CH 1-10

Summary

Alpha Princess Lyra Valen awakens after 150 years beneath a curse—to find her throne gone, her wolf silent, and an Alpha who now wears her crown. Rowan Dareth is powerful, ruthless, and maddeningly modern—everything she despises. And yet, every clash with him sparks something wild. Something electric. Something neither of them can ignore. He says the world moved on without her. She plans to burn it down and take it back. But the deeper Lyra digs into the past, the clearer it becomes: her fall wasn’t fate—it was betrayal. And the ones who conspired against her aren’t done yet. Enemies in power. Fire between them. And a throne soaked in blood and secrets. Let them think she’s just a relic. She’ll show them what a true Alpha does.

Chapter 1

POV: Lyra

The first thing I feel is pain.

Not sharp—no, sharper would be kinder. This is dull, deep, like something ancient cracking apart inside me. Like bones that have forgotten how to carry a name. Like I was never meant to wake up at all.

Then comes the cold. Not the chill of wind or winter, but of stone beneath skin. Earth above me. A coffin of magic.

My lungs seize. I gasp—and air that hasn’t known breath in over a century claws its way down my throat. It burns. Everything burns.

My body arches.

But I don’t hear her.

My wolf…

She’s… silent.

No presence, no warmth behind my skin. No paws pacing inside my ribs. It’s just me. And I don’t know if I’m alive, or if this is the afterlife I was promised in battle songs and blood rites.

I slam my fists against the lid above me.

Stone cracks.

Light pierces the dark, blinding me as the sarcophagus gives way with a sound like the earth splitting in two. The ceiling is unfamiliar—high, reinforced metal beams and flickering electric panels. Not the temple I was hidden in. Not the sacred crypts of the Alpha Line. No.

This is not my world.

I drag myself up, my limbs trembling, weaker than they should be. Everything aches. My vision blurs, but I see carvings along the wall—my family’s crest, distorted. Painted over. Claimed.

The lid shatters with a groan of stone and magic, spilling light into the crypt. I force myself upright, body trembling, lungs burning. The space is vast—arched ceilings carved with moons, ancient symbols glowing faintly beneath dust. A temple of the Moon Goddess.

And at its heart, my tomb.

A sarcophagus built of silver-veined obsidian and sacred stone—crafted for royalty. For me.

Footsteps echo—not one, but several. Steel boots. Muffled voices. Men.

They rush in, weapons drawn, and freeze when they see me. Three guards in dark modern uniforms, their scents sharp with confusion and adrenaline. Not wolves I know.

“Who are you?” one demands, lifting a strange device that glows in his palm.

I rise, slowly, every movement full of aching fire and stubborn pride. My voice scrapes out like thunder across still skies.

“I am Princess Lyra Valen, daughter of Alpha King Lohan and Queen Alara of the First Line. Heir to the Alpha Kingdom.”

I lift my chin, daring any of them to challenge it.

“And I demand to be treated with the respect of my station.”

They exchange glances. Whisper things they think I won’t hear.

“Gods,” one breathes. “It’s her… from the stories. She woke up.”

Then louder, “You’re not a princess. You’re a myth. A ghost.”

My blood boils. “A ghost doesn’t bleed,” I growl, voice rough with power I barely remember how to wield.

“I want my throne.”

The only thing I can think about is my people, and the vow etched into my soul—the duty to lead.

The guard stiffens. “The throne isn’t yours anymore. It’s the Alpha’s.”

“I said…” I step forward, shaky but burning. “Take me to your Alpha. Now.”

The tallest one hesitates, then nods once. “Fine. But don’t expect him to bow.”

I don’t reply. I don’t care if he bows.

I just need to see his face.

Whoever he is…

He’s living in my kingdom.

Living my life.

Each step is agony.

The guards all but carry me down the corridors, their grips firm beneath my arms. My muscles scream, my breath comes in shallow gasps, and I bite the inside of my cheek just to stay conscious.

But I will walk into my throne room on my feet.

When the doors open, I feel it before I see him.

Power. Presence. Alpha.

And then—

A man.

Sitting on my throne.

He rises slowly when he sees me.

His expression shifts, and for a heartbeat—just one—there’s something raw in his eyes. Shock.

“No way,” he mutters, barely audible. “It’s not possible…”

His disbelief slices through the air like a blade. He wasn’t expecting this. Not me. Not now.

Good.

But I don’t give him time to recover.

“You will stand,” I say, every word trembling but laced with steel. “You sit on the throne of kings. Of my father. Of my bloodline.”

He does stand, towering now—taller than I imagined, shoulders squared, arms tense at his sides. His face is striking, all hard edges and shadowed stubble, jaw clenched like he’s holding back the world. And those eyes—cold, sharp, blue as winter.

“And you must be the ghost,” he says. “Lyra Valen. The sleeping princess.”

“I am no ghost,” I snarl. “I am the heir of this kingdom. You will leave my throne.”

He lets out a slow breath and takes a step forward, his voice maddeningly calm.

“No.”

“No?” My fingers curl into fists. “You don’t get to say no.”

“I’ve ruled this land longer than you’ve been conscious,” he says. “My grandfather rebuilt it from ruin. I’ve kept it from collapsing again. Your reign ended before it began.”

He looks at me like I’m a story come to life—beautiful, impossible, and in the way.

“You have no army. No council. No power,” he says.

I shake off the guards.

Their hands hover, uncertain, but I hold up a trembling palm. “Leave me.”

“Princess—”

“I said leave.”

They step back. I stagger forward on shaking legs, my body screaming in protest. He doesn’t move. Just watches as I approach.

And the closer I get, the more I feel him.

His scent hits me like a wave—cedar, frost, and something wild. It wraps around my ribs, invades my lungs. He smells like home and danger and everything in between. He’s even more infuriatingly beautiful up close—tall and strong and unshakably composed.

His energy rolls off him in waves. Alpha. Pure and undeniable.

But I won’t let it weaken me.

“I challenge you,” I whisper. “For the throne. My throne.”

His brows shoot up. And then… he chuckles. A deep, warm sound that I feel all the way down my spine.

“You can barely stand,” he says. “And you think you can challenge me?”

“I don’t think,” I breathe. “I know.”

But then—

My knees buckle.

My vision wavers.

The world tilts sideways.

And before I hit the ground, his arms catch me.

Strong. Warm. Unrelenting.

His scent drowns me now, sharp and close and everywhere.

I try to speak. To fight. To rage.

But the darkness swallows me whole.

The world comes back in fragments.

The hum of something low and constant.

A soft beeping.

The cold bite of unfamiliar fabric against my skin.

A scent I don’t know—clean, sharp, sterile… but threaded with something warm, earthy.

I blink, and the light stabs into my skull like a blade. I groan.

“She’s waking up,” a woman’s voice says—soft, smooth, confident.

I try to sit up. Regret it instantly.

Every muscle screams.

Every limb is heavy, like I’m dragging myself through quicksand.

Where—

What—

I turn my head and freeze.

This isn’t my room.

The walls are white. Too white. There’s glass and metal everywhere, glowing runes—or are they windows?—on strange boxes, and a bed that hisses softly when I shift. No tapestries. No stone floors. No braziers burning with sacred flame. Just sleek, sharp edges and blinking lights.

