POV - James
The light came first — soft, gold, unhurried.
It spilled across the sheets, across her skin, until the room felt sacred.
Elena was still asleep beside me, her face turned slightly toward mine, hair a tangle of dark silk over the pillow.
Her breathing was steady now. Peaceful.
Last night's tears had dried on her cheeks, faint traces of salt still catching the morning light.
I'd spent the night awake, mostly. Watching. Listening. Making sure she didn't stir or cry out again.
The mark on her arm — that faint silver line that hadn't faded — glowed softly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
It looked delicate. It wasn't.
It was the mark of a Luna who had crossed a line no one was meant to cross.
And yet, she slept like someone who had earned her place in the world.
I brushed a thumb along her temple.
She murmured something, half a dream, half a memory, then sighed.
I didn't deserve this peace.
But gods, I was grateful for it.
When her eyes finally opened, she looked at me as if she wasn't sure I was real.
"Morning," she whispered, voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning, love."
She blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, then frowned softly. "You're staring."
"Am I?" I asked, smiling.
"Mm-hm. It's unnerving."
"You get used to it."
Her lips curved, the smallest trace of humor breaking through the exhaustion. "You didn't sleep."
"Didn't need to."
"You never stop, do you?"
"Not when you're next to me."
That made her blush — a soft pink blooming against her pale skin. She tried to look away, but I caught her chin gently, made her look at me.
"Elena."
Her eyes flicked back to mine. Silver. Endless.
"You were incredible yesterday," I said quietly. "What you did out there — I don't think I'll ever find the words."
She shook her head. "Don't. Please don't make it sound noble. It wasn't."
"It was survival," I said. "And it was love. The rest doesn't matter."
Her throat worked as if she was trying to swallow something heavy. "It felt like… something inside me broke."
I leaned closer, pressed my forehead to hers. "Then let me help you put it back together."
She exhaled shakily. "You already are."
I kissed her.
Not with hunger — not at first.
Just slowly, tenderly, like I was relearning her.
Her lips were soft, hesitant, tasting faintly of morning tea and forgiveness.
She responded after a heartbeat, her hand sliding up to my neck, her fingers curling in my hair.
The kiss deepened — still gentle, but threaded with something more desperate.
She shifted closer, her body fitting against mine as if it belonged there, as if every scar and bruise had been shaped for this moment.
When she breathed my name — "James…" — I nearly came undone.
I kissed her again, slower this time, tracing the edge of her jaw with my fingers, down to her throat, to the pulse that beat steady under my touch.
"You're shaking," I murmured.
"I don't know if it's fear or need."
"Then let it be both."
She smiled faintly. "You always know what to say."
"Not always," I said, brushing my thumb across her lower lip. "Just when it's you."
The world fell away for a while.
The morning light, the scent of her skin, the warmth of her breath — all of it folded into a quiet rhythm, a language only we spoke.
There was nothing rushed about it.
Just us.
The slow rediscovery of safety. The way her hands explored my chest, not with desire alone, but reassurance — you're alive, I'm here, we made it.
And I loved her for it.
I loved her with every scar, every flaw, every piece of her that still trembled when she remembered what she'd done.
When she whispered "I love you," against my throat, I felt it all the way through me — the bond sparking, flaring, then settling into something stronger than before.
"I love you too," I breathed. "More than I ever thought I could love anything in this world."
Afterward, we stayed like that — tangled, quiet, hearts still beating too fast.
The storm had passed, outside and within.
The sunlight had turned warmer now, stretching across our bed, touching her hair, her skin, the small, content smile that lingered at the corner of her mouth.
I traced the scar on her arm again, barely a whisper of contact. "Does it hurt?"
She shook her head. "No. But it reminds me."
"Of what?"
"That power always costs something. And love is the only thing that makes the cost worth it."
I kissed her shoulder, the words sinking into me like truth.
"Then we'll make it worth it," I said. "Every day. Every breath."
Her eyes closed. "Promise?"
I brushed my lips against her ear. "With everything I am."
We stayed that way until the morning faded into noon — the world outside still rebuilding, the pack still mourning, but for now, it was just us.
…
By the time we were both dressed, the house felt alive again.
Light filtered through the tall windows, brushing across the polished wood and soft gray stone. The air smelled of coffee and cedar — Elena's favorite candle burned faintly on the counter, a small flicker of domestic peace after too many nights of fire and blood.
She was standing by the kitchen island, her hair loose over her shoulders, wearing one of my shirts again — the pale blue one that barely covered her thighs.
She had rolled up the sleeves, poured herself another cup of coffee, and was reading through some work documents on her tablet.
