Third Person's POV At the Blackwood Pack. Damon had been restless since dawn. His wolf had sensed something wrong long before his mind caught up-an ache that pulsed beneath his skin, raw and wild, like a storm trapped inside his chest. He had paced the marble floors of the Alpha's hall for nearly an hour, claws threatening to breach, before he finally gave in. He snatched his car keys from the counter and strode toward the door. Even if Aysel had tried to anger him the last time they met-leading her neighbors to nearly hand him to the human enforcers-today of all days, he couldn't stay away. No matter what had come between them, she shouldn't be alone. Not on this day. Just as he reached the threshold, a thought struck him. He turned back, crossed to his study, and opened the drawer. Inside lay a small box wrapped in dark velvet. Within it-a pendant of silver and moonstone, shaped like a fang-his gift for her. For years, since the death of Luna Yuna Ward, the Moonvale wolves had forbidden mention of Aysel's birthday. It fell on the same night the Luna was lost, and mourning had devoured celebration. But Damon had never obeyed such silence. Every year, he had found a way to steal Aysel out under the moonlight-to make her laugh, to remind her she was alive. The last two years he had failed her. Because of Celestine. Because duty had kept him chained elsewhere. This year, he swore he wouldn't fail again. But the moment he reached the entryway, his mother appeared-Lady Blackwood, regal as frost and twice as sharp. She blocked his path, eyes like pale silver blades. "Where are you going in this weather?" "Out," he said, voice clipped, wolf pacing beneath the words. "Your grandfather's lunar day is soon. You promised to help me choose his offerings." "Later, Mother." His eyes glowed faintly gold. "Not now." Her tone cut through the air. "What business could be so urgent? The Moonvale wolves are holding a burial. You have no right to intrude." He bared his teeth, frustration rising. "Don't I? Do you even remember what day it is for Aysel?" Lady Blackwood's expression hardened. "And what will Celestine think if she hears of this? You running to her rival's side again?""I don't care what Celestine thinks." "You should," she replied, voice cool, ancient. "When the two of them clash-and they will-whose side will you take?" His answer came without pause. "Aysel's." The silence that followed was heavier than thunder. Lady Blackwood regarded him for a long moment, then sighed. "You're too much like your father. Fine. Go if you must-but remember this: if you go too soon, you'll only fan the fire. Let her fall first... then be the one to catch her." Her words stung, but he said nothing. By the time he finally left, two hours had passed-two hours that would soon weigh on him like a curse. The drive to the Moonvale cemetery was long, the rain endless. Lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the dark forest that guarded the burial grounds. The roads were slick and nearly deserted; even the lesser wolves kept to shelter. Damon's wolf pressed close beneath his skin, restless, growling, urging him faster. He called Fenrir Vale on the way, his voice already edged with dread. "What?" Damon's tone was sharp enough to cut steel. "You left her alone there? In this storm?" Fenrir's voice was low, weary. "She struck Celestine in front of Luna Evelyn. What could I do? She refused to come back." Damon barely heard the rest. His claws flexed against the steering wheel. "You know that place is isolated! No shelter, no taxis-she's alone out there!" Fenrir hesitated, guilt creeping into his tone. "She might've caught a chill. I'll send someone from our house to check-" "No need," Damon snapped. "I'll find her myself." He hung up and slammed his foot on the pedal. The forest blurred past, the scent of rain and earth thick in the air. His wolf snarled inside him, fierce and anxious. Too long. You waited too long. When he finally reached the cemetery gates, the world was gray and drowning. The scent of lilies and wet stone filled the air. As he stepped out of the car, his senses sharpened-ears twitching to every distant rustle, eyes glowing in the stormlight. Then he saw them. A tall male figure was descending the mountain path, carrying a limp woman in his arms. Rain streaked across the man's dark coat as he opened the door of a black Rolls-Royce and set her inside. The woman's face was hidden-half-buried against his chest, the hood of his coat shielding her completely from view.Still, as the wind shifted, a trace of scent drifted toward Damon-wild moonlight tangled with crushed white roses. It struck something deep and wordless inside him. He couldn't place it, but his wolf stirred restlessly beneath his skin, claws flexing in silence. By the time he drew another breath, the car was already gone, swallowed by rain and mist. It took him several heartbeats to move. Then, with a snarl building in his throat, he ran-up the muddy hill, past the iron gates, through the sheets of rain that soaked him to the bone. His wolf half-surfaced, claws tearing through the wet soil as he searched for her scent. But she was gone. Only the graveyard remained, silent and cold. A wilted bouquet of lilies lay half-buried in the mud-hers. He knelt beside them, rain streaming down his face, chest rising with ragged breaths. The world smelled of loss. He had waited two hours too long. Under the storm's hollow roar, Damon bowed his head. The scent of her lingered like a ghost-sweet, fading, and unbearably familiar. He and Aysel-two wolves bound by the same cursed moon-were once again a heartbeat too late for each other.