Machines. What is this place?

My voice is hoarse, but I manage it.

“Is this… magic?”

A chuckle. Feminine. Not unkind. “No, not magic. Technology.”

I squint at the woman standing near the end of the bed. She’s striking—red hair twisted into a high knot, pale skin, bright green eyes, and a sleek black coat with glowing symbols embroidered on the sleeve.

Beside her stands him.

The Alpha.

Towering, arms crossed, eyes locked on mine like I might disintegrate if he looks away.

His presence coils tight in the room, all Alpha pressure and unreadable silence.

The woman steps closer.

“I’m Doctor Strauss. You’ve been through a lot, Princess,” she says gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got trampled by a warhorse,” I rasp.

She smiles softly, scanning one of the strange machines beside me. “That would be about right.”

She presses something—some glowing glass—and a soft beeping slows.

“I see your magic,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “But not your wolf. Have you felt her since you woke up?”

That stops me cold.

I search. Inward. Toward the place I used to feel her… the pulse of paws under my skin, the low hum of instinct and fire.

But there’s… nothing.

“I… no.” I swallow. “She’s not there. She’s… quiet.”

Strauss nods like she expected it. “That’s normal. You just woke from a magically-induced coma that lasted a century and a half. Your wolf will need time to re-emerge. You’re still adjusting, and so is she.”

A century and a half.

I still can’t grasp it.

“How am I alive?” I whisper.

“You’re a shifter,” she says. “Your DNA slowed the degeneration. Your wolf—your magic—protected you. But your body’s weak. Your muscles atrophied from the stillness. You’ll need physiotherapy. Strength training. Time.”

I nod slowly. “So I’m… not broken?”

“No.” She smiles. “You’re just healing.”

Rowan steps closer then, his shadow brushing the edge of the bed.

“Thank you, Doctor Strauss,” he says. His voice is softer than before. Less of a blade.

She nods. “Of course, Alpha Rowan.”

The title punches the air from my lungs.

He wears the crown now.

He commands this kingdom.

Dra. Strauss turns to leave, but I frown, something tugging at the back of my mind.

“Wait,” I say. “Your name. Strauss. That’s… familiar.”

Her lips curve knowingly. “I’m a descendant of Gordon Strauss.”

My breath catches.

“Gordon was a healer,” I murmur. “He served my mother… and me. He saved my life once.”

She smiles. “He was my great-grandfather. I followed in his footsteps. A doctor now, and a healer too. I bridge both worlds—magic and medicine.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s too much. Too strange. Too… new.

But I nod. “Then I’m in good hands.”

Strauss bows slightly. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Rest, Princess.”

And she’s gone.

Leaving me alone with him.

The Alpha who lives in my kingdom.

Who holds my throne.

Who caught me when I fell.

And whose scent still lingers in my blood like a spell I can’t shake.

Chapter 2

POV: Lyra

The door clicks shut behind Dra. Strauss, leaving only him.

Rowan.

Alpha.

I force myself upright, the ache slicing through my arms, but I won’t lie down while he’s standing.

He watches me without moving.

No smirk. No gloating.

Just that impossible calm—like the whole world could burn and he’d still be standing in the center of it, untouched.

His presence fills the room in waves, heavy, warm, unshakable.

Alpha aura. Controlled. Quiet. Dangerous.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice. Doesn’t need to posture.

He just… is.

I hate how steady he looks while I’m unraveling.

“You’re quiet for someone who stole a throne,” I say, voice sharp and fraying. “Don’t have anything to say for yourself?”

His jaw shifts, just slightly. “You woke up from a century and a half of magical sleep. You’re injured. Disoriented. I’m trying not to make things worse.”

“Oh, how kind,” I snap. “Is that what this is? Mercy?”

A flicker of something—restraint, irritation, I can’t tell—passes through his eyes. “You think I wanted this?”

“I don’t know what you want,” I hiss. “But I know what I was raised for. I trained every day to be a warrior, not a girl in a tower. I earned my title with blood. With claw. And now I wake up and it’s all… gone.”

I slam my hand against the bed, but the sound is pathetic. Weak.

Just like the limp feeling in my limbs.

The hollow quiet where my wolf should be.

The numbness in my bones.

“I can’t feel her,” I whisper.

Silence.

I meet his eyes, and my voice breaks despite me. “I can’t feel her, and I can’t walk more than ten steps, and the world is wrong. And you—you’re standing where I should be.”

His voice is calm, but low and sure. “I know this must be confusing—”

“You don’t know!” I snap, cutting him off. “You weren’t raised for it! You didn’t have a kingdom waiting for your leadership, your protection—your promise. My people were mine. I trained to defend them, to fight for them. Not to wake up powerless while someone else lives the life I died for.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to meet my fury.

Instead, he walks to the window, facing away. “You think I’m your enemy. That I took something that belonged to you.”

I glare at his back. “Didn’t you?”

He exhales slowly. “When I was born, the kingdom was ruins. Starving. Divided. Your name was a story told at bedtime. A myth. We didn’t even know if you were real.”

I bite down a bitter reply.

“I rebuilt it,” he says. “My grandfather fought to hold it together. I’ve spent my life making sure no one ever has to live in that kind of brokenness again.”

I hate that part of me hears the truth in his voice.

I hate that it doesn’t change how angry I am.

“How convenient,” I sneer. “You took a crown from a sleeping girl and wear it like it was yours all along.”

He turns then, and something shifts in his gaze.

“You think I’m threatened by you?” he says, stepping closer. “You can’t even stand without help. You want to challenge me for the throne?”

“I do.” My voice is steady, even if my body isn’t.

He chuckles. “You want to call the Council? Like this?”

I lift my chin. “They will listen to me.”

“They’ll listen,” he says. “Because you’re her. Because you’re living proof of magic—of the old bloodline. But don’t mistake symbolism for power. You’re not ready to lead.”

“You don’t know what I’m ready for,” I snap.

His eyes darken, and he takes one step closer. The space between us crackles.

“I’m letting you stay,” he says, voice low. “You’ll get treatment. Recovery. Not because you demand it—but because of what you represent to this pack.”

“And what’s that?” I whisper.

“A story,” he says. “A ghost. A relic of a time no one remembers. And maybe… just maybe… a promise we forgot we needed.”

Something twists inside my chest. Fury. Grief. Hope?

But I can’t let it show.

“I will take back what’s mine,” I say.

He nods once, and the smallest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—dry, dangerous.

“I’d like to see you try.”

I’m panting by the time the physical therapist helps me sit up.

Every movement burns. Muscles I didn’t know existed tremble, betraying me. My limbs feel like they belong to someone else—heavier, slower, dull. A warrior’s body, but gutted of strength.

I hate it.

The woman kneeling beside me offers a kind smile, too gentle for my mood. “We’ll build back up. A little every day. Your wolf DNA protected your muscles from complete atrophy, but after a century and a half… you’ll need time.”

Time. That cursed word again.

She leaves, and I’m alone. Sort of. I know he’s nearby.

Rowan.

