SLOANE The silence after the training yard is worse than the fight. It’s not the quiet of peace. Not the hush of truce. It’s the stillness of something broken—something sharp and fragile, shattered between us, lying in pieces neither of us knows how to pick up. I don’t look at him as we walk back to the chambers. I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll see him. Shirtless. Powerful. *Real*. And I’ll remember last night. Not the slap. Not the anger. Not even the way I rode him like I was trying to punish us both. But the way he *held* me afterward. The way his hands stroked my back, slow and steady, like I was something *precious*. The way his breath warmed my neck. The way he whispered, *“You’re mine,”* not as a threat, but as a *promise*. And I *belonged*. Not to the bond. Not to the heat. But to *him*. And that terrifies me more than any dungeon, any lie, any truth. Because if I belong to him… Then I’ve already lost. We reach the chambers. The fire crackles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch me. Just stands by the hearth, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes dark. I pace to the far wall, pressing my back against the cold stone. My hands tremble. My skin burns. My breath comes shallow. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You’re not alone in this.” I look up. He’s not looking at me. But I know he means it. And worse—I *want* it to be true. I press my palms to the floor, grounding myself, but the cold doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Because I *remember*. Not just the fight. Not just the kiss. But the note. *“This changes nothing.”* I wrote it. I *meant* it. And then I left. But not because I didn’t want him. Because I *did*. Too much. And that’s the most dangerous thing of all. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. His eyes are dark—no gold, no wolf—just human, haunted, like he’s seen something he can’t unsee. Like he’s *felt* me. And liked it. “Then don’t,” he says. I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. --- The dream comes that night. Not a memory. Not a truth. A *lie*. I’m in the Frostfang Wastes, beneath a sky thick with stars. The air is sharp with frost, the wind howling through the stone circles. I’m running—barefoot, breathless, my heart pounding—toward the ruins of my mother’s cottage. And then—*him*. Lazarus. Not as I know him. Not as the man who took a blade for me. Not as the man who held me while I sobbed. But as a *monster*. His eyes are gold, feral, *inhuman*. His fangs are bared. His hands are slick with blood. And in his arms— A body. Small. Familiar. *My mother*. Her throat is torn open. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are parted in a silent scream. And he’s *laughing*. Low. Dark. *Triumphant*. “You should have stayed dead,” he growls. “Now your daughter will join you.” I scream. I lunge. But I’m too slow. He turns, fangs flashing, and lunges for me— And then— I wake. Gasping. Sweating. *Shaking*. The fire has burned low. The furs are tangled around my legs. The chamber is still, the air thick with the scent of pine and something deeper—*us*—but the bond hums at a steady, quiet pulse, like it’s *resting*. Like it’s satisfied. And I’m *alone*. Lazarus is gone. No boots on stone. No heavy breath. No possessive arm slung across my waist. Just empty space where he should be, cold sheets, and the ghost of his heat. I press my palms to the stone floor, pushing myself up. My body aches in ways I don’t want to name—my muscles tight from yesterday’s training, my skin still tingling from the bath, my lips swollen from the kiss that wasn’t about hate, wasn’t about the bond, but about *us*. The bite mark on my inner thigh burns, a slow, rhythmic throb that syncs with my pulse, with the bond, with *him*. And I *remember*. Not the dream. Not the lie. But the *truth*. The night my mother died. The figure in the shadows. Tall. Pale. *Cruel*. Queen Mirelle. With her hand around my mother’s throat. Not killing her. *Taking* her. And now? Now I know. She’s not dead. She’s *caged*. And I’ve been chasing the wrong enemy. All this time. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You don’t have to.” I look up. Lazarus stands in the doorway. Again. But this time, he’s not smiling. Not smirking. Not *possessive*. He looks… *afraid*. “I got you out once,” he says. “I can’t do it again.” My breath catches. “Why?” “Because they’re watching.” He steps closer, his hand pressing against the wall beside my head. “Silas. Vael. The Council. If I try to free you again, they’ll know. They’ll execute us both.