Mate Me in Moonlight

Chapter 67

POV: Adeline

Elara's summons came at dusk, carried by a young wolf whose eyes held the particular wariness that Elara seemed to inspire in everyone under the age of thirty. She was respected, feared, and—if the whispers were true—possessed of abilities that most wolves preferred not to think about too carefully.

"She says it's time," the messenger reported, unable to quite meet my gaze. "She says you'll know what that means."

I did know. The knowledge had been sitting in my chest for days, waiting for me to be ready to face it. Or perhaps waiting for me to admit that readiness wasn't something I could afford to wait for—not anymore, not with war looming and Aiden's forgiveness still fresh on my lips.

The walk to Elara's cottage took me through the deepest part of Willow Ridge's forest, where the trees grew so close together that their branches formed a canopy thick enough to swallow the fading light. By the time I reached her door, the world had gone gray and purple with approaching night.

Candles filled every surface—dozens of them, their flames burning steady despite the slight draft that crept beneath the door. The air smelled of smoke and herbs and something older, something that made my wolf go quiet and still in a way she rarely did.

"Close the door," Elara said without turning. She stood before a small altar I hadn't seen during my previous visit, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, catching the candlelight like spun moonlight. "And lock it. This is not for other eyes."

I obeyed.

"You know why I called you."

"Yes."

"The ghost you carry—" She turned finally, her pale eyes finding mine with unsettling precision. "He needs to go. Not because he is harmful, child. The dead rarely mean us harm. But they are not meant to live in the hearts of the living. It twists both. Hollows both. You have been carrying him so long that you've forgotten what it feels like to be whole."

"I know." My voice came out smaller than I intended. "I've known for a while."

"Knowing and doing are different beasts." She gestured to a cushion placed before the altar. "Sit. The ritual is small. Private. Candles and old words and smoke. But what it asks of you is not small at all. You must be willing to release him. Truly release him. No part of you can cling."

I lowered myself onto the cushion. The floor was cold through the fabric. The candle flames flickered in my peripheral vision like watching eyes—or perhaps like the spirits Elara claimed to commune with, gathering to witness what was about to unfold.

"You must speak to him," Elara said, settling across from me. Her movements were slow and deliberate, ancient in a way that had nothing to do with age. "Say what was never said. The bond that was—even broken by death—leaves threads. Those threads must be acknowledged before they can be released. Can you do that?"

"And if I can't?"

"Then you carry him forever. And you never fully belong to the bond that waits for you now."

Aiden. She meant Aiden. The mate bond that had been trying to form since the moment I'd crossed into Willow Ridge territory, held at bay by the ghost of a love that had ended in fire and screaming.

"What do I do?"

Elara began to speak—old words in a language I didn't recognize, syllables that seemed to vibrate in the air rather than merely sound. The candle flames bent toward her voice as if drawn by invisible strings. She lit something in a small bowl on the altar, and sweet smoke began to rise, curling toward the ceiling like pale fingers reaching for something beyond the room.

"Close your eyes," she instructed. "And find him."

I closed my eyes.

At first there was only darkness. The darkness behind my lids, the darkness of a forest at night, the darkness of grief that had lived inside me for so long it had become part of my landscape. Then—a shift. A warmth I recognized. A presence I had tried not to feel for months because feeling it meant acknowledging what I'd lost.

Caleb.

Not alive. Nothing so cruel as that. But present, the way a memory becomes present when you stop running from it. The echo of a bond that had existed, that had been real, that had ended before it had the chance to become everything it might have been.

I felt him the way you feel sunlight through closed eyelids—warm and golden and impossibly gentle. The way his laugh had sounded. The way his hand had felt in mine. The way he'd looked at me like I was precious, like I was his, like nothing in the world could ever part us.

"I loved you," I whispered. The words scraped against my throat, raw-edged with grief I had never allowed myself to fully feel. "I loved you so much, Caleb. I would have loved you forever. We would have had a life. Children, maybe. A cabin near the training grounds where you could watch the young wolves learn. A future full of ordinary days and extraordinary moments. I would have given you everything I had."

The warmth seemed to pulse. Listening. Waiting.

"But you're gone." Tears slid down my cheeks, hot and steady. "You're gone, and I've been carrying you like if I just held on tight enough, some part of you might stay. Like the weight of you in my chest was better than the emptiness of letting go. But that's not fair to either of us. And I can't do it anymore."

Something shifted in the darkness behind my eyes. Not resistance—something softer. Understanding, maybe. Permission.

It's okay, something seemed to say. Not words, not truly. Just a feeling, gentle as a hand brushing hair from a forehead. Let me go. Live.

"I choose to live," I said. The words grew stronger as I spoke them, taking on weight and shape. "I choose him. I choose the future instead of the past. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry you died because of your brother's madness. I'm grateful for the time we had—every moment, every kiss, every whispered promise in the dark. And I'm letting you go."

The weight I had carried since Ash Hollow—since I had held Caleb's body while the world burned around us, since I had screamed his name into smoke-filled air and received no answer—that weight began to lift. Not entirely. Grief doesn't vanish; it only transforms, becomes lighter, becomes something you carry instead of something that carries you. But enough. Enough that I could breathe without feeling his ghost pressing against my lungs. Enough that I could imagine a future without feeling like a betrayal.

Be happy, that presence seemed to whisper. That's all I ever wanted for you. Be happy.

Then he was gone.

Not violently. Not painfully. Just—released. Like opening a hand that had been clenched so long the fingers had forgotten any other shape, and watching what it held drift away on a wind you couldn't feel.

I opened my eyes.

The candles had burned lower. The smoke had cleared. And Elara was watching me with something soft in her ancient face—something that might have been compassion, might have been recognition, might have been the understanding of someone who had performed this ritual many times before.

"He's at peace now," she said quietly. "And you're free."

I lifted my hand to my chest, pressing my palm against the space where Caleb's echo had lived for so long.

Empty. Not hollow—empty. Room for something new to grow.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Elara inclined her head. "Go. Someone is waiting for you."