I can feel his presence in the air, thick like smoke—commanding, watching. I don’t know if it’s concern or control, but he’s always close. He doesn’t trust me. Maybe I don’t trust him either.

But right now, I don’t care about him or his throne or his golden kingdom.

I close my eyes, searching inward.

Show yourself to me. Please.

Silence.

Nothing but a hollow ache inside my chest. My breath catches. I try again, harder. Reaching. Calling. Desperate.

Still, no answer.

“Where are you?” I whisper to the emptiness inside me. “Where are you, my soul?”

The door clicks, and I flinch.

“Princess?” Dr. Strauss’s voice is soft, careful. She steps in holding a tablet—a cold glowing thing I’m still pretending isn’t sorcery—and crosses the room. Her red hair is swept back, eyes too green to be natural, like forest moss in sunlight. “I thought I’d check in after therapy. How do you feel?”

“I can’t feel my wolf,” I snap. It spills out before I can stop it, my voice tight with panic. “I can’t feel her. I’ve called and there’s… there’s nothing.”

Her gaze softens. She sets down her device and sits at the edge of the bed, not touching me, just being there.

“That’s normal,” she says gently. “You’ve just woken from a magical coma that lasted over a century. Your body is confused. Your soul is still syncing.”

I shake my head. “But she’s always been with me. Since I was a child. She’s never been silent.”

“I know.” Her eyes shimmer—not with magic, but something like it. Understanding. “But silence doesn’t mean loss. It means healing. Wolves are deeply tied to our magic. And your bond… it was affected by the spell.”

I freeze. “You know about the bond?”

Dr. Strauss hesitates. “I’ve studied the old records. I know you were marked. And I know the witches who cursed you tampered with forces older than law or fate. But you’re still here. That’s what matters.”

A soft knock breaks the tension.

An older man steps in, robes trailing like wisps of fog. His skin is the color of bark, weathered with age, his long silver hair tied back. His presence fills the room with something ancient. Familiar.

I sit up straighter despite the ache.

Dr. Strauss stands. “Princess Lyra, this is Elder Meron. He’s a magical healer in our house. The Alpha asked him to come see you.”

The Alpha.

Rowan.

My mind races. Why would he send someone like this?

The man bows low. “It is an honor to stand before the Sleeping Alpha Princess.”

I don’t know how to feel. Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to scream. But mostly, I want to feel my damn wolf again.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I whisper. “To bring her back.”

“Good,” Meron says. “Because she’s still there. And you are not alone.”

They leave a few moments later, the door shutting softly behind them.

But the presence doesn’t fade.

He’s still here.

I glance at the far corner, where I swear the shadows shift.

You may watch me, Alpha.

But I’m still Lyra Valen. And I will rise.

Even if I have to burn for it.

Chapter 3

POV: Lyra

It’s been days since I collapsed into darkness. Days since I first woke up to a world that wasn’t mine anymore.

Dr. Strauss has been visiting me daily, alongside a quiet, wrinkled man they call Healer Menor. His hands are always warm when he hovers them over my skin, whispering words older than time. I don’t know if the magic helps, but I don’t stop him. Not when the silence inside me—where my wolf should be—is still deafening.

They feed me strange meals, heavy with protein and bitter supplements. I’ve grown stronger—at least in body. My limbs remember how to move again, though not with grace. Not like before.

But I haven’t seen Rowan.

Not once.

And yet… I feel him.

His presence lingers like a storm on the horizon—silent, charged. Watching. Waiting. I catch glimpses of his scent sometimes: cedar and cold air, like the edge of a blade right before it cuts. It’s maddening.

This morning, Dr. Strauss smiles softly as she hands me a long tunic to change into. “We’re discharging you today,” she says. “You’re stable, walking on your own, and your progress is remarkable.”

“Except for the part where I can’t feel half of my soul,” I mutter.

She sobers. “I know, Lyra. But your body was dormant for a century and a half. Your wolf may just be… slow to wake.”

The room smells like herbs and steel—like magic and recovery. Dr. Strauss checks the last box on her chart, murmuring to Healer Menor as he places his palms over my spine. His magic is warm, steady, grounding.

It’s been days.

I’m stronger now. I can walk without collapsing, eat without trembling. The protein shakes taste like dirt and ash, but I swallow them. I need the strength.

I haven’t seen Rowan. But I’ve felt him.

His presence brushes the edge of my awareness like wind against the nape of my neck. Quiet. I know he’s been close. I just don’t know why.

The door opens like a punctuation mark, and suddenly the air shifts.

I know it’s him without turning.

Rowan Dareth steps inside like he belongs in every room. The light hits him unfairly—shadowing his sharp jaw, catching on the gold in his hair. He wears a black henley rolled to the elbows, his arms crossed over a chest that looks carved from pure authority. His gaze locks on mine. Steady. Cold.

I hate that he’s handsome.

Worse, I hate that I noticed.

He doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. “You’re being moved today.”

“I can walk,” I say, squaring my shoulders.

“I know.”

Dr. Strauss nods politely and gathers her things. Healer Menor bows. When they leave, the silence settles between us like fog.

“There’s a room prepared for you in the west wing,” Rowan says. “It’s private. You’ll be comfortable. You’ll have access to the training levels when your therapist clears it.”

I narrow my eyes. “So you’re the kind of man who likes to keep his enemies close?”

That gets the slightest tilt of his lips. Barely there. “Sweetheart,” he says, his voice low, “you’re not my enemy.”

It shouldn’t sound like a promise.

But it does.

He turns toward the door, then glances back. “Come on. I’ll show you your room.”

And because I won’t let him think I’m fragile or afraid, I follow.

Even though his presence still feels like a noose wrapped in silk.

The machine he calls car hums like a beast beneath us.

I press myself into the corner of the seat, trying not to flinch every time the driver turns or the machine growls. It smells of leather and something sweet—Rowan’s scent. It’s worse that it’s comforting.

Rowan watches me from the other side, one arm draped casually along the top of the seat, like this is nothing. Like being trapped in a steel box moving at impossible speed is normal.

“This isn’t magic,” I say, jaw clenched. “Right?”

He almost—almost—smiles. “No. It’s technology. An engine, fuel combustion, mechanics.”

I glare at him. “You just made up words.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes flicking to the road ahead. “But you’re safe.”

Safe. My pulse says otherwise.

Still, I don’t ask him to slow down. I don’t ask for anything.

When the car finally stops, I’m sweating. My muscles are tight from bracing, but my heart does something strange—because outside the window, rising like something from a dream, is my past.

The packhouse.

It’s still the old castle. Still stone and ivy, towers reaching toward a sky that’s too bright for this much grief.

My breath catches. For a moment, I can’t move.

He notices.

“We modernized the inside,” Rowan says gently, “but we kept the outside the same. The pack values tradition. So do I.”

I turn to him, stunned. “You… kept it?”

His eyes find mine, quiet and steady. “History matters. Where we come from matters. And I thought—maybe this would feel more like home.”

I follow Rowan through the wide stone halls of the old castle—my castle—and every footstep echoes with memories. He doesn’t say much, just glances over his shoulder now and then to make sure I’m still upright. I am. Barely.

