Chapter 24
With less than ten days until the wedding, Kieran barely had time to breathe. Between running the Blackthorn Pack and finalizing the ceremony, his schedule was relentless. Yet, no matter how chaotic things became, he still carved out hours every day to stay by Mona’s side.
He had been terrified ever since the night she collapsed in his arms.
His wolf demanded to keep her close, to never let her out of sight. Every fur of his being screamed for him to lock her away somewhere safe, to ensure she would never slip from his grasp again. And yet… he hesitated.
He had spent three years waiting for her, mourning her, searching for her.
Now that she was here–alive, breathing, warm beneath his touch–he feared his overwhelming love might become a cage.
Mona sensed it all.
She saw the way Kieran hovered around her, always within reach but never gripping too tightly. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched when she moved
out of sight.
Mona knew his restraint wasn’t for himself–it was for Mona.
She wanted to do something for him. Something that could prove she wasn’t going anywhere.
While sorting through a storage room, Mona found a wooden chest filled with old
letters—his letters.
One hundred and thirty–two of them. A love immortalized in ink.
She had read each one before, but this time, she traced the edges of the paper, feeling the lave that had been poured into every stroke of his handwriting. Some letters had faded
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Chapter 24
edges from being read too many times, others bore the faintest of smudges–tears, perhaps–from nights she spent longing for the man who had written them.
Kieran had never stopped loving her. Mona wasn’t as skilled with words as he was, but she had another way of expressing love.
She could paint.
For the first time in three years, Mona pulled out her old easel and canvas.
The movements came naturally, her hands remembering each brushstroke like a muscle
memory buried deep within her soul. She painted Kieran not as the Alpha the world saw, but as the man she loved–his fierce yet gentle eyes, his rare smile, the warmth she saw in
him when he looked at her.
Yet… something strange happened.
As she painted, another face flickered in her mind. A face shadowed in memory, blurred yet unshakably familiar.
It unsettled her. Had she painted someone else before? Had she once given the same
devotion to another? The thought lingered at the edges of her consciousness, but she
pushed it aside.
This was for Kieran.
When he returned home that night, the first thing he saw was her standing before the
canvas, lost in her work.
“Mona…”
His voice was almost reverent. Mona turned, meeting his gaze.
“I don’t always know how to express what’s in my heart,” she admitted, “and I don’t know
how to make you stop worrying about me.”
She gestured at the canvas. “But I can paint.”
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“Starting today, I’ll paint a new piece every day–one for each of the letters you wrote me.” 13
Kieran stared at her, frozen in place. “I may not be as good as you at loving someone, but I do love you, Kieran.”
“And I will never leave you.”
“Because I came back for you.”
Something in Kieran’s chest tightened. All this time, he had tried to hold his emotions together, tried to keep the fear and doubt buried deep inside. But she had seen through
him.
And now, she was proving her love in a way that made his breath hitch. He moved forward
and wrapped her in his arms.
Mona had always loved painting, but she had never once painted him.
He used to ask her why, and she always smiled shyly, looking away. “Because I don’t want
to ruin you with my shaky hands.”
But he knew the truth. She had painted him countless times. In the dead of night, when she thought he wasn’t watching, she had poured every piece of herself onto a canvas.
And then, before morning came, she destroyed them. Because a part of her had always
believed he would leave her.
A hundred letters. A hundred reassurances. Until she finally believed it. Until she stayed
But then, he had lost her anyway.
He had spent three years searching through the forests, the rivers, the mountains, praying
that the Moon would return her to him.
And now, she was back. And she was painting him.
As if, for the first time, she finally believed she could keep him.
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A breath shuddered out of him. He cradled her face in his hands, pressing a kiss against her
forehead.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Thank you for coming back to me.”
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