"You're not really going back to work yet," I said from the doorway, watching her.
She didn't look up. "I need to. The HR department is a mess since the week started, and people depend on those reports."
"Elena," I said, stepping closer, "you literally ended a war yesterday."
She looked up at me then, that half-smile playing at her lips. "And today I'm going to catch up on payroll discrepancies. That's balance."
I laughed quietly, crossing the kitchen to wrap my arms around her from behind. "You're impossible."
"I'm effective," she corrected, turning in my arms. "And I don't want to hide here while everyone else goes back to normal."
I touched her cheek, my thumb tracing her jaw. "You won't be hiding. You're recovering."
"I'm fine, James."
She hesitated, then sighed. "Actually… I want to see a doctor."
That made me still. "Why?"
Her eyes softened. "You already know why."
The air seemed to thicken between us.
I didn't say anything, because she was right — I did know. I'd known for days. The scent of her, the faint, new pulse of life that my wolf recognized instantly, even before she had.
"Then let's go," I said finally. "We'll make the appointment today."
"I can go alone," she offered.
"No," I said simply. "You're not going alone."
Her expression softened at that, and she reached up to straighten the collar of my shirt. "Then let's both go. But after Lucian comes by."
I frowned. "Lucian?"
She nodded toward the window. "He texted you. Said he's on his way."
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door.
Lucian looked like hell.
He was wearing dark jeans, a wrinkled shirt, and a long coat still damp from the drizzle outside. His eyes were shadowed — a man who hadn't slept in at least thirty-six hours.
"Alpha," he greeted me with a tired nod, then smiled faintly at Elena. "Luna."
"Lucian," she said warmly. "Come in. You look like you could use coffee."
"I could use a vacation," he muttered, stepping inside.
Elena poured him a cup while I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "What's wrong?"
He took the coffee gratefully, drank, and then met my eyes. "The other packs are restless. Word of what happened spread fast. Some are calling it a miracle. Others…" He exhaled. "Others are afraid. They think you've created something unnatural. That you and the Luna are too powerful to be left alone."
"Of course they do," I said dryly.
Elena frowned, setting her mug down. "But we haven't done anything wrong. We defended ourselves."
Lucian nodded. "That's not how it looks to them. You know how power works, James. Fear fills the spaces logic can't reach."
I looked out the window — the trees still wet from last night's rain, the edge of the forest faintly steaming in the early sun.
"What are they planning?" I asked.
"Some want to petition the Council," Lucian said carefully. "They'll claim you're building an empire. That you mean to dominate the region."
Elena's voice cut through the quiet. "We don't want an empire."
Lucian smiled softly at her. "I know that, Luna. But fear doesn't need truth to grow."
I pushed away from the counter, running a hand through my hair. "Then we stop it before it starts."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"With honesty."
Elena looked at me curiously. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm going to send a letter to the Council," I said, turning toward Lucian. "You'll deliver it yourself. You'll make sure they hear every word exactly as I write it."
Lucian nodded slowly. "All right. What do you want to say?"
"That we're done with war. That neither of us seeks power or territory. That all we want is a normal life — peace, work, family."
I looked at Elena. "And that if they leave us alone, we'll make sure no blood is ever spilled again."
Elena's expression softened. "You really think they'll listen?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'd rather try words before anyone else dies."
Lucian sipped his coffee again, studying me over the rim of the cup. "You've changed."
"Love does that," I said quietly.
"Then I'll draft it immediately," Lucian said. "I'll take it to them by nightfall."
"Make sure they understand," I added, my voice low, deliberate. "We're not a threat — unless they make us one."
Lucian gave a brief nod, understanding exactly what I meant.
After he left, the house felt too quiet again.
Elena sat at the kitchen table, flipping through her planner, her pen tapping absently against the page.
"You really think peace is possible?" she asked without looking up.
I sat across from her, taking her hand. "I think peace is worth trying for. Even if the world doesn't believe in it."
She smiled faintly, tracing her thumb over mine. "Then let's try."
"We will."
We stayed like that for a while, the afternoon light softening around us.
For the first time in months, it felt almost normal — two people at a kitchen table, planning their day, their future, their next appointment.
"What do you want to wear for the doctor?" I asked, half teasing.
She rolled her eyes. "Something comfortable, not couture. I'm not meeting royalty."
"You're Luna," I reminded her. "Technically, that makes you royalty."
"Then my royal decree," she said, standing and kissing my cheek, "is that we stop acting like legends and start acting like people."
I caught her hand before she walked away. "You already do."
She smiled then — real, bright, alive.
And for the first time since the war, I believed that maybe peace wasn't a dream after all.