The ache in my chest is sharp and unexpected. I swallow around it and nod once, fingers tightening around the leather strap of the bag they gave me. My things. Nothing I recognize. Everything strange.

Inside, the changes hit harder.

The stone is still there, but softened by lights that don’t flicker like torches. Glass that doesn’t warp. Floors that don’t creak. Screens, wires, strange glowing panels I don’t have words for. A war between old bones and new blood.

“I had your room kept as close to the original as possible,” Rowan says, guiding me up the main staircase. “The structure was damaged decades ago, but we restored what we could. I gave them specific orders.”

“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He looks at me. And shrugs. “Because I figured waking up in a different century was bad enough. You didn’t need fluorescent lights and motion sensors on top of it.”

I don’t know what those things are. But I feel seen.

He opens the door.

The door creaks when he opens it. That sound is the same. Familiar.

The scent isn’t lavender or paper or polished wood—it’s time. It smells like old sunlight trapped in stone, like echoes and dust and years I didn’t live.

But the furniture… I blink. And again. My breath catches.

The dresser is from the east wing sitting room. I used to steal sweets from the drawers when the maids weren’t looking. The velvet armchair—green, worn, slightly tilted—is from my father’s study. The canopied bed is mine, not a replica. The stitching on the headboard is a little frayed where my wolf used to scratch at it when I couldn’t sleep.

They… pieced it together.

Everything here is from different rooms. Different parts of my old life. Rearranged and slightly off-kilter, but undeniably real.

I run a hand along the edge of the bedpost. “These are the originals.”

Rowan stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed. “We saved what we could. I asked them to bring in anything still intact. Thought you might want pieces that remember you.”

My throat tightens. I nod once.

He gestures to a small, low table near the bed. “I had them leave some clothing for you to choose from. Didn’t want to assume.”

I glance over—and my brows lift. Dresses. Skirts. Linen shirts. Delicate fabrics in muted colors. But also… trousers. Neatly folded, tucked at the bottom of the pile like a dare.

I lift a pair and hold them up, narrowing my eyes.

“Pants,” I mutter.

Rowan leans against the doorframe, too casual. “They’re useful.”

“They’re for men,” I say flatly. “Or for battle.”

“So dramatic.”

“It’s tradition.”

His mouth twitches. “I did say we like tradition.”

I raise a brow. “So why did you include them?”

He shrugs. “Just in case you decided to start a fashion rebellion.”

I can’t help it. I huff a quiet, almost-laugh. “I’m not wearing pants.”

“Noted,” he says, clearly amused.

He turns to go, but then pauses. His voice softens—just a little.

“There’s a council chamber downstairs. I’ve called a formal meeting.” He glances back at me. “We’ll wait until you’ve settled, but I’d like you to attend. It’s… important.”

A flicker of suspicion curls in my gut. “What kind of meeting?”

“You’ll see.”

Cryptic bastard.

Still, I nod. “Fine.”

He leaves without another word, the door closing with a quiet finality.

I’m alone now, in a room made of memories and intentions. A room full of ghosts and Rowan’s careful, quiet kindness. I don’t know what the meeting is about—but I know one thing already.

This is no longer the home I left.

But maybe… it could become something else.

Chapter 4

POV: Lyra

The silence in the room is loud.

For a long time, I just sit on the edge of the bed, fingers buried in the thick fabric of the coverlet. It’s too soft. Too new. The texture is wrong, but the color is right. Deep garnet, like the banners we used to raise for midsummer.

Rowan did this for me. All of it.

He tried to make it feel like home. And in a way, he succeeded. The weight of the air, the way the light filters through the stained glass, the carved legs of the chair near the fireplace—I remember these things. My body remembers.

But the people are gone.

My parents. My warriors. The council who promised to back me when I took the throne. My wolf, still silent inside me. All gone or lost in time. The ache creeps in slowly, blooming in my chest like frost.

I swallow it down.

The old Lyra would not sit and mourn. The old Lyra would rise and command.

So I rise.

At the table, I open the trunk Rowan mentioned. Dresses folded in neat stacks. Linen, velvet, silk. I run my hands over the fabric and settle on one the color of old wine. Deep. Regal. Familiar.

I change slowly, folding each discarded garment with practiced care. Then I find the little iron mirror on the desk and begin to work on my hair.

The motions are automatic. Fingers braiding, twisting, pinning. I don’t look at my face until the very end—and when I do, I hardly recognize the woman staring back.

But she looks like a queen.

And today, that has to be enough.

The hallways are quiet as I walk toward the meeting chamber. My steps are slow—measured—not out of weakness but ceremony. I won’t arrive looking like a ghost. I will not give them that satisfaction.

The door is already open.

Inside, the room is dim and warm, fire crackling in the hearth. A long table stretches beneath old stone arches. Stacks of parchment lie scattered across its surface—maps, seals, documents. No council members. Just one man.

Rowan.

He’s leaning over the table, reviewing something with a furrow between his brows. When he hears me enter, he straightens—and looks up.

His eyes find me.

And stop.

The moment stretches, taut and quiet. His gaze travels the length of me—from the braided sweep of my hair, down the line of my neck, the shape of the dress against my waist, my hips, my legs. He swallows. Hard.

And when his eyes meet mine again, they’re darker.

“I see the dresses were a good call,” he says, voice rougher than before.

I lift my chin. “Just this once. Don’t expect me to start wearing corsets and sipping tea.”

His mouth curves. Not a smile—too sharp for that. But close.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

I step further inside, feeling the heat of his gaze still on me. Something hums in the air between us. Unspoken. Unwanted. Pulling anyway.

“So,” I say, ignoring the flicker low in my belly. “This is the formal meeting?”

Rowan’s jaw flexes. “It is.”

No council. No guards. Just him.

I cross my arms. “Then let’s get on with it.”

Rowan gestures toward one of the chairs at the long table, but I remain standing.

“If this is formal,” I say coolly, “then I’d rather face it on my feet.”

He doesn’t push. Just nods and leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“This was your kingdom,” he begins. “But when your bloodline fell—when you vanished—the kingdom fell with you.”

My spine straightens. “It didn’t fall. It was stolen.”

His jaw tightens, but he continues. “The people were starving. Scattered. Easy prey for rogues and witches. No Alpha. No structure. The council was too afraid to act.”

I narrow my gaze. “And your family stepped in.”

“Yes,” he says, and there’s no boast in it—just bone-deep certainty. “My grandfather brought order. My father secured the borders. I rebuilt it.”

“Rebuilt,” I echo. “From my ruins.”

He nods once. “That’s exactly what we did.”

My heart beats faster. “And you think I should thank you for that?”

“No,” Rowan says, voice low. “I don’t want your gratitude. I just want you to understand. We didn’t overthrow a thriving kingdom. We saved a dying one.”

“I was supposed to save it,” I snap. “I would have. But your grandfather never gave me the chance. He told you I was just a princess in a dress, didn’t he? That I was pampered, soft. That I was never going to rule.”

Rowan doesn’t answer.

Because he doesn’t have to.

I step forward, eyes burning. “I was the only heir. My father trained me from the moment I could walk. I studied battle strategy, diplomacy, the old magics, and the histories. I led the Midnight Patrol at sixteen. I earned every ounce of power I was supposed to hold.”