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. And worse—I *know* why. Because I *lied*. Not to protect the truth. Not to expose him. But to *protect myself*. From the bond. From the heat. From *him*. And now? Now I’m paying for it. With my freedom. With my mission. With my *soul*. He leans in, his voice low, rough. “You lied to the Council.” “I know.” “You said you poisoned the ritual to kill me.” “I know.” “But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You poisoned it to *expose* me. To make them see me for the monster they say I am.” My breath catches. “How do you—” “I *know* you.” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “I know the way you think. The way you fight. The way you *lie* to protect yourself.” I glare. “I didn’t lie to protect *me*. I lied to protect the *truth*.” “And what truth is that?” He leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “That I’m a monster? That I killed your mother? That I deserve to die?” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he presses his hand to the wall again. And the bond *flares*. A pulse of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns. My breath hitches. And then—his voice. “I’ll get you out.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* “How?” I ask. “I’ll make a deal.” His voice drops. “With Silas. With the Council. With the *devil* himself. But I’ll get you out.” “And what do you want in return?” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “You’ll owe me.” I freeze. “What kind of debt?” “The kind that binds.” His voice is low, rough. “The kind that *chooses*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. --- The vision comes at dawn. Not in sleep. Not in memory. But in *waking*. I’m in the bathing chamber, standing before the mirror, washing the dream from my skin. The water is hot, the steam thick, the runes in the stone pulsing faintly. I press my palms to the cool glass, staring at my reflection—pale face, dark circles under my eyes, hair damp and tangled. And then— It *changes*. The mirror ripples, like water disturbed. And in the glass— *Her*. Lyra. Not in black silk. Not in his shirt. But *naked*. On her knees. In *our* chambers. And above her— Lazarus. His back is to me, muscles taut, sweat-slick, his cock buried deep in her mouth. His head is thrown back. His lips are parted. And he’s *moaning*. Not my name. *Hers*. “*Lyra*,” he groans. “*Gods, yes—like that—*” I gasp. My hands fly to my mouth. My breath hitches. My knees weaken. And then—she looks up. Right at me. Through the mirror. Her lips are wrapped around him. Her eyes are wide. And she’s *smiling*. Triumphant. *Knowing*. And then—she *whispers*. Not with her voice. With her *mind*. *“He never wanted you. He only wanted me.”* I stumble back. The mirror shatters. Not with magic. Not with force. With *will*. The glass explodes outward, shards raining to the stone floor. Steam hisses. The runes flare—white-hot—then die. And I’m on my knees. Gasping. Shaking. *Broken*. Because I *felt* it. Not just the vision. The *pleasure*. The way her mouth moved on him. The way his body arched. The way he *came*—hard, violent, *uncontrollable*—down her throat. And worse— *I was jealous*. Not of her. Of *him*. Of the way he looked. The way he sounded. The way he *wanted* her. And I *hate* that I care. I press my palms to the cold stone, grounding myself, but the cold doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Because I know this pain. It’s not the bond. It’s *me*. The lie. The betrayal. The way I looked at him when I said, *I came here to kill you*, and meant it. And now? Now I’d *die* for him. And that terrifies me more than any blade, any bond, any lie. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You don’t have to.” I look up. Lazarus stands in the doorway. Again. But this time, he’s not smiling. Not smirking. Not *possessive*. He looks… *afraid*. “I got you out once,” he says. “I can’t do it again.” My breath catches. “Why?” “Because they’re watching.” He steps closer, his hand pressing against the wall beside my head. “Silas. Vael. The Council. If I try to free you again, they’ll know. They’ll execute us both.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. And worse—I *know* why. Because I *lied*. Not to protect the truth. Not to expose him. But to *protect myself*. From the bond. From the heat. From *him*. And now? Now I’m paying for it. With my freedom. With my mission. With my *soul*. He leans in, his voice low, rough. “You lied to the Council.” “I know.” “You said you poisoned the ritual to kill me.” “I know.” “But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You poisoned it to *expose* me. To make them see me for the monster they say I am.” My breath catches. “How do you—” “I *know* you.” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “I know the way you think. The way you fight. The way you *lie* to protect yourself.” I glare. “I didn’t lie to protect *me*. I lied to protect the *truth*.” “And what truth is that?” He leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “That I’m a monster? That I killed your mother? That I deserve to die?” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he presses his hand to the wall again. And the bond *flares*. A pulse of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns. My breath hitches. And then—his voice. “I’ll get you out.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* “How?” I ask. “I’ll make a deal.” His voice drops. “With Silas. With the Council. With the *devil* himself. But I’ll get you out.” “And what do you want in return?” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “You’ll owe me.” I freeze. “What kind of debt?” “The kind that binds.” His voice is low, rough. “The kind that *chooses*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. --- I press my palm to the bite mark on my inner thigh. It pulses. Warm. Alive. Like a second heartbeat. And I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “Who really killed you, Mother?” And I know. Not Lazarus. Not the werewolves. But the one who’s been feeding the war for centuries. Queen Mirelle. And now? Now I have to choose. Revenge? Or truth? And worse— *What if the truth sets me free?* But not alone. With him. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You’re not alone in this.” I look up. Lazarus stands in the doorway. Again. But this time, he’s not smiling. Not smirking. Not *possessive*. He looks… *afraid*. “I got you out once,” he says. “I can’t do it again.” My breath catches. “Why?” “Because they’re watching.” He steps closer, his hand pressing against the wall beside my head. “Silas. Vael. The Council. If I try to free you again, they’ll know. They’ll execute us both.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. And worse—I *know* why. Because I *lied*. Not to protect the truth. Not to expose him. But to *protect myself*. From the bond. From the heat. From *him*. And now? Now I’m paying for it. With my freedom. With my mission. With my *soul*. He leans in, his voice low, rough. “You lied to the Council.” “I know.” “You said you poisoned the ritual to kill me.” “I know.” “But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You poisoned it to *expose* me. To make them see me for the monster they say I am.” My breath catches. “How do you—” “I *know* you.” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “I know the way you think. The way you fight. The way you *lie* to protect yourself.” I glare. “I didn’t lie to protect *me*. I lied to protect the *truth*.” “And what truth is that?” He leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “That I’m a monster? That I killed your mother? That I deserve to die?” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he presses his hand to the wall again. And the bond *flares*. A pulse of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns. My breath hitches. And then—his voice. “I’ll get you out.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* “How?” I ask. “I’ll make a deal.” His voice drops. “With Silas. With the Council. With the *devil* himself. But I’ll get you out.” “And what do you want in return?” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “You’ll owe me.” I freeze. “What kind of debt?” “The kind that binds.” His voice is low, rough. “The kind that *chooses*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. --- The scream tears from my throat. Not in pain. Not in fear. In *rage*. I lunge for the mirror, for the shards, for anything I can use as a weapon. But there’s nothing. Just stone. Just silence. Just the echo of his voice in my mind. *“Lyra… yes… like that…”* And I *hate* him. Not for the vision. Not for the betrayal. But for making me *care*. For making me *want* him. For making me *believe* in the lie that he could ever be mine. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “I didn’t.” I freeze. Turn. He’s in the doorway. Alone. No guards. No Beta. No show of power. Just him. His coat is gone. His boots are silent. His eyes are dark, haunted, like he’s seen something he can’t unsee. Like he’s *felt* me. And liked it. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he says. I glare. “You *were*.” “No.” He steps closer. “I was poisoned. Unconscious. She saved me. That’s all.” “And the *vision*?” “Glamour.” His voice drops. “Fae magic. Designed to break us.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *believe* him. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he presses his hand to the wall again. And the bond *flares*. A pulse of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns. My breath hitches. And then—his voice. “I’ll get you out.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* “How?” I ask. “I’ll make a deal.” His voice drops. “With Silas. With the Council. With the *devil* himself. But I’ll get you out.” “And what do you want in return?” His thumb drags over the wall, slow, deliberate. “You’ll owe me.” I freeze. “What kind of debt?” “The kind that binds.” His voice is low, rough. “The kind that *chooses*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one.