In order to save the world from eternal night, Red must find a way to unlock the dormant power of the Sun Goddess running through her veins without killing herself and everyone she loves.
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Gordon snuck into his own house like a thief, slipping through one of the cracked windows instead of risking the creaking hinges on the front door. He didn't want to wake his mate; she needed all the sleep she could get. Creating new life was one of the most difficult callings a maiden could answer, and he had utmost respect and gratitude for the work Mysandra was carrying out on behalf of their family.
The lights were all out, and the hearth was stone cold, as if it hadn't been lit for several days. He frowned, cocking his head and straining his ears for a sign that Mysandra was actually home. She usually liked to keep it burning at all hours of the day, but it was entirely possible she'd gone to stay with some friends while Gordon was away, as she resented being alone.
But no, he could make out a soft sighing from the far side of the house, punctuated by the occasional snore. His heart swelled at the sound, and he longed for nothing more than to slip between the sheets and curl up around his mate, even after her body heat became too much to bear.
Instead, he started the long and gruelling process of shucking his boots and peeling off his clothes, tossing them into the laundry hamper by the back door. While Mysandra liked to fawn over him in public after a long hunt, she was surprisingly cold behind closed doors, and would make a fuss if he tried to climb into bed looking like this.
Sighing, Gordon crept over to the washing basin and started scrubbing a week's worth of grime and sweat from his skin. He ran soapy fingers over his shorn scalp, massaging knots and rivets of scar tissue as he went. The ropy one just behind his left ear was the reason he'd started cutting his hair short in the first place; a lycan from an enemy tribe had grabbed hold of it and nearly slit his throat.
Gordon shuddered as the memory passed through him. The man had only been trying to save his children, but the tribe's staunch resistance only angered the old Beta. Harland had set set fire to their Gathering Hall, trapping all the women and children inside.
Gordon realised his fingers were digging into his scalp, hard enough that he could feel the beginnings of a headache. Instead of letting go, he felt compelled to double down on the pain, waiting until his nails drew blood. That sharp feeling took the edge off their screams, but nothing could take away the smell of burning hair and flesh. It was imprinted in his mind, the memory flaring up every time with every whiff of woodsmoke. Shadows stalked every light in his life, from the kitchen to the campfire, their inky hearts reminding him all too much of the Hidden Vale.
Snarling softly, Gordon shoved away from the sink, stalking into the sleeping quarters he shared with his mate. It was all for you, he thought feverishly, swatting aside the curtain of beaded gemstones Mysandra had specially commissioned. His eyes fixed hungrily on the wild tangle of black hair splayed across the pillow. The window was wide open, and a rose-scented breeze lapped at the crisp, white sheets, scattering petals across the floor.
She looked so peaceful like this, legs hooked possessively around the blanket they were supposed to share, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other cradling the slight swell in her belly. Lycan pregnancies were brief affairs, only six months in total, but Mysandra was already showing at two. She glowed with the news, looking uncannily like the effigy of the Night Goddess in the Moon Grove with that high brow and long, regal nose. Her thick lashes were crescent moons on her cheek, and her mouth was soft with sleep. Gordon bent to press a kiss against her cheek, surprised by the strength of the mint on her breath. She didn't usually bother scrubbing her teeth before bed. It was a morning affair, only worth the effort when she was engaging with anyone other than him.
As he pulled away, he saw something that gave him pause. Faint flecks of light on her bottom lip, but only tatters of it, as if she'd tried to scrub it off with a towel. The unmistakable tones of glowberry.
She'd been drinking. Gordon's lip curled in disgust as he eased into the bed, curling around her as he always did, shielding her from the cold of the night. All for you, he thought bitterly. It was a long while before he passed into sleep, and it was not nearly so peaceful or dreamless as hers.