“You were sixteen,” he says, almost gently.

“And you were what when you took the title? Twenty? Twenty-one?” I shoot back. “Don’t you dare patronize me.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I’m not. I’m trying to tell you that everything I know—everything I was taught—told a different story.”

“Because your grandfather made it so,” I say, voice breaking at the edges. “He needed to erase me. To justify taking everything. So he painted me as the girl who vanished before the real work began.”

Rowan’s silence is deafening.

I take a breath, chest trembling. “He lied to you. And you believed him.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Then:

“I believe what I’ve seen,” he says quietly. “I believe in what I’ve built. But if you’re telling me the truth—then maybe there’s more to this than I ever knew.”

I stare at him, raw and exposed in a way I didn’t expect. “There is. And if you want to know what this kingdom reallywas, what it could still be—then I want a council meeting. A real one. I want to stand before them. Not as a princess. Not as some relic of the past. But as the Alpha Heir I was meant to be.”

His eyes darken. Not angry. Not cruel.

But something else.

Something closer to awe.

“I’ll call the council,” Rowan says. “Tomorrow.”

I nod once. “Good.”

We say nothing else.

Because anything more right now might burn the whole room down.

I felt like I needed to train, a good training session always put myself on the right path, and right now where everything felt so wrong, I feel I need to try at least.

The air in the training hall tastes like steel and dust. Like memory. Like home.

It’s a wide, echoing space—modernized, sure. The floors gleam in a way I don’t trust, and there are strange machines lined against the far wall that look more like torture devices than anything useful. But the scent of sweat and leather, the low murmur of voices, the echo of bodies in motion—those are familiar.

I roll my shoulders back. My muscles ache with the dull, ever-present hum of healing, but there’s strength beneath it now. Real strength. I’ve been eating. Sleeping. Moving. Living.

Today, I get to feel like a warrior again.

The training weapons are a disgrace. Blades dulled to harmlessness, lighter than they should be. But I take one anyway—long sword, simple grip—and grip it like an extension of my arm. I step into the center of the mat, aware of the eyes following me.

Guards. Warriors. Men who look at me like I’m a storybook ghost.

Let them watch.

I begin slow. Stretches. Warm-up forms. Just enough to test the tension in my limbs. My body remembers. It’s stiff, clumsy at first, but the rhythm comes back. The ground beneath my feet feels solid. The sword hums a familiar note in my palm.

By the time I transition into full strikes, I’ve forgotten them. The guards. The ache. The century I lost.

I’m here. I’m real. And I am not fragile.

My breath comes faster. My skin glistens with sweat. My legs tremble from the force I’m asking of them—and I don’t care. I keep moving, faster now, blade slicing through air in clean arcs, feet sliding into patterns my father drilled into me before I could read. I lunge, pivot, swing.

A clean spin. A downward strike. A battle cry that rips from my throat without permission.

The sword moves like an extension of me.

My body aches, not from pain—but from waking. From remembering what it means to move like this. To fight. To burn.

Each swing carves the silence, the dull training blade whistling through air as I pivot, lunge, twist. Sweat trickles down my spine, and every muscle in my body is trembling—but alive. The guards watch me with a mixture of confusion and awe, like I’m a myth made flesh.

Let them wonder.

Let them remember.

I’m halfway through a spinning strike when I feel it.

The shift. The silence behind me deepens, thickens. Like a storm rolling in.

I stop. Turn.

Silence follows.

I freeze, breath heaving, and lift my gaze—

He’s here.

Chapter 5

POV: Lyra

And there he is.

Rowan Dareth. Standing at the edge of the mat like a god carved from granite and command.

His guard uniform is black and tailored, hugging every inch of broad chest, strong shoulders, powerful thighs. There are silver accents at his collar, sharp lines at his waist, a belt with utility clasps and training-grade weapons. Functional. Deadly. Hot as sin.

My mouth dries.

His blue eyes—dark, unreadable—drag slowly over my body, from the rise of my chest to the tension in my legs. I see the flicker in them. Heat. Hunger. He masks it well, but I feel it.

“Clear the hall,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in silk.

No hesitation. The guards scatter like leaves in the wind.

He walks toward me slowly, each step deliberate, eyes locked to mine like I’m prey he’s not quite sure whether to devour or spare. The air stretches tight between us.

“You’re not supposed to be using real weapons yet,” he says, low and rough.

“It’s not real,” I reply, flipping the blade in my palm. “They dulled the edge. Safety first, right?”

“You’re pushing too hard.”

“I’m catching up.”

“To what?”

I meet his gaze, steady. “To a life I was supposed to live.”

Something flickers in his expression. A crack in the stone.

He glances toward the weapon rack. “You remember how to spar?”

I arch a brow. “You offering?”

He peels off the sleek jacket of his uniform, rolls up his sleeves. Veins flex beneath bronzed skin. My breath catches before I can stop it.

“Don’t go easy on me, princess,” he says, stepping onto the mat.

I don’t.

We circle. The energy between us thrums like a live wire.

He attacks first—a diagonal slash meant to test. I parry, duck, retaliate with a sharp jab to his ribs. He twists away, faster than I expected. We reset. Strike again. His style is precise. Brutal. Efficient. Mine is older. Fluid. Trained by warriors who danced as they killed.

We clash.

Blades hit with a clang. He pushes. I pivot. He tries to dominate with weight—I slide beneath his guard and nearly knock him off balance. A spark ignites in his eyes.

He likes this.

I lunge.

He catches my forearm, spins me. My back slams to his chest, his arm locking around my ribs. His breath is hot at my neck, and I freeze—not from fear. From feeling. Every inch of him pressed to me. Hard muscle. Tense control.

“You’re good,” he murmurs. “But you’re not ready.”

I drive my elbow into his ribs and twist out of his grip. He grunts—just barely—but I see the flicker of surprise.

“You don’t get to decide that,” I snap.

We go again.

Faster. Closer. My braid whips past his jaw. Our chests brush. Our arms tangle. At one point, he catches my waist and I swear—swear—his fingers tighten just a little too long before he lets go.

My body is electric. My skin sings.

Then, on a perfect parry, our swords lock at the hilt—our faces inches apart.

His eyes blaze. Mine burn back.

“You want the truth?” he says, voice barely more than breath. “You’re brilliant, Lyra. Fierce. But you’re not healed. And I don’t want to be the reason you fall.”

I lean in. Close enough to smell his skin. Close enough to taste the war in his breath.

“Then don’t challenge me unless you’re ready to bleed.”

Something dark flashes in his eyes. He takes a step back—not retreating. Restraining. I see it. I feel it.

The tension snaps, unspoken. Our blades lower. The room buzzes with everything we didn’t say.

He tosses me a towel. Our fingers brush.

I don’t pull away.

He clears his throat, voice tight. “We leave at dawn.”

I blink. “For what?”

“The Council. You asked for a formal audience.” He watches me for a beat. “They’ll listen. But they won’t like what you have to say.”

I nod slowly. “Neither will you.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Try me.”

Then he walks away.

