Chapter 68: I have to come back
Chapter 66
Lenora
I can’t believe I’m leaving.
A part of me feels like someone’s pressing a hand to my chest and holding there — not painfully, but enough to make me aware I’m about to lose something.
This place was... everything.
The air that tasted cleaner than any I’ve breathed. The way the sunsets dripped molten gold across the horizon. The animals that moved like they knew they were older and wiser than we’d ever be. The people, warm and unhurried, weaving the land into every word they spoke.
Two days ago, Cameron and I went to the lion park, and he got into a pissing contest with one of the lions.
It started with some long, lingering eye contact, escalated into the world’s most ridiculous low growl from Cameron, and ended with me having to place a hand on his chest before he decided to actually shift through the damn fence. The lion, to my eternal disbelief, arched its back in a way that can only be described as "come at me, bro."
And then—because my life apparently needed another surreal twist—the female lion sauntered over and arched her back even lower. As in: tail-flicking, hip-tilting, "hellohandsomepredator" kind of low.
So now, apparently, I have to worry about other species trying to flirt with my man.
Great. Add that to the list.
Tonight, I’m sitting outside my room in one of the lodge’s low-slung chairs, the kind that creak slightly when you lean back. The air smells like warm earth and distant woodsmoke, and the moon’s a perfect silver coin above us. They say it’s dangerous to sit out here at night — stray lions, wandering hyenas, the occasional nosy elephant.
Please.
I take a sip of my drink, something sweet with a sharp citrus bite, when I hear the scrape of another chair sliding across the deck.
Cameron drops into the seat beside me.
I lean over and press a kiss to his lips before turning my gaze back to the view.
"Don’t be so down. We’ll be back, I promise," he says, his hand drifting lazily to the small of my back.
"Thank you," I murmur.
"I mean..." He shifts, his voice turning into that low, gravelly rumble I know means trouble. "I still have a rematch with that bastard."
It takes me a second, but then I realize — oh. The lion.
"He didn’t do anything," I say, placating, even as my mouth twitches.
"You saw him, Lenora. He was fucking taunting me," Cameron insists, and now he’s the one with the barely restrained growl.
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
...Okay, he was.
But here’s the thing — Cameron started it.
We were barely ten steps into the enclosure when he walked right up to the wire fence, squared his shoulders, and let out this low, warning growl. The lion, of course, did what any self-respecting apex predator would do — growled right back, chest rumbling like distant thunder.
The staff froze mid-step, expressions caught somewhere between is this safe? and what the hell are we watching?.
It was hilarious.
Simone took one look, muttered something under her breath, and walked away without breaking stride.
Ronan spun on his heel, suddenly fascinated by the nearest patch of dirt.
And me?
I stayed exactly where I was.
I unfortunately could not.
Something about being with your mate means that even at their worst — and most embarrassing — you just can’t walk away. It’s some unspoken cosmic contract. The "love, honor, and endure public humiliation together" clause.
*
The staff are already taking our luggage down to the car. I’ve bought far too many trinkets, carved figurines, handwoven baskets, and vivid pieces of local art. The penthouse’s perfectly curated, soulless aesthetic is about to be completely ruined.
Good.
I never liked it anyway — all muted grays and dull blues, like it was decorated by a moody cloud. These will add some life.
That’s when I notice her.
A little girl, lingering at the edge of the lobby like she’s unsure she belongs there. A man — probably her father — rests a large hand on her shoulder, gives a gentle but encouraging push in my direction, and steps back.
The thing about her is... she’s like me.
Pale skin, almost luminescent under the late morning light. A huge sunhat shields her face, but peeking out are the unmistakable coils of soft white hair. When she looks up at me, her eyes are a pale, grayish violet — rare, almost ethereal. She’s heartbreakingly cute. And for some reason, she reminds me of my mum.
I walk toward her slowly, crouching down so we’re eye level.
"Hey," I say gently.
"...Hi..." Her voice is so small I almost miss it. She glances around as though checking for permission before finally meeting my gaze again.
"The sun’s bright, isn’t it?" I say.
It is. As much as I’ve loved this place, it’s relentlessly sunny. I can handle it — wolf healing takes care of sunburns in minutes, and my eyes adjusted to the sun’s glare by day three. But someone like her, someone human, without our resilience? It must be exhausting.
She smiles shyly. "Too much."
"I don’t see many people that look like me," she says.
"Like you? How are you so sure I’m not like him?" I tilt my head toward Ronan, who is — I swear to goddess — eating a banana with such suspicious intensity you’d think it had personally wronged him. He catches me pointing, narrows his eyes, and deliberately turns his back.
The girl giggles and shakes her head. "No... he’s different."
"What about him?" I motion toward Cameron, who’s signing something at the reception desk, a human wall of black hair and broad shoulders.
She studies him for a moment and shakes her head again. "Your hair and eyes are like mine."
She hesitates, like she’s weighing her next words carefully. "You don’t have... mema... mena... memanin." She says it proudly, as if she’s cracked the code.
I can’t help but smile. "You mean melanin
?" She nods with a little spark of triumph in her eyes.
I swear to the moon goddess, I’ve never met anyone cuter.
She tilts her head, studying me with the blunt curiosity only kids can get away with. "Do people stare at you too?"
The question is so direct it takes me a second to answer. "Sometimes," I admit. "But most of the time, I just stare back until they stop."
Her eyes widen like I’ve just handed her the secret weapon of the century. "You can do that?"
"Oh, absolutely. Works every time." I lean in conspiratorially. "If they keep staring, make a scary face. Like—" I pull the most ridiculous grimace I can, scrunching my nose and puffing my cheeks.
She bursts into giggles so loud a passing staff member glances over, smiling.
She mimics me, and I teach her how to glare — not a soft glare either, the full ’I will ruin you’ stare.
Children can be such ruthless little creatures, I get it. I understand the insecurity. All that nonsense about me being a "rareomegawolf" never mattered to kids. For the longest time, I was just "the ghost," until claws started swinging and bones started breaking — and then it wasn’t so funny anymore.
And I just know she’s experienced something similar.
"I’ll be back to check on your perfected mean face, okay?" I say. It’s unfortunately time to go.
"Okay," she says, the word small, her tone a little sad.
"Let’s trade." I pull the ribbon from my ponytail, and she understands immediately. She tugs the ribbon from one of her pigtails and places it in my hand.
We swap.
I tie my hair back with hers while she carefully loops mine through her fingers, like it’s something valuable.
"Grace," she says suddenly, and I realize it’s her name.
"Grace," I repeat, smiling. "I’m Lenora. When I come back, I’ll get my ribbon from you. I’ll find you, won’t I?"
She nods, decisive.
Then, in true childlike fashion, she gives me a quick wave and runs off, her oversized sunhat bobbing with every step.
Now, I have to come back here.