The council's magic should have muted the bond. It hasn't.
Caelan feels her before he sees her. Not just presence—heat, fear, desire, and something sharper: control. The wolf beneath his skin presses, coiling, feral and insistent, trying to break free.
Lyra moves through the halls like she owns every shadow. Every step she takes drags at him, twists something in his gut, makes his blood pound in a rhythm he cannot hide.
He's shaking.
His pulse is too fast.
His wolf is screaming.
She watches him from across the stone corridor. She sees the tension in his shoulders, the twitch of his fingers, the way his jaw clenches. The suppression does not erase the connection. It starves it—and starved wolves bite hardest.
"You're trembling," she says softly, voice a dangerous caress.
He swallows, unable to speak. The bond flares sharply, pulling at his stomach, his chest, his groin. He feels the memory of their last near-claim, sharp as a knife. The sensation echoes now, unstoppable.
"You can't hide it," she whispers, stepping closer, deliberately close enough that his restraint screams at him. Her hand hovers, inches from his chest, teasing, daring.
Caelan's fangs lengthen. His claws dig into the stone floor. Heat roars through his veins. The wolf is clawing at his ribcage, trying to erupt.
"Step back," he warns, voice low, trembling.
"I could," she replies, just a fraction away, "but I want to see how close you'll come before you break."
The bond screams—a white-hot surge that locks onto her pulse, and Caelan feels it as a physical blow. His body reacts violently: heart hammering, knees weak, breath shallow. He is on fire, and he cannot step closer without risking disaster.
His hands twitch, fingers brushing against her arm despite his control. She gasps—half in fear, half in recognition of the alpha's raw, restrained power.
"You want me," she murmurs. "Do you even know how much?"
He growls, low and feral, leaning forward just enough that the space between them is almost unbearable. The memory of the execution flashes again: the cold ground, her blood, the terrible promise of that night.
The wolf snarls—claim her, claim her now.
His body quivers with the almost-claim, muscles straining to obey instincts he cannot name aloud. Every nerve is on fire.
Lyra tilts her head, daring him further. "Go on. See how far you'll let yourself come."
His restraint snaps—not fully, but enough to make the room tense. His hand lifts in a near-touch, hovering just above her neck. Fangs flash, pupils dilate. The air between them is heavy, sharp, impossible.
"Do not," he rasps, trying to control the wolf, the memory, the need.
"You won't stop," she whispers. "And I don't want you to."
The bond pulses like a living thing. Caelan's control frays, fingers twitching violently. The room feels like it's burning. One more step—one touch—and the near-claim becomes real.
He jerks back, staggering, breath ragged, wolf roaring beneath the surface, white-hot and unsated.
Lyra watches, pulse racing. Fear and desire collide in her chest, sharp and intoxicating. She knows she could push him further—and she does not plan to stop.
"Next time," she murmurs, voice low and dangerous, "you won't get to pull back."
Caelan leans against the stone wall, gripping the edges, eyes burning with frustration, hunger, and something terrifying: love he cannot admit, want he cannot control, and guilt he cannot escape.
The suppression holds—for now.
But neither of them is safe from the next surge.