Elara’s POV

The Morrison farmhouse appeared through the trees like something from a half-remembered dream.

White stone walls. Forest-green shutters. A chimney trailing woodsmoke into the pewter sky. The gravel drive crunched under the wheels of the hired cart as Finnian guided the horse to a stop.

"Fair warning," he said, setting the brake. "My mother cooks like she’s feeding an entire knight squadron. She’ll have a plate in front of you before you get your boots off."

I tried to smile. It didn’t quite land.

The front door flew open before we reached the porch steps. Margaret Morrison came barreling out in a flour-dusted apron, her grey hair escaping from a lopsided bun, and seized me in a hug so tight my ribs creaked.

"Look at you." She pulled back, hands gripping my shoulders, eyes sweeping over me with maternal horror. "Skin and bones. Absolute skin and bones. Finnian, why didn’t you tell me? I would have sent a pie."

"Ma, I didn’t know she was coming—"

"Inside. Now. Both of you. There’s roast on the table and I won’t hear a single argument."

She steered me through the doorway with an arm locked around my waist as if I might blow away in the breeze. The house smelled like home—roasted meat, root vegetables, lemon polish on old wood. Everything was exactly as I remembered from past visits. The same knitted throw on the armchair. The same crooked landscape painting above the mantel.

Robert Morrison rose from his seat by the fire and offered me a warm, calloused handshake. His eyes were kind. Observant. He squeezed my hand once—gently—and said nothing about the shadows under my eyes.

"Sit, sit." Margaret was already at the stove. Within minutes, a plate appeared in front of me piled impossibly high. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. Green beans glistening with butter. A thick slice of bread on the side.

"Eat," she commanded.

I picked up the fork. The food was perfect. Warm and rich and seasoned with the kind of love you couldn’t buy. But every bite felt like swallowing sand. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

"More bread, sweetheart." Margaret slid a second slice onto my plate. Then a third, slathered in butter. She settled into the chair across from me, chin propped on her hand, watching me eat with fierce satisfaction. "Now. Tell me about those babies. How’s the little one? The new girl?"

I froze.

The fork hovered over my plate. My throat closed.

Valerius has his father’s eyes. Those dark gold eyes that see right through you. And Lyra—Lyra’s eyes are like the sea. Blue and green and shifting. She’s both of us, woven together in one tiny, perfect body.

"They’re perfect," I whispered.

Something flickered across Margaret’s face. A mother’s instinct—that radar for pain that no smile could fool.

Robert cleared his throat, sensing my hidden pain. "Finnian, how are things at the blacksmith shop?"

Finnian glanced at me. Then at his father. Understanding passed between them like a silent handshake.

"Keeping busy," he said, following his father’s lead.

The conversation drifted. Robert guided the talk with quiet precision, steering the topic toward the weather, local news, and Finnian’s blacksmith shop, navigating around every potential wound like a man steering a boat through rocks.

I was grateful. So grateful it made my chest ache.

After dinner, Margaret bustled around the upstairs landing, opening doors and muttering to herself.

"Finnian’s old room is Robert’s workshop now—papers everywhere, can’t have you sleeping on ledgers. And the guest room..." She opened the door and sighed. Boxes of holiday decorations were stacked floor to ceiling. Garlands spilled from a half-open crate. "Well. That’s not happening tonight."

She marched downstairs, pulled fresh linens from a cedar chest, and made up the parlor sofa with military efficiency. Two quilts. A feather pillow. A glass of water on the side table.

"It’s not much," she said, smoothing the quilt with both hands.

"It’s more than enough. Thank you, Margaret."

She touched my cheek. Just briefly. Her palm was warm and rough.

"You don’t call me Mrs. Morrison, you hear? It’s Margaret. Always has been." She studied me for a long moment. Then she kissed my forehead and went upstairs.

Robert followed, pausing on the landing to squeeze his son’s shoulder. The bedroom door clicked shut.

Silence settled over the house.

As I lay there, guilt and self-loathing gnawed at my chest. I couldn’t stop wondering if Kaelen was working late just to avoid the memories of me, and if Valerius was looking for me.

Finnian didn’t leave.

He sat down in the armchair across from the sofa. Leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. Those blue eyes steady and patient and far too perceptive.

"Ela."

I stared at my hands in my lap.

"Why are you really here?"

The question was quiet. Not accusing. Just open. Like a door left unlocked.

And something inside me—something I’d been holding together with wire and willpower since the moment I’d walked out of the palace—snapped.

The tears came without warning. Not graceful, silent tears. Ugly ones. The kind that twist your face and steal your breath and make sounds that don’t belong to any language.

"I left them." My voice came out shattered. Barely recognizable. "I packed my things and I left my babies and I walked away like a—like a monster, Finnian. What kind of mother does that? What kind of person—"

"Hey." He was off the chair in an instant, kneeling in front of me. His hands found my shoulders. Steady. Grounding. "Hey. Breathe. Talk to me."

"They captured me." The words poured out in a flood. As if the dam had cracked and now nothing could stop the water. "The Rogues. They captured me and they—" My hands were shaking so badly I pressed them against my thighs to still them. "They held me down. Poured it into me. A massive amount of poisoned holy water. Enough to—"

I couldn’t breathe. The memory surged. The burning. The liquid fire spreading through every vein, every nerve, every connection between me and—

"They severed it." My voice dropped to something hollow and dead. "The neural pathways. Between me and Moonlight. My wolf. They cut the connection and they killed her. She’s gone, Finnian. She’s dead. I felt her die inside me."

His hands tightened on my shoulders. His jaw was rigid. I watched the color drain from his knuckles.

"I’m human now. Mortal. Completely. I can’t shift. I can’t heal. I can’t sense anything. I’m—nothing." A sob tore through me. "And at that humiliating engagement party—there was a woman. Sylvia. She looked at me and she thought I was the nanny. She looked right at me, standing next to my own children, and assumed I was the help because I don’t smell like one of them anymore. Because I’m not one of them anymore."

Finnian listened, his expression a mix of shock and pure anger.

"And the letter?" he asked, very quietly.

"I left him a letter." I pressed my palms over my eyes. "I told Kaelen I wasn’t enough. That the children deserve a mother who is whole. That he deserves a mate who can stand beside him as an equal, not a broken mortal woman who flinches at shadows and can’t even—"

My voice gave out. I folded forward, forehead nearly touching my knees, and wept.

The silence lasted long enough for me to hear the fire crackle. The wind outside. My own ragged breathing.

Then arms wrapped around me. Strong. Warm. Smelling of iron and woodsmoke and something clean, like pine.

Finnian pulled me against his chest and held me. Not tentatively. Not politely. He held me the way you hold someone who is falling apart—completely, without reservation, as if his arms alone could keep the pieces together.

"You are still you. Strong, brave, unbelievably stubborn, and way too hard on yourself. You’re not alone, Ela. You never have to face this alone again."