And I stand there, blade in hand, heart in my throat, the ghost of his touch burning on my skin.

The room is familiar. The sheets are not.

I toss for hours, sheets too soft, fabric too smooth. In my time, there is no fabric this fine. Now it’s everywhere. On beds. On robes. On people I don’t know walking the halls like they belong.

I roll onto my back and stare at the carved ceiling above me. I remember helping my mother choose that design—ivy leaves, curling like the seal of our house. The wood creaks in the same places. The wind whistles through the same stone cracks.

But nothing feels the same.

Rowan’s words echo in my head. You’re brilliant. But you’re not ready.

His voice. His hands. The heat of his chest at my back.

The way he said I wasn’t his enemy.

He shouldn’t care. But he does.

And I shouldn’t notice. But I do.

Gods, I hate this.

At some point, I must have drifted off, because the knock at my door startles me awake. Morning sun spills through the tall windows. The castle feels quieter now, like it’s holding its breath.

I dress quickly—deep green velvet, floor-length, laced up the back. Traditional. Mine. No pants.

When I step into the hall, I follow the path my feet remember. The dining hall’s bones are the same—arched ceilings, tall stained-glass windows, black iron chandeliers—but the tables are sleeker now, metal and stone instead of carved oak. The walls have screens mounted in strange corners. The air hums with faint, modern magic.

But it’s still home beneath all the new.

Rowan is already seated at the long table, black shirt rolled to the elbows, mug in hand, a small screen flickering beside his plate. He looks up when I enter—and for a moment, he just stares.

Then he stands.

It’s automatic, I think. Respect. Tradition. And yet the way his eyes sweep over me—curious, cautious, appreciative—it’s not just habit.

“You remember the way,” he says as I sit opposite him.

“I built it,” I mutter, smoothing the folds of my skirt. “This wing was my mother’s project. She fought for those windows.”

His lips twitch. “They’re beautiful.”

I don’t look at him. “I know.”

A steaming plate appears before me—magic or machines, I can’t tell. The food smells right, though. Eggs, bread, fruit. Simple.

I eat slowly. My stomach knots.

Rowan glances over. “Do you get nauseous when you travel?”

I blink at him. “On horses? No.”

“I meant in cars.”

I wrinkle my nose. “If that’s what that metal box was—yes. Violently.”

His smile flickers. “I had Dr. Strauss prepare something for nausea. In case you needed it.”

I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says, sipping his coffee.

I study him. The ease of his movements. The way the guards greet him as they pass. He’s not a thief. He didn’t stealthis life.

But it’s still mine.

And worse—he’s good at it.

“You’re infuriating,” I mutter.

He raises a brow. “Already? I haven’t even said anything offensive yet.”

“You care.”

His brow furrows. “That’s offensive?”

“No. It’s confusing.”

He leans forward slightly. “You think I’m the villain here.”

“I want to think that,” I say softly. “It would be easier.”

His expression shifts—just enough for me to see the weight behind his eyes.

“But then you say things like that. Or… get me nausea medicine. Or clear a training hall without blinking.”

Rowan doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he tears a piece of bread and leans back.

“You asked for the Council,” he says at last. “We leave in an hour. They’ll expect answers.”

“They’ll get them.”

“Be ready.”

I meet his gaze.

“I was born ready.”

He smiles. Just a little. Just enough.

Then we eat in silence.

But my mind is loud.

My chest is louder.

And I wonder if the council chamber is prepared for the storm I’m about to bring through their polished doors.

Chapter 6

POV: Lyra

The trip passed quietly.

I didn’t get sick—not once. Whatever Dr. Strauss gave me worked like a charm, though I suspect Rowan’s smug look when he handed me the little vial was part of the cure. The car still felt wrong, like a metal coffin gliding over the earth too fast, but I held it together. No nausea. No panic.

No weakness.

The council building rises like a scar—stone and glass and polished steel. I hate it immediately. Too clean. Too new. It has none of the quiet grandeur of the pack’s old court. The walls here don’t whisper stories. They buzz with silence.

Rowan walks beside me, silent and watchful. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw set, and I feel the ripple of his tension even though his expression is unreadable.

Inside, everything sharpens.

They stare.

The guards. The clerks. The old alphas in suits that look far too tight for men with so little spine. I see it in their eyes—the disbelief. The awe. The fear.

The ghost of a girl they thought long dead, walking the halls of power like a curse come calling.

Rowan steps slightly closer, just enough that his hand could graze mine if we moved wrong. I don’t look at him. But I feel the shift. The silent claiming of space beside me. Like protection.

It makes my stomach twist.

Not from nerves.

From confusion.

He shouldn’t care. But he does.

We enter the main hall—a room that at least remembers the world I came from. Arched ceilings, stained glass, a long table made of the old forest’s ironwood. Heavy chairs. No screens, no humming wires. Just tradition, breathing in woodsmoke and old laws.

There are nine council members. All old. All male.

Of course.

“I am Simon Varrow,” he says. “Elder of the High Council. We welcome you, Princess Lyra Valen. Or as some call you now—the Sleeping Alpha.”

My hands clench at my sides. The title cuts. Like a fairy tale stitched into my skin.

“I am Lyra Valen,” I say clearly, stepping forward. “Daughter of Alaric Valen, blood-heir to the Alpha Kingdom. I’ve come to reclaim my right. The throne of my father. My birthright.”

Simon doesn’t flinch. “A right we would never dismiss lightly, my lady. Your survival is a miracle. Your strength is… admirable. But the world you left is not the one you’ve returned to.”

“I invoke Law Six-Three-Three-Nine,” I say sharply. “The Bloodline Ascension Clause. It allows the firstborn heir—regardless of gender—to ascend the Alpha seat in the absence of a living predecessor.”

The council murmurs. A few heads shake. Simon lifts a hand.

“That law,” he says, with measured sorrow, “this doesn’t exist.”

Ice fills my chest.

“What?” I breathe. “That law was created for me. I was trained to lead. Prepared since I was a child—”

“It was abolished,” another elder cuts in. “No record exists of your claim. We have verified every existing decree.”

Rowan steps forward then. His voice is low, steady. “With permission, I’ve brought the archives from my grandfather—Oliver Dareth. His records detail the condition of the pack in the years following the fall of House Valen. He took a Pack of ashes, so according to the law 78, it’s his right to lead and his predecessors to keep it.”

He nods to an aide, who carries forward a thick file—leather-bound, old but pristine.

Simon opens it. Begins reading.

“My grandfather documented the starvation, the uprisings,” Rowan says. “The people were leaderless. Fractured. Vulnerable. My family answered the call. They rebuilt. Protected what was left.”

I barely hear him. My eyes lock on the pages—lists of supplies, deaths, damage. Numbers and maps that don’t match my memories. That can’t be true.

“No,” I whisper. “That’s not—my people weren’t—”

“You were a child,” Simon says gently. “You couldn’t have known everything.”

“I knew enough,” I snap. “I wasn’t a princess in a tower. I was trained as the first female Alpha in history. My father wanted me strong. I led hunts, I wrote decrees, I sat at his right hand—”

“And yet,” says another councilor, “the pack fell. And the Dareth line rose. We no longer use kings or queens. We have Alphas. And Rowan Dareth has proven himself a capable one.”

