A quick shower washed away the lingering stickiness on my thighs. I emerged, slipping into the dress Derick had given me, pairing it with the flats he'd also provided. My mother's necklace, a familiar weight, settled just above my breast. Back in the living area, I discovered a makeup bag and hair care products, undoubtedly brought in and left by Derick while I was cleaning up. These small gestures, these thoughtful touches, always made my heart swell.
Even though I was completely clueless about phones, makeup was something I excelled at. Years of practicing damage control, specifically hiding bruises and hickey's from Josh, had turned me into a veritable expert at concealment. I carried the makeup bag back into the bathroom, sifting through it to find a few simple essentials. I didn't have much time for anything elaborate, but enough to apply an eyeshadow to complement my dress and a shimmering lip gloss.
My hair was swept into a messy, high ponytail, with two deliberate strands left to frame my face. After a final sweep of my makeup brush, I turned to the full-length mirror for a quick assessment. The elegant, deep emerald green dress, with its flattering A-line cut, paired perfectly with my black flats. It was a look that truly complimented my green eyes and the delicate necklace featuring a half-moon pendant with an emerald at its center. Though I'd handled every detail myself, I felt this was a much truer reflection of me, a feeling of comfortable authenticity rather than an obligation.
The sound of the door opening was barely a moment away. I hurried from the bathroom, eager to see Derick. He was standing right there, a bright smile lighting his face as he met my gaze. I noticed then the perfectly coordinated ensemble: a tight, emerald green silk shirt mirroring my dress, paired with sharp black slacks. His hair, slicked back, lending him a more business-like and less disheveled appearance.
"You look incredible, Cassy," Derick said, his voice warm and genuine. He took a step closer, his eyes scanning me from head to toe, a subtle admiration in their depths. I felt a blush creep up my neck.
The compliment from Derick sent a familiar warmth spreading through me. He extended his hand, palm up. Without hesitation, I placed my hand in his, his grip firm and reassuring as he guided me towards the door. He held it open for me, his gaze never leaving my face, and then moved to the driver's side of the car, a sleek black sedan that hummed with quiet power. As I settled into the plush leather seat, he was there, his movements fluid and practiced, to buckle me in. His hand lingered for a moment on my shoulder, a gesture that felt both protective and possessive, before he moved to the driver's seat himself. The drive was smooth, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as we moved. Derick's hand, still holding mine, occasionally tightened its grip, a silent acknowledgment of his presence and my safety.
We arrived at an Italian restaurant, the entrance marked by an ornate archway and the faint, enticing aroma of garlic and basil. The host, a man with a practiced smile, greeted us then immediately ushered us towards a secluded alcove, a private booth bathed in soft lamplight. It felt as though our arrival had been anticipated, the space reserved specifically for us. Derick pulled out my chair, a gesture that, while simple, made me feel seen. He slid into the seat opposite me, his emerald green shirt a striking complement to my dress, his eyes holding mine as we surveyed the menus.
The waiter arrived promptly, his presence efficient yet unobtrusive. Derick spoke, his voice a low rumble, ordering for both of us. I simply nodded my agreement, content to trust his choices. Once the waiter departed, the intimate silence settled between Derick and me. Conversation had never been my strong suit, and I found myself unsure of where to begin. Eventually, driven by a persistent curiosity, I decided to broach the topic that had been lingering in my mind.
"Derick," I began, a nervous flutter already in my chest, "You mentioned you knew we were fated mates. I was hoping you could elaborate on that." It had felt like ages since he first told me, and we hadn't really had a quiet moment alone to discuss it, but this felt like the perfect opportunity.
Derick's eyebrows shot up for a fleeting moment of surprise before softening into a warm smile. His hand rested on the table, and without a word, I reached out, my fingers finding his. "Alright," he conceded, a hint of intrigue in his voice, "I suppose I do owe you a more thorough explanation." A tremor of excitement began to hum within me. Fated mates were, after all, mere legends now – whispers of a past lost to the great war three centuries ago.
"It first started the night of the first full moon after I turned sixteen," Derick began, his voice distant, his eyes beginning to cloud over as the memories surfaced. I found myself leaning closer, drawn in by the weight of his words. "After the grueling hours of my first shift… I blacked out." I squeezed his hand, a silent anchor in the storm of his recollection. The initial shift, for any werewolf, was never gentle. Imagine your very bones shattering and reforming, your body a canvas being remade with each agonizing pulse, reshaped into the image of the wolf the moon goddess bestowed.
The experience of a werewolf shift differs significantly from one individual to another. Legend has it that the duration of the transformation directly correlates with the wolf's power; a longer shift signifies a more formidable beast. My own first shift clocked in at just under two hours, the standard timeframe for most average wolves. Though I have no direct memory of it, I was told that Josh's initial shift was an agonizing six hours long.
