Page 142 of Mate of a Monster

Not just a piece of power. Not just magic. Ethos. Soul.

The exact thing Arabella’s thread kept snagged and crippled inside his brother. To break it fully, to free Legend, to give me a chance to survive what came next—

The island had to be fed.

“No,” I whisper again inside the memory this time, but Creed doesn’t hear me because this is already done, already chosen.

He runs.

That is the next thing I know.

He tears away from the fight while Arabella holds Legend in place, while I drown and burn and scream through the bond. Creed runs not from cowardice but toward certainty. He runs for the cavern. Runs for the Isles Kiss. Runs with the knowledge blooming in him like poison that this is the only move left.

His grief is with him.

His shame too.

So much shame.

For the false bond. For the months stolen from Legend. For every moment I was hurt because he panicked and chose stability over truth. It rides him all the way into the cavern where the flowers open for him, as if they know exactly what he has come to do.

He kneels at the center of them. Then. for the first time in all the memories, he thinks of me directly.

Haide.

The name is soft in his head, softer than I ever heard him say it aloud.

He presses one hand to the black soil between the blooms and the island answers immediately, roots and thorns winding up around his wrists like old friends.

There is pain—a lot of it. I feel it in a sick burst, the Isles Kiss drinking deep as the soul begins to come loose from the flesh; and still he doesn’t fight.

He welcomes it.

Tears spill from his eyes. In these final moments, he knows with a terrible, perfect clarity that there is no coming back from this. And the root of who he is—a strong, noble king— is okay with it.

His last thoughts come slower, each one dragged through pain so vivid it makes my own breath hitch while I’m still kneeling over his body.

I was wrong about you, Haide the Drakaryth.

The flowers tighten.

You are not the poison in our veins.

His hands shake, mouth quivering.

You, future queen of Rathe, are the air in our lungs.

I break on that one.

Somewhere in the present I know I’m sobbing, but the memory keeps moving, merciless and complete.

In the memory, Creed lifts his head as the soul is pulled from him strand by strand. He thinks of Legend then. His little brother with too much darkness and too much heart beneath all that violence. He thinks of the child he helped raise, and the king he failed and the man he loves enough to die for without resentment.

Then me again.

And his next thought is so gentle, it hurts more than anything else in this cursed fucking cavern. “In another life, I think I would have loved you… Maybe even in this one.”

Another tear slides down his face. Finally, the oldest Deveaux brother, and King of Rathe, smiles.