There’s no malice in his voice. That makes it worse.

Simon looks at me with something like pity. “We honor tradition. We believe legacy matters. Which is why we are prepared to offer you a position of cultural leadership. As an advisor. A symbol of our past. A voice for heritage.”

I laugh.

Not because it’s funny.

Because it’s insulting.

“You want me to be a painting on a wall,” I say bitterly. “Something to dust off when you want to prove you’re not as cold as you look.”

Simon’s face doesn’t change. “We are offering you a place, Lyra Valen. But it is not the one you expected.”

I feel Rowan’s gaze on me.

But I don’t look at him.

I lift my chin, every inch the heir they thought they buried.

“Then you’ll forgive me if I decline your consolation prize.”

And I walk out before anyone can stop me.

The cold air slices into my lungs as I walk, fast and aimless, through the unfamiliar city streets. My steps echo over the pavement, stone mixing with concrete, history swallowed by steel and glass. I don’t care where I’m going—I just need to move. To get away from the suffocating room where my legacy was buried under kind smiles and careful words.

A miracle, they called me.

The Sleeping Alpha Princess. A relic. A fairytale.

They offered me an advisory role. Cultural leadership, they said, as if that would patch over the wound they carved. As if I hadn’t trained my entire life for something they erased.

I trained to lead. I was chosen to lead.

And now I’m just… a ghost wearing a crown no one believes in.

A horn blares behind me. Tires screech.

“Lyra,” Rowan’s voice snaps through the air like thunder. I don’t stop.

The car pulls up beside me, and I hear the door unlock with a quiet click. “Get in.”

I keep walking. “I’m going home.”

“You’re walking toward a highway.”

“Then I’ll walk faster.”

The car crawls alongside me. “You’re being irrational.”

I whirl on him, rage crackling beneath my skin. “I’m being erased.”

He flinches, just slightly. “I’m not your enemy.”

“No? You’re sitting on my throne.”

He cuts the engine and gets out of the car, shutting the door behind him slowly. Calm. Controlled.

“I told you,” he says, stepping into my path, “I didn’t take anything from you. I protected what was left.”

“Protected,” I spit. “From me?”

His jaw clenches. “From falling apart. My grandfather rebuilt this pack from ash. My father kept it alive. I’ve spent my whole life holding it together, preparing it for a future your time couldn’t have imagined.”

I laugh bitterly. “And you think that future doesn’t have space for me?”

He moves closer. “I want you safe.”

“I don’t want to be safe,” I say through my teeth. “I want to be heard. I want to lead. I want to finish what was stolen from me.”

He doesn’t speak. Just watches me with something dark in his blue eyes. Then, he nods once and opens the car door again.

“I want to show you something.”

Chapter 7

POV: Lyra

I sit in silence beside him.

The car hums softly, warm air brushing over my skin. It smells like leather, pine, and something distinctly him—clean and sharp, with a hint of earth. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, just drives. One hand loose on the wheel. The other resting near the console, inches from mine.

I don’t ask where we’re going. I don’t care.

Until I start recognizing things.

Not buildings—those are newer, taller—but the bones beneath them. The way the streets bend, the slope of the land, the scent of the old trees that still stand like sentinels around the outer ring. I feel it in my chest first—an ache, a pull. Like my wolf, stirring faintly in the silence.

He slows near a long, low building lined with solar panels and tall glass windows. Children pour out in uniforms. Laughter cuts through the air.

“That’s the academy,” he says. “We built it ten years ago. Fully funded by the pack. No one gets left behind.”

I blink. “We didn’t have schools like that.”

“I know.”

We pass a hospital, sleek and curved like a shell. A library with digital archives. Rows of modest, well-kept houses. Community gardens. A tech center.

He drives through a guard checkpoint next. Wolves in uniform nod to him as we pass.

“These are the new headquarters for the pack’s protection unit. We rebuilt from scratch. New tech. Training in strategy and defense.”

I say nothing. But my hands curl in my lap.

It’s good. It’s all so good. It’s everything I would have wanted for my people. For my future.

And yet… it feels like watching someone else live my life.

“I kept the roots,” Rowan says quietly. “You see it, don’t you? The stonework on the public buildings. The architecture. The sigils. We didn’t erase the past—we evolved it.”

I glance out the window. There, carved into the stone of the community hall, is my father’s crest.

The breath I didn’t realize I was holding stutters out of me.

He kept it.

“I didn’t do this to replace you,” Rowan says, his voice low. “I didn’t even know you existed until I was fifteen. We were told the royal line was gone. The castle was abandoned. We thought you were dead.”

I turn to look at him. His profile is all sharp angles and tension. His hand tightens on the steering wheel.

“I still don’t know if I believe in fate,” he admits. “But I believe in responsibility.”

And for a moment, I see it—not the Alpha who stole my crown, but the man who held a dying kingdom together and turned it into something that could survive.

I look away, throat thick. “So why show me this now?”

He shifts gears. “Because we’re not done.”

The road narrows. Trees close in. The city fades behind us, swallowed by the dense woods that once marked the sacred edge of my people’s lands.

He stops the car.

We get out.

The silence here is heavier. Ancient.

And then I feel it—tingling over my skin, running through my bones like a memory of magic.

I walk forward.

His eyes narrow at the border, at the way the trees curve around the stone markers like guardians. And of course, a lot of guards. “This is where our territory ends.”

I shake my head. “No. This is where you think it ends.”

Rowan glances at me, a frown tugging at his mouth. “This line has been our border since my grandfather’s time. The records go back over a hundred years.”

“Not in a hundred and fifty years,” I say. I move forward, past the edge of the stone. My boots press into old, moss-covered earth, and my skin thrums with it. “This is the sacred ground. The Moon Circle. The heart of the pack’s magic. It always pulsed here—alive and raw. Our wolves trained in this center. Our rituals were bound to this land.”

He doesn’t follow. His jaw works as he stares beyond the stones. “There’s no mention of that. When Oliver Dareth took over, this land was already abandoned. Dead.”

“No,” I whisper. “It was stolen.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes scanning the trees like they might give him answers. “If that’s true, then something happened before my grandfather came to power. Something no one told us.”

I step back to him. “You didn’t know?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. But I’ll find out.”

There’s something steady in the way he says it. Not a promise, exactly—but a vow. A weight behind the words.

And then, softer, almost reluctant: “I wasn’t told about you until I was fifteen.”

I blink. “What?”

“You were just… a rumor at first. A myth. The lost princess. The Sleeping Alpha. Locked in a room in the old east wing, hidden away like a broken relic.” His voice is rougher now. “My father wanted to seal the chamber. Forget it. Pretend you never existed.”

I stare at him, breath caught in my chest.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I didn’t let them. I had you moved to the Moon Temple. Built a sarcophagus of enchanted glass. I wanted them to see you. To remember what came before. What we lost. You became a symbol—of legacy, of mystery… of the magic we couldn’t explain.”

“You worshipped me?”

“No,” he says, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are steady and quiet. “I respected you.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

I don’t know how to breathe with the weight of those words curling around my ribs.

