6: Emma

"You have nothing to apologise for," he said, his deep voice carrying that subtle accent that seemed to curl around each word. "You've been through a lot, and you're the one who was wronged, not the other way around."

I nodded slowly, my eyes dropping to my hands. They were trembling slightly, and I splayed them against the cool stone to still them. "Logically, I know that," I admitted. "But there's a difference between knowing something and feeling it."

"There is," he agreed, his voice gentle. "The mind heals differently than the heart."

The simple understanding in those words made me glance up at him. His profile was strong against the night sky, his eyes focused on the city below as if deliberately giving me space to observe him without the pressure of his gaze.

"What do you want to do, Emma?" he asked after a moment, his voice careful, tense with what I recognized as tightly controlled emotion. "About this." He gestured vaguely between us, the movement encompassing the invisible threads of the mate bond that hummed in the air.

The question hung between us, weighted with centuries of tradition, with biological imperatives, with political implications neither of us could ignore. But beneath all that, I heard the real question—not what should we do, but what did I want? When was the last time anyone had asked me that about something so fundamental?

"I want to try," I said softly, the words feeling both terrifying and liberating as they left my lips. "To try to get to know you and give you—this—a chance."

His shoulders relaxed fractionally, though his hands remained loosely clasped before him, his posture still careful.

"But I know it's not going to be smooth," I continued, forcing myself to hold his gaze as he turned to face me. "And I don't want to make you wait for me to get comfortable. I don't know how long it'll take. Benjamin Thorne broke me, badly."

I hadn't meant to say his name, hadn't wanted to bring that ghost onto this balcony with us. But there it was, hanging in the air between us like poison.

Theo straightened then, his full height imposing even from several feet away. But it was his eyes that caught me—fierce with an emotion I couldn't immediately identify.

"Emeline Maxwell," he said, my full name rolling off his tongue with unexpected tenderness, "you're not broken. You're a survivor." He took a single step closer, slow and deliberate, giving me time to retreat if I needed to. "Yes, you're still healing, but you're building back stronger."

The words struck something deep within me, some hidden chamber of my heart that had remained locked even to myself. My wolf whined softly, pressing forward as if to meet his declaration.

I gave him a small smile, surprising myself with the genuine warmth I felt behind it. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."

His answering smile transformed his face, softening the regal angles into something more approachable, more human. My breath caught slightly at the sight.

"Shall we get a drink?" he asked, the simple question offering a path forward—not a demand, not a declaration, just an invitation to take one small step.

I nodded, that tiny smile still playing on my lips. "I'd like that."

He offered me his arm, the gesture formal yet warm. I hesitated only briefly before placing my hand lightly on his forearm. The contact sent a shock of warmth through my palm, up my arm, settling somewhere behind my ribcage. My wolf surged forward again, her joy a bright counterpoint to my lingering human caution.

As Theo led me toward the balcony doors, I was acutely aware of the heat of him beside me, the subtle shift of muscle beneath my fingers, the scent of him wrapping around me like a promise. The bond between us thrummed with potential and complication in equal measure.

The doors opened at our approach, as if by magic, though I caught a glimpse of a royal attendant stepping discreetly aside. The ballroom beyond gleamed with golden light, the music swelling as we crossed the threshold. Conversations faltered as heads turned in our direction, curiosity and speculation rippling through the crowd like wind through tall grass.

My hand tightened involuntarily on Theo's arm. "Everyone's watching," I murmured, fighting the urge to withdraw into myself.

"Let them," he replied, his voice pitched low for my ears alone. "They'll see nothing more than their king escorting a distinguished guest to the bar."

I glanced up at him, catching the barest hint of mischief in his amber eyes. "Is that what I am? A distinguished guest?”

His gaze softened as it met mine. "You are whatever you choose to be, Emma. That's entirely up to you."

The simple declaration settled over me like a warm cloak. I straightened my shoulders, drawing on the strength I'd fought so hard to reclaim, and allowed Theodore Lykoudis, King of the Lycans and my second-chance mate, to guide me through the parting crowd toward the gleaming bar at the far end of the ballroom.

One step. Then another. The journey of a thousand miles, beginning right here, right now, with my hand on his arm and possibility stretching before us like an unmapped territory—beautiful, dangerous, and entirely our own to discover.