"Because I've been there," Rohan said quietly. "That's where I met him. My mate."
Lucas's breath caught. "The Hollow Table? But that place is—"
"A killing ground." Rohan's voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. The voice of a man who had made peace with terrible things. "That table serves two purposes: to be killed by shamans or to be killed by witches."
"Centuries ago, a coven of witches used it to execute vampires. They called them abominations. Said their existence was an insult to the natural order. So they would capture them, chain them to that stone, and let the sun do its work."
Lucas's stomach turned. "You mean, they use it to kill vampires, too? I thought it was just about shifters?"
He thought of Sebastian, pale Sebastian, who burned in sunlight, who had to sleep with blackout curtains, and who wore long sleeves even in summer.
He thought of Sebastian chained to that table, waiting for dawn.
"Nah, that table accepts anything: vampires, werewolves, witches, shamans, humans. Hell, I think it would even accept Satan's blood." Rohan turned from the hearth, his face half in shadow.
"The stone is soaked in their blood. In their screams. In the memory of their deaths. That's why the Table has power now. That's why it shows you things. It absorbed all that pain, all that fear, all that hatred. And it never let any of it go."
Lucas pulled his knees tighter to his chest. "But you said you met your mate there."
Rohan was quiet for a moment.
When he spoke again, his voice had softened. Grown younger, somehow. Like he was reaching back through years to touch something fragile.
"I was hunting," he said.
"Years ago, before I lost my finger, before I tried to cut the bond, or before I even had a bond, I heard stories about the Table, about the power there, about the way it could show you things. I was young. Stupid. I thought if I could find it, I could use it. Bend it to my will."
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"The table doesn't bend. It breaks."
"What happened?"
Rohan held up his left hand, the one missing its pinky finger. The scarred stump caught the firelight, pale and smooth.
"I found the clearing. Found the table. But I wasn't alone. He was there, the vampire. Chained to the stone by a group of hunters who had caught him at dawn. They'd left him there to burn. Just walked away like it was nothing. Like he was nothing."
Rohan's jaw tightened.
"I don't know why I did it. He was a vampire. An enemy, by every law I'd been raised to believe. But he looked at me, Lucas. He looked at me like I was the last thing he would ever see, and he smiled. Like he was grateful. Like he was saying goodbye to someone who mattered."
Lucas's chest ached. He knew that look.
He had seen it in Sebastian's eyes a hundred times, in cheap motel rooms, in the back of stolen cars, and in the quiet moments between arguments when neither of them had the strength to pretend anymore.
"I broke the chains," Rohan said.
"Burned my hands doing it. The silver ate through my skin like acid. But I got him loose. Got him into the trees before the sun could touch him."
He paused. "And then I looked at him, and the bond just... snapped into place. Like it had been waiting there my whole life. Like the Table had brought us together on purpose."
Lucas frowned. "On purpose?"
Rohan's eyes met his. Dark. Steady. Anxious with grief.
"The Table doesn't just absorb pain," Rohan said.
"It hungers for it. And nothing feeds it like an imprint bond that shouldn't exist. A wolf and a vampire. Two creatures the world says should hate each other, bound together by something neither of them can control."
He paused.
"The Table brought us together because it knew we would suffer. That the bond would hurt. That we would try to cut it and fail. And every time we bled, every time we screamed, every time we lay awake at night wondering if any of it was worth it, the Table was there, drinking it all in."
Lucas's blood ran cold.
"You think the Table is doing the same to me? To Sebastian?"
Rohan didn't answer right away.
He walked to the window and stared out at the dark, at the snow falling softly beyond the glass, and at the world that kept turning even when people inside it had stopped.
"I think," Rohan said finally, "that the Table doesn't care about you. Or me. Or anyone. It's a thing. A hungry thing. And it will use whatever it can—your pain, your fear, your love—to keep itself fed."
He turned back to face Lucas.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were soft. Almost kind.
"Your dream tonight. Sebastian on the Table. Burning. That wasn't a prophecy. That was the Table reaching into your chest and pulling out the thing that scares you most. It doesn't know if it's true. It doesn't care. It just wants to watch you hurt."
Lucas's throat tightened.
"How do I make it stop?
Rohan shook his head. "You don't. You just learn to wake up."
They were both quiet for a moment. The fire crackled.
The wind moaned against the windows. Somewhere outside, an owl called out once, twice, and then fell silent.
Lucas pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The blankets smelled like woodsmoke and something else—something old and sad and familiar.
"Rohan?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think he's looking for me? Sebastian?"
Rohan didn't answer right away.
He stared into the fire, his scarred hand resting on the mantel, his missing finger a ghost of a gesture.
"I know he is," Rohan said finally. "Because if my mate were out there somewhere, if he were alone and scared and dreaming of me burning, I wouldn't stop moving until I found him. Not for anything. Not for anyone."
Lucas closed his eyes.
And somewhere, far away, Sebastian was worried sick, hadn't fed in days, and was on his way to the snowy mountains, where Timothy told him they may get answers.