Chapter 78 – Cracks in the Fog
Pain.
It exploded in Rowan’s skull like a sledgehammer, every throb behind his eyes sending shards of agony through his thoughts. He staggered where he stood, hands twitching at his sides. Rhea clung to him, her hands gentle, soft, anchored against his ribs, her presence pressing in close like a cage.
His body felt frozen, as though every muscle had turned to stone. He wanted to move—*needed* to move—but the moment he tried to pull away from her, another wave of pain surged through his mind, making his knees buckle slightly under the weight of it.
He could hear shouting behind him. Voices—familiar and foreign—rose in chaos. There were clashes of claws and fists, cries of defiance, growls of war. Yet they were muffled, distant, like they were happening underwater. His world had shrunk to this stage. This pressure. This suffocating, *wrongness*.
*What the hell is happening to me?*
He tried to focus, to ground himself in logic.
*How did I get here?*
He hadn’t touched the drink or the food. He remembered the unease that crept in when they were delivered. *He didn’t drink anything*. Nothing in his system to explain why it felt like his brain was clawing itself apart.
But then… *the servant.*
The male omega who bumped into him in the hallway—apologetic, eyes downcast. *Too rough of a hit. Too purposeful.* Had he done something? Cast something? Slipped something onto him? Into him?
A growl vibrated deep in his chest, teeth clenching so tightly his jaw ached. *It doesn’t matter.* Not right now.
Because the only thing that mattered in this moment was that something—or *someone*—was in his mind. Holding him down. *Keeping him from her.*
From *his mate.*
The mate whose name had evaded him only moments ago now burned at the edge of his thoughts. Her face… *Gods, her face.* Her voice had cut through th fog like sunlight—begging, desperate, familiar in the way that only soul-deep love could be.
But still, his limbs wouldn't obey. His instincts raged, his wolf roaring in the depths of his soul, but whatever magic had gripped him hadn’t released its hold.
He clenched his fists, gasping as another wave of pain rolled through him. His knees hit the stage floor with a crack that echoed faintly beneath the shouts.
*How do I fix this?* he thought, his vision swimming, Rhea’s hand smoothing over his chest, her whispers sickly sweet and laced with things that made his ears ring.
*How do I fight this when I can't even remember who she is?*
Then, like the gentlest ripple across still water, *fingers* brushed his forehead.
Soft. Familiar. *Right.*
Everything in him stilled.
The pain dulled to a low throb. The storm inside his head calmed, like a tether had been tossed to him in the middle of the chaos. The suffocating pull of Rhea's scent faltered, breaking beneath the warm wave of something far more powerful—*connection*.
The fingers trailed slowly, pushing back damp strands of hair as a voice—one that had haunted him since the second it had been torn from his memory—rose like a whisper in the wind.
"Come back to me."
His breath hitched.
That voice.
That touch.
It didn’t just sound familiar. It *was* familiar. The kind of familiarity born of soul and blood and bond.
His wolf surged.
And the fog began to crack.
Rowan’s breath hitched, the touch against his forehead grounding him with a force more powerful than any spell. The fog in his mind, thick and choking, began to tear at the seams.
A snarl built in his throat—low and rumbling, not from pain, but from a storm rising within.
*His wolf.*
The beast that had been locked behind invisible bars for far too long, now tore through the restraints with a vengeance. He surged forward in Rowan’s mind, snapping at the foreign chains that had buried them beneath false emotions and twisted memories.
‘She’s ours,’ his wolf growled, the sound vibrating through Rowan’s chest. ‘Take her back.’
The floodgates broke.
Flashes of memory slammed into him—
Giselle’s laughter as they lay tangled in the grass beneath the stars.
The first time her hand slipped into his and everything clicked into place.
The fire in her eyes as she challenged him in front of his warriors.
The *fear*, the *pain*, the *desperation* when she’d been taken from him.
*Giselle.*
Her name tore through his mind like a battle cry, shredding the last remnants of the spell that clung to him like cobwebs.
With a strangled gasp, Rowan's eyes flew open, the irises flashing silver before his pupils dilated wide. A jolt rushed through his body like lightning. His spine arched off the stage floor, the force of his wolf returning so fiercely that the air around him shimmered with it.
His chest heaved as he reached up and tore at the collar of his shirt, needing to *breathe*—needing to *feel*—as himself again.
The thick haze that had numbed him dissipated completely, replaced by a familiar warmth that wrapped around his body like a tether. A presence… *her presence*.
He let himself collapse back against the wood with a groan, the tension finally bleeding from his limbs. A shaky breath left him, and he could have sworn the ground itself felt softer beneath him. It wasn’t the stage—it was the fingers threading through his hair, slow and rhythmic, as if trying to soothe the ache left behind.
*Giselle.*
She was here. Really here.
His hand lifted, trembling, reaching up to curl around the wrist that was combing gently through his dark hair, anchoring himself to the only truth that mattered.
Her scent filled his lungs, sweet and wild and undeniably *hers*. It chased out Rhea’s cloying perfume and smothered the false emotions that had tried to bury him.
Everything was going to be—
“What is going on?” The words cut through the silence like a blade. Elder Malric’s voice. Cold. Sharp. Accusing.
The peace Rowan had barely begun to reclaim was ripped away by the sound.
His eyes snapped open and locked on the shadowed form towering at the edge of the stage. The spell was gone now, but fury replaced it—boiling and sharp.
Still lying on the floor, Rowan’s hand slowly released Giselle’s wrist, his fingers twitching once before curling into a fist.
His jaw clenched.
He didn’t need to see the tension radiating off Giselle beside him to know she felt it too—the challenge, the threat, the games still being played in front of them.
And he was *done* playing.
He sat up. Slowly. Deliberately. Each movement filled with control that buzzed under his skin like the edge of a blade ready to strike.
Elder Malric’s eyes widened slightly as Rowan rose to his full height, looming and dangerous, but Rowan didn’t speak.
Not yet.
Because first, he reached behind him and extended a hand.
Giselle placed hers in his without hesitation.
And when she did, the entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath
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