Hour of the Moon

Chapter 15: Revelations

Waya

The rain had followed me to her door, whispering down the windows like a secret.
Inside, I could hear her pacing — her heartbeat thudding in the rhythm of my own.
Every step she took scraped against my restraint.

When she opened the door, she looked half-dream, half-threat — curls loose, a robe knotted hastily around her waist, eyes too sharp to be soft.

"Waya," she said, breathless but composed. "It's late. Does Nani know you're here?"

"No." I met her eyes. "I came by myself."

"Why?"

"Because lying awake stopped working."

For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Then she stepped aside, wordless, letting me in.

Her apartment smelled of vanilla, lavender, and something newly human — coffee, damp wool, and her. The air shimmered with warmth, too thick to breathe.
She sat on the couch, arms folded tight. I stayed standing, because sitting beside her would have meant something I wasn't ready to name.

"Let me guess," she said. "You've come to tell me to stay out of your world again."

"No," I said quietly. "This time I came to tell you the truth."

She tilted her head, suspicion flashing in her eyes. "And what truth would that be?"

"That I went to a Fae doctor — a Seer named Akita."

Her breath stilled. "Fae? You mean—"

"They walk among us, Keiran. Always have. The old blood never really left these hills."

"You expect me to believe—"

"Believe whatever you want," I cut in, my voice low, roughened by the admission. "But they're here. And they meddle. They see things mortals shouldn't."

She was staring at me now, like the air itself had turned foreign. "You went to one of them... for me?"

I nodded once. "To break what binds us. But nothing that old severs cleanly."

Her throat worked around a silent word. "Why not just tell me?"

"I didn't want you to feel it."

"But I did," she said. "Every migraine, every dream. You burned a hole through me, and you didn't even warn me."

"I tried to protect you."

Her laugh was brittle. "You call this protection?"

"Keiran—"

She rose suddenly, anger radiating off her like heat. "You don't get to show up here in the middle of the night and play saint while your fiancée waits at home."

I looked at her — really looked — and the thing in me that wasn't human recognized her all over again.
"I can smell him on you," I said softly.

Her mouth parted. "What?"

"Ahiga," I murmured. "His scent clings to your skin. He touched you tonight."

The color drained from her face, then returned all at once — a crimson bloom spreading across her cheeks.

"It just happened," she whispered. "He's wonderful."

I nodded, jaw tight. "I know. He's good. Honest. He deserves you."

"And I don't want to hurt him," she said, her voice cracking. "Just like you don't want to hurt Nani."

Something broke loose inside me then — something feral and terribly human.

Without thinking, I stepped closer. Close enough to see the quick rise of her pulse at her throat, close enough that her breath brushed my collar.

"Yet here we are," I said.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her eyes searched mine — dark, glassy, terrified.

When I reached out, my hand trembled. I brushed my fingertips against hers — barely a touch, a whisper of contact.

The world stilled.

It wasn't electricity. It was recognition — deep, ancient, and wrong.

Her breath caught, and I felt it echo in my chest.

"You shouldn't—" she started, but the words fell apart as I leaned closer.

"If I could stop wanting you," I murmured, "I'd already be gone."

Her eyes fluttered closed, lashes trembling. My lips hovered just shy of hers — not touching, not safe. The kind of nearness that rewrites a man's sense of mercy.

"Waya..." she breathed.

"If I kiss you," I said, "the world will notice."

"Then don't," she whispered.

Neither of us moved. The silence between us vibrated like a pulled string.

Finally, I forced myself to step back. The air rushed in cold and cruel.

She opened her eyes — dazed, furious, alive. "You're dangerous."

"So are you," I said. "You just don't know how much."

The words landed heavy. Her hand drifted toward the edge of the couch, fingers brushing the spot where mine had been, as if the touch still burned.

"Tell me something," she said after a long silence. "The people dying — at the lake, around town. They weren't accidents, were they?"

I exhaled. "No. Something old is waking. Something that shouldn't."

Outside, thunder rolled low over the mountains. The candle flames shivered.

She swallowed hard, trying to steady her voice. "Go home, Waya. Before you forget why you came here."

I turned toward the door, then paused. "If you see shadows on the water," I said quietly, "don't follow them. They remember names."

She stared at me, words caught behind her teeth.

I reached for the handle but stopped — something in me refusing to end it like this.
When I looked back, she was still watching me, one hand pressed to her lips like she could hold back whatever wanted to escape.

"You feel it too," I said. "Don't lie."

"I'm not," she whispered. "That's the problem."

And then I was gone, stepping into the rain, my pulse still humming with the ghost of her touch.
The night swallowed me whole, but her scent clung to my skin — a soft, merciless reminder that no spell, no vow, no god could ever make her less mine.