He wasn't sleeping either.

I knew it the way I knew my own restlessness—through some wordless transmission that the bond carried between us. His thoughts were churning, emotions flickering too fast to identify. Frustration. Longing. That stubborn core of hurt that hadn't yet healed.

I pressed my palm against my chest, as if I could quiet the pulse of connection through sheer pressure.

It didn't help.

The knock came so softly I almost missed it.

Three taps against the cabin door, barely louder than the wind shifting through the pines outside. My wolf surged to alertness before my conscious mind caught up, and I was halfway across the room before I registered that my feet had hit the floor.

I opened the door.

Aiden stood on the threshold.

The moonlight caught him in fragments—the strong line of his jaw, the dark fall of hair that had escaped its tie, the pale scar that traced from temple to chin. He was dressed for sleep, soft clothes and bare feet, as if he'd abandoned his bed without planning to go anywhere and ended up here by instinct rather than intention.

His black eyes found mine, and something in my chest cracked open.

"I couldn't sleep," he said.

The words were simple. Ordinary. But the way he said them—rough and quiet, like a confession dragged from somewhere deep—made them feel like so much more. This wasn't the Alpha of Willow Ridge standing on my threshold. This was just Aiden. Tired. Hurting. Drawn here by something neither of us fully understood.

"Neither could I," I answered.

Silence settled between us. He didn't move to enter, and I didn't step aside to invite him. We just stood there, separated by a doorframe and everything we hadn't yet figured out how to say, while the night breathed cold around us.

The bond pulsed between us—a living thing, hungry for connection after weeks of careful distance. I could feel his emotions bleeding through it now that we were close: exhaustion layered over longing, frustration tangled with something softer he was trying not to feel. It was overwhelming and intimate and terrifying all at once.

His gaze traveled over my face with an intensity that made my skin prickle. I wondered what he saw—the shadows under my eyes, the tension in my jaw, the way I was gripping the door frame like it was the only thing keeping me upright. I wondered if he could feel my exhaustion through the bond the way I could feel his.

"I'm still angry," he said finally.

The words landed without heat. A statement of fact, the same way he'd said it at the border. I had stopped flinching from it; anger was something I understood. Something I deserved.

"I know," I said.

"I keep trying to let it go." His jaw tightened. "Keep telling myself that you were afraid, that you had reasons, that holding onto this is only hurting both of us. But then I remember—" He stopped. Breathed. "I remember all the nights I lay awake wondering why you wouldn't let me in. All the times I showed you my scars and you showed me nothing. And the anger comes back."

I absorbed the words without defense. There was nothing to defend. Everything he said was true.

"I understand," I whispered.

"But here's the thing." His voice dropped lower, rough as gravel. "I miss you more than I'm angry."

The admission hit me like a physical blow—unexpected, devastating, beautiful. My throat closed around whatever response I might have offered.

"I miss you," he repeated, quieter now. "I miss talking to you. I miss the way you looked at me before everything fell apart. I miss—" He shook his head once, sharp, as if cutting off a thought too dangerous to voice. "It's been weeks, and every night I lie awake feeling you through this bond, and I can't—"

He stopped again.

Then he reached for me.

His hand rose slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted. I didn't move. Couldn't move. Every nerve in my body had focused on that approaching touch with an intensity that bordered on painful.

His fingers brushed my cheek.

Just that. Nothing more. His palm cupping the curve of my jaw, his thumb tracing a slow line across my cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, careful, as if I were something precious he was afraid of breaking.

Or as if he was afraid of breaking himself by wanting this too much.

I leaned into his palm before I could stop myself. The warmth of his skin against mine sent tremors through the bond—recognition, longing, the echo of connection that had never quite severed no matter how badly I'd damaged it.

His thumb swept across my cheek again. I felt wetness beneath his touch and realized I was crying—silent tears I hadn't noticed, spilling over his fingers like confessions I couldn't speak.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words felt inadequate. They were inadequate. But they were all I had. "Aiden, I'm so sorry."

"I know."

His voice was rough. Strained. I could feel him fighting something—the urge to pull me closer, maybe, or the impulse to turn and walk away before this moment became something neither of us could take back.

He dropped his hand.

The absence of his touch left my skin cold, aching. I wanted to reach for him, to pull him across the threshold and into the cabin and hold onto him until the distance between us finally collapsed. But that wasn't my choice to make. Not anymore. I had forfeited the right to demand closeness the moment I chose secrets over trust.

So I stood there, arms at my sides, and let him decide what happened next.

"Goodnight, Adeline," he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked away.

I watched him cross the compound, a shadow moving through deeper shadows, until the darkness swallowed him whole. His footsteps faded into silence, but I could still feel him through the bond—a retreating warmth, like the sun sinking below the horizon. The connection stretched thin but didn't break. It never broke, no matter how much distance we put between us.

Only when he disappeared did I let myself sag against the doorframe, pressing my palm against my chest where the bond still hummed with the ghost of his presence.

He hadn't stayed.

Hadn't kissed me, hadn't made promises, hadn't pretended that one moment of tenderness erased everything that still stood between us.

But he had come.

In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, he had come to my door. Had admitted that he missed me. Had touched my face like I was something worth crossing distances for.

That meant something.

I closed the door and returned to my bed, pulling the blankets around myself like armor. Sleep would still be slow to come—it always was now—but something had shifted in the darkness.

The wall between us had cracked.

And through that crack, for the first time in weeks, I could see light.