Caelum withheld the final, devastating detail. He couldn't speak it. How could he?
His fury felt misdirected. He didn't even know the true source of his rage.
His mental and physical exhaustion, compounded by paralysis, frustrated him into cruelty.
He knew the tragedy of the past wasn't solely their fault—they were mates madly in love.
But the memories were poisoned.
His gaze taut with hers. 'Don't look at me like that. I want to hold you, kiss you, and cherish you with all my might right now. But I don't know if I'm even worthy to breathe the same air as you.'
His mind reeled, burning with the intensity of her soft, pleading gaze.
He realized it then: He wasn't angry at her. Never.
"Lethia... you should ask the fox inside you," he stated flatly. "She ignited the moria magic and sent these memories to me. She must know what we should do next."
Hearing him called her with just Lethia was strange—it sounded distant, and her heart ached with the formality.
