Chapter 61 — A Stranger’s Sanctuary
A dull ache throbbed through every inch of Giselle’s body as awareness slowly pulled her from the dark, heavy haze that had wrapped around her. Giselle woke slowly, pulled back to consciousness by the warm scent of dried sage and something herbal that filled the small, dim room.
Every muscle in her body felt raw and aching, and when she tried to shift, a spike of pain rushed through her side. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek, the world behind them still blurry and unreal.
Where was she?
She shifted slightly and a sharp pang shot through her ribs, making her breath hitch. A warm hand pressed gently against her shoulder, a voice following—deep, steady, tinged with worry.
Giselle’s eyes fluttered open to a haze of soft light and the warm scent of dried sage. Her body felt like it had been crushed and reassembled; even drawing a breath sent a faint ache through her ribs.
She tried to move and winced.
“Hey, take it easy,” a deep voice rumbled at her side.
Giselle turned her head slowly and blinked up at a broad-shouldered man with sharp features and serious eyes. There was concern in his gaze, but also a cautious distance, as if he wasn’t sure how close to get.
“Who… are you?” she whispered, her throat dry and raw.
“I’m Luther, Charlie’s mate,” he answered, tone steady. “And you’re safe. This is Avella’s cabin.”
Her brow furrowed. Another unfamiliar name.
As if sensing her confusion, a woman appeared beside him. Her hands were stained with crushed herbs, and though her face was kind, a quiet power radiated from her. “I’m Avella,” she said gently. “I’m a witch. My wards kept you hidden while you healed.”
Giselle glanced around at the rustic wooden walls, the shelves packed with bundles of dried plants and glass vials glinting in the candlelight. It felt worlds away from the damp stone of the rogue’s prison.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“You were found in a rogue camp,” Luther explained carefully. “Rowan fought his way to you. The rogue leader is dead.”
Her heart skipped a beat at Rowan’s name. “Rowan…” she murmured, searching his face. “Where is he?”
Luther hesitated, rubbing a hand across his chin. Avella answered for him. “He couldn’t take you back to the pack, not like this. You’re too weak. Too vulnerable. So we convinced him to let you stay here and recover.”
Giselle closed her eyes as emotions swirled through her—relief that she was safe, aching emptiness without Rowan, fear for her fragile connection to Aeris.
“You’re in good hands,” Luther assured her. “He fought tooth and nail to stay with you. But someone in his pack is working with the rogues. He went back to root them out.”
Avella nodded, hands gently clasping hers. “You need rest, Giselle. Let me do what I can to help your wolf grow strong again.”
Her throat tightened at the mention of her wolf. Giselle reached inward, and what she felt was distant and faint, like a dying ember.
Her hands twitched against the blankets as if she could physically draw her wolf back to her by will alone.
‘Aeris?’ she called silently, again and again, but all that answered was an aching emptiness.
“Easy,” Luther urged, his deep voice softer now. He knelt at her bedside, one strong hand bracing gently on her arm. “You need to rest. You’re going to exhaust yourself.”
Giselle’s eyes glistened as she fought the exhaustion clouding her thoughts. “I have to reach her,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t lose her.”
“You won’t,” Avella assured calmly from across the room. “Your wolf is weak, not gone.”
Giselle heard the scrape of Avella’s feet as she moved toward a small kitchen area. The witch began pulling jars and sprigs of dried herbs from shelves, her hands practiced and sure. Moments later, the faint sound of her voice filled the cabin—low, rhythmic chanting in a language Giselle didn’t understand.
A knot of unease coiled in her belly at the sound, stirring memories of pain and strange magic.
Luther must have felt her tense because his large, warm hand wrapped around hers, fingers gently squeezing. “You can trust Avella,” he told her firmly. “She’s on our side. And she won’t stop until you’re whole again.”
Tears slipped past Giselle’s lashes before she could stop them. “You don’t know what they did to me,” she choked out. “The way that witch held me down with her spells. The pain—it felt like my soul was being torn apart.”
Luther’s brow furrowed with a grim anger, but his voice stayed steady as he gave her hand another light squeeze. “Rowan put an end to them,” he growled quietly. “And Avella will make sure nothing like that happens again.”
Giselle’s breaths hitched as her hands fisted into the blankets. “Every second in that cell felt like forever,” she whispered, voice trembling. “And losing Aeris, losing that part of myself, it was like dying one breath at a time.”
“You survived,” Avella spoke up, her gentle voice carrying from where she prepared her ritual. The scent of crushed sage began to thicken the air as she continued. “And now we’ll help you remember who you are.”
Giselle nodded weakly, squeezing Luther’s hand as a fresh tear slipped free. And despite the fear still shadowing her heart, a small spark of hope took hold—Rowan was out there fighting, Avella was working to heal her, and Luther was right by her side.
She wasn’t alone anymore.
And somehow, some way, she would find her strength again.
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