Caelan doesn't sleep. He can't.
Every corner of the fortress reminds him of Lyra—the curve of her neck, the sway of her hips, the defiance in her gaze when she reads truths meant to kill him with guilt. The bond pulses under suppression, starved but alive, burning through his chest with every thought of her.
He sees her from a distance in the training yard. She's watching the sparring wolves, unaware that he's observing her, fully aware of every step she takes.
His wolf snarls.
Claim her. Protect her. Burn everything else to ash.
He clenches his fists, jaw tight. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't watch. The council's spell is supposed to stop him from losing control. But it only fuels the obsession. The wolf claws at his ribcage, coiling, twisting, demanding.
Lyra senses him before he speaks. "You're… restless," she says lightly, a dangerous edge to her tone. "Are you hunting me or yourself?"
The words ignite something inside him. He steps closer. Not touching, not yet—but every muscle screams for the forbidden closeness. The air between them thickens, taut with heat and danger.
"I can't—" he starts, then stops, because it's pointless. The bond reacts on its own, pulling him nearer. Even with suppression, he feels her pulse, her heartbeat like a drum against the night. Every flicker of fear, every whisper of curiosity—it drives him closer to the edge.
"You want me," she whispers, daring him. "Do you even know how much?"
He growls low in his throat. His claws scrape the stone beneath his boots. His fangs lengthen reflexively. His wolf screams. The bond has broken part of the council's hold; it reacts like fire in his veins. He's losing.
"You shouldn't—" he rasps.
"But I want you to," Lyra interrupts, stepping close enough that the warmth of her body brushes his. Dangerously close. His mind splinters: desire, rage, obsession, fear, memory, all warping together into white-hot need.
Something shifts in the shadows. A figure watches. Tall, dangerous, and calm—a rival Alpha, eyes glinting with amusement and menace. He sees what the council cannot: the edge of Caelan's control fraying. The way his wolf presses forward, desperate. The way the bond screams unrestrained desire for Lyra.
Caelan senses it immediately. His claws flex, eyes narrow. The wolf inside him howls. This is his territory, and this Alpha has crossed a line by observing Lyra.
"You're testing me," he growls under his breath, jaw tight. "Do not dare."
Lyra tilts her head, pulse racing. She can feel his warning flare through the bond. She smiles faintly, darkly. "I'm not afraid," she whispers. "Not of him. Not of you. Not yet."
The bond pulses again, violently, sending a jolt through both of them. Heat twists in Caelan's gut, muscles tense, claws scraping. He steps dangerously close, almost touching. Fangs graze the air near her neck. The wolf howls inside him, desperate, hungry.
"Next time," she murmurs, "you won't be able to pull back."
The rival Alpha moves back into shadow, silent but calculating.
And Caelan—Alpha, killer, fated mate—can barely contain the need that has him trembling, teeth bared, and every instinct screaming claim her.
Suppression or not, restraint or not, obsession or not—something is about to break.