"After I passed out," Derick began again, but his words were swallowed by the arrival of our waiter. With a flourish, he set down two steaming plates of chicken Alfredo and a basket of breadsticks, effectively separating our intertwined hands. We reluctantly released our grip, the aroma of the pasta drawing us in. Once the waiter had retreated, Derick picked up where he left off. I, meanwhile, savored each bite of the creamy Alfredo, my ears tuned to his unfolding tale.
"The moon goddess spoke to me," Derick announced, and I nearly choked on my pasta. That was decidedly *not* what I'd expected him to say. He was instantly by my side, patting my back as I gasped for air.
I waved him off, and Derick settled back into his seat. I took a sip of water, letting my breath steady before admitting, "Sorry. I wasn't expecting that." The words were honest, my gaze drawn to Derick, who was practically glaring at my food as if it had personally offended him. A soft giggle escaped me, pulling his attention back. "I'm fine, Derick," I managed, cutting off the giggle. "Just surprised."
Derick remained silent, his fork now in hand as he quietly began to eat. When he spoke again, his eyes darted around the bustling restaurant. "Maybe we should wait until later," he suggested, his voice hushed, "when we're alone." Though we'd secured a fairly private spot, I was acutely aware of the acoustics, and how easily our words might carry, especially to the ears of wolves.
I nodded, a flicker of understanding passing through me, though disappointment still lingered beneath the surface. Derick, perceptive as ever, seemed to catch my subtle shift in mood. "I can tell you about other things," he offered, his voice softer now. "It's just... the moon goddess is something I haven't shared with a soul, well, until this very moment."
My eyes widened, but a nod was all I could manage. The prospect of sharing a secret, something known only to Derick and me, sent a flutter through my chest. I was eager to wait until we were alone to learn more, but I finally managed to ask,
"What can you tell me?" "Well, I did a lot of researching after... well, you know." Derick paused, a visible reluctance to utter the moon goddess's name again. I couldn't tell if his hesitancy was due to a fear of being overheard or a concern for my well-being after my previous reaction. I nodded in acknowledgment, and he continued, the moon goddess's pronouncements to him still a subject of my speculation.
"Our power has decreased significantly over the years," Derick stated, a point often debated in schools when the mating ceremony was discussed. I was curious, however, about what made him so certain. "I've pored over every historical document, from before the war, during, and after," he explained. "Before the war, we could shift whenever we pleased, not just during full moons. And our pack links! They say they worked across vast distances. If you were part of the pack, no matter where you were, you could always hear each other. Those are just a few of the things I learned."
My curiosity piqued, I met his gaze. Despite our short acquaintance, I had no doubt Derick would be truthful. "I would love to show you all my research when we get back to the Capital," he announced, his excitement palpable. It struck me then that he must have been working on this all by himself, unable to share his findings with anyone. A wave of sympathy washed over me.
"I would love that," I said, and I truly meant it. History had always been my passion, my best subject in school. It was a welcome escape, sinking into another world, another lifetime, even if only for a moment.
Derick's eyes lit up, a genuine eagerness replacing the previous hesitance. "Excellent," he said, his voice regaining some of its usual warmth. "Because I have so much to show you. Notes, diagrams, even some old scrolls I managed to acquire. They're not as complete as I'd like, of course, but they paint a clearer picture than anything written since the war. It's… it's like holding fragments of our lost history in your hands." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine as he gestured animatedly. "Imagine, Cassy, a time when our kind weren't bound by the moon's cycle, when the very air thrummed with the strength of our connections. It's almost too incredible to fathom now, isn't it?"
A comfortable silence settled between us, filled only by the murmur of other diners and the clinking of cutlery. I found myself tracing the intricate pattern of the tablecloth with my fingertip, lost in thought. The idea of a world so different, so full of potential and power, was both exhilarating and a little daunting. It made the present feel almost… diminished. I looked up at Derick, who was watching me with that familiar, steady gaze. "It sounds like you've dedicated a lot of yourself to this," I said softly, the sympathy I felt for him growing stronger. He had shouldered this burden of lost knowledge, this yearning for a forgotten past, all on his own.
He offered a small, almost weary smile. "It's more than just a fascination, Cassy. It's a need. A responsibility. To understand what we've lost, and perhaps, just perhaps, to find a way to reclaim it. And now," he added, his voice dropping slightly, "now I have someone to share it with. Someone who understands the pull of history." The unspoken implication hung in the air – that by sharing his research with me, he was sharing a piece of his soul.