Redemption

Ronan's POV

I have been able to sense the storm approaching well in advance of the first clap of thunder. The air felt thick, cloying against my skin, filling my lungs with sparks of electric excitement. My senses, sharpened over the years by being Alpha of the Crimson Fang Pack, picked up on every detail—the rustling leaves, the far-off howl of a lone wolf, and a faint scent of rain mingling with the earth. There was just something about this event—different. Strange.

I stood at the cliff watching the endless expanse of forest, which stretched out, like some dark sea. The wind brought storms on my face, and they had weights; weights that happened to cling to almost all the memories I possessed of him. Elian Valen. The witch who had tried to save me from myself and whose life I had destroyed in return. The image of his face was seared into me—eyes that once trusted me becoming strange and now silent accusations in my dreams.

"Alpha," a voice called from behind me and it interrupted the flow of my thoughts. I turned to see Arlen, the pack's healer, his lined face etched with concern. He carried with him a lantern and the dim beam illuminated his exhausted eyes. "The pack is in turmoil. They sense you are not at peace."

My fists clenched, biting at the hot pain to keep me steady. "Let them. They should know what's at stake."

Arlen stepped forward with a deep sigh. "You cannot shoulder this burden alone and then expect to bring him back, Ronan. You will have to relinquish him."

"Let go?" I barked a humorless laugh. "You think I can forget what I did? I still hear his screams, Arlen. I can see his blood every time I close my eyes."

Silence hung heavy between us and spoke volumes of things unsaid. His hand came to rest on my shoulder in a gesture both grounding and suffocating. "There is another way," he murmured. "Morrigan."

That name sent chills running through me: Morrigan, ancient wolf spirit of balance between life and death, whom all honored and feared.

"You know what it costs to deal with her," I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. "It never pays off."

"Can you live with the guilt?" Arlen asked as if letting the question heavy in the storm clouds above.

I turned away from him and the forest with the backward glow of a lantern fainted behind me. In truth, I didnít know. Each of the decisions I made in the wake of Elianís death cost a lot and thus included atonement somehow, but never enough. The pack began to stir, disapproving and questioning my leadership. Lyra, my younger sister, raised the volume on the dissent the fiercest. She accused me of being blinded by grief and putting the pack at risk for the sake of a dead man. And maybe she was right.

The wind shifted, carrying a faint whiff of lavender. My chest tightened. It was his smell, or at least the memory of it.

"What do you want me to do?" I whispered, not expecting an answer.

"Face her," Arlen said. "If you've truly sought redemption, then prove it. But know that Morrigan's tests will require more than you're willing to give."

The storm broke as he spoke, rain splashing against my skin. I closed my eyes and let the cold rain wash over me. Redemption. Such a word felt as distant as the stars. But, the idea of seeing Elian again, to hear him speak, was enough to consider the unthinkable.

I turned to Arlen and made my decision: "Prepare the ritual. If Morrigan wants a piece of me, she can have it."

Arlen's expression was a mixture of relief and sorrow: "You're braver than you know, then. But remember, bravery and recklessness often walk the same path."

The rain fell in sheets of ice, but I hardly even felt it, so far gone was my mind in the memory of Elian.

It was in late spring that I first came across him; the woods had been breathlessly alive then with birdsong and the rustle of leaves. I had tracked a rogue wolf, senses peaked with the expectation of something strange behind every bush, when I stumbled upon his cottage, out on the edge of the woods and surrounded with an unruly garden that seemed to spill over with life.

He was there, kneeling among the rows of herbs, his hands covered in soil. His dark, messy hair clung to his face in the humid air, and a quiet hum escaped his lips-soft and melodic. I should have been on guard-I should have treated him like the threat I was trained to believe he was.

But I couldn't.

Maybe it was because everything about him seemed to move so easily, so confidently, as if he were born into a universe where cruelty had never existed. This was the time when he gazed up at me with a pair of calm eyes: and the ground shifted.

"You shouldn't be here," I said, my voice harsher than I intended.

He didn't flinch. Instead, he gave me a small, knowing smile, the kind that made my chest tighten. "And yet, here I am."

And so I had been ten thousand miles of tradition. What would I take him for, then: a witch, who met my sharp edges with nothing but quiet strength? When he offered to heal the wounds I hadn't realized were bleeding, I let him. Not, you see, because I needed help, but for the first time because I wanted someone to see me.

Now, at the top of the cliff, rain streaming down my face, all memory felt as if it had grown a vise around me. Elian had indeed been my single beacon; sort of warm and soothing in all this chaos.

And I had lost him.

But I would bring him back. I had to. The pull I felt toward him, the way his presence had made my darkness seem bearable-that wasn't something I could let go. Not now. Not ever.