“You could’ve left me locked away,” I murmur. “You could’ve made sure I never woke.”

“I didn’t know you would wake,” he says. “But I hoped.”

Something in me crumbles—just a little.

I look back toward the forest, toward the edge of what used to be home.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t take it from me. He inherited a lie, same as I inherited a dream.

Rowan shifts beside me, voice lower now. “I know what it looks like. That I took your place. Your throne. Your people. But that was never my intention.”

I glance up at him.

He’s not my enemy.

I want him to be. It’s easier that way. Anger is armor. Hatred is a blade.

But what am I supposed to do with this… man? This Alpha who remade my kingdom with care and reverence and still carries my name like a ghost in his bones?

I can’t answer that yet.

So instead, I say nothing as we turn back to the car.

But I don’t walk ahead of him.

And when he opens the door for me, I don’t refuse.

I couldn’t sleep.

Not because the bed was too soft—though it was. Or because the sheets felt like silk spun by gods—though they did.

No, I couldn’t sleep because Rowan Dareth was in my head.

His voice. His eyes. The way he looked at me by the border, like I wasn’t a threat. Like I was a secret he wanted to understand.

I didn’t like it.

I liked it too much.

And beneath it all, a hollow ache pulsed deep in my chest.

Not physical. Not quite.

My wolf was still silent.

The hallways were quiet, the flickering sconces casting golden shadows across ancient stone. Some wings of the packhouse had been rebuilt with smooth, polished walls and glowing sensors that lit as I walked by. But this corridor… this one still belonged to my time.

The packhouse was quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed with old magic and secrets. And my feet, ever drawn by instinct, led me to the library.

Light glowed softly through the half-open doors.

I stepped inside and stilled.

Rowan stood at the center table, a single lamp casting warm gold across the strong lines of his face. His black t-shirt clung to his chest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He wore simple dark pants, but even in simplicity he was all Alpha—broad and tall, coiled tension beneath quiet stillness.

He looked like sin and sanctuary.

One hand rested on an ancient scroll. The other held a half-full glass of whiskey.

He didn’t glance up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Chapter 8

POV: Lyra

“Can’t sleep?” Rowan asked, his eyes still fixed on the parchment spread across the long oak table.

His voice was rough—low, smooth, like honey over gravel. He was all shadows and sharp lines, a silhouette carved out by moonlight and candle glow. His face, partially illuminated, was furrowed in focus as he hovered over old books, maps, and aged parchments.

“Too quiet,” I replied.

That’s when his eyes lifted to meet mine. Gods, those eyes—clear and piercing, like a frozen lake hiding something deep underneath. I swallowed hard. Really looked at him. At the man I was raised to hate.

I was raised as an Alpha. I didn’t flinch for anyone. But him? I flinched. Inside.

Because I wanted—so badly—to believe he was my enemy. That he stole what was mine. But the truth? The truth is bitter. He earned this. He’s a fucking Alpha. He leads like one. And maybe—just maybe—he’s better at it than I ever would’ve been.

“Quiet is good,” I said softly. “But too quiet… it leaves too much space for thoughts that don’t shut up.”

He looked at me, and I saw it—empathy. Real, unguarded empathy.

“She’s there,” he said. “Your wolf. Just… give her time. You woke up from a hundred and fifty years of enchanted sleep. Your magic isn’t gone. Just resting.”

I gave a hollow chuckle. “Sleeping,” I echoed. “Like me.”

I stepped forward, gently pried the glass from his fingers, and took a sip. The whiskey hit like fire, sharp and brutal. My face twisted without permission.

“Oh,” he murmured with a hint of a smile. “Not strong with drinks?”

“It’s stronger than I remember,” I muttered, eyes still locked on his. “Or maybe I’m weaker.”

“You’re not,” he said. His voice had softened. “You’re stronger than me. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”

His words struck something deep in my chest. I wanted to hate him. Needed to. It would’ve made everything easier. But he kept ruining it with truths and kindness and those eyes that made me feel like maybe—just maybe—I was still someone worth fighting for.

He stepped closer. I felt the heat of him before he even touched me.

I looked away, toward the papers. “What are you looking for?”

He reached for two old maps and spread them across the table. “Borders,” he said. “I was trying to understand what changed. You said the territory used to stretch further east, into what’s now a witch-claimed zone.”

I leaned in, fingers brushing the old parchment. “This… yes. This is my time. This is the original border.”

“And this,” he said, pulling out another, newer map, “was the border when my grandfather took over. Same as it is now. That eastern territory was already gone by then.”

My jaw tensed. “So the land was taken before your grandfather,”

He nodded, quiet. “I’ll investigate.”

I looked at another notebook lying open on the table. Legal codes, scribbled notes.

He followed my gaze. “I was also looking for the law you mentioned. 6339. The one that would’ve allowed you to rule. The council says it doesn’t exist.”

I bit my lip, emotions knotting in my throat. “Why?” I whispered. “Why are you looking for my truth?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then—

“When my grandfather took over, they locked you in a room in the west wing. You stayed there through my father’s rule. I didn’t even know you were real until I was fifteen. Thought you were a myth. A bedtime story.”

His voice dropped lower.

“But when I saw you—actually saw you—sleeping in that room, peaceful and full of untouched power, I knew. I knew we couldn’t just hide you away. You were a symbol. Of strength. Of legacy. Of us.”

He looked at me, raw and unguarded.

“So I built you a sarcophagus. Glass, not stone. And I moved you to the Moon Temple. Somewhere sacred.”

My breath caught.

If I had woken inside a sealed coffin in some dark forgotten room… I would’ve died. Panicked. Lost control of the magic in me.

“You saved me,” I whispered.

My body moved before my mind could catch up. I stepped closer, felt the warmth of him bleed into me. His scent—pine and smoke and that distinct bite of whiskey—wrapped around me.

I act in pure instinct without reason, just feeling.

I rose on my toes and pressed my lips to his.

A whisper. A test. A brush of heat.

And then he moved—hands in my hair, at my waist, pulling me into him. The kiss deepened, hungry and desperate. My hands found his chest, his shoulders, the curve of his neck. I tangled my fingers in his hair, felt the weight of his need, the burn of my own.

And then—

A spark. A pulse.

My wolf.

I gasped, pulling back just enough to breathe against his mouth.

“She…” I whispered, breathless. “She’s awake.”

He didn’t speak. Just rested his forehead against mine.

My wolf. I felt her. Just a flicker—but real. Alive. Awake.

The tide of emotion threatened to drown me. I didn’t know whether to cry, kiss him again, or scream.

A sound broke the moment—a soft knock or shuffle from outside the library.

“I should go,” I murmured, stepping back.

His hand lingered a second longer on my waist before he let me go.

And I walked away, heart pounding, soul shaking.

I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

My body gave up somewhere near dawn, heavy with whiskey and want, and my mind drowned in images of his lips, his hands, his voice whispering You are strong.

I dreamt of him. Of that kiss. Of the way his hand curved around the back of my neck like he was afraid to let go.

And the worst part?

I didn’t want him to. Not in the dream. Not now.

When I woke, sunlight poured into the room like a slap—too bright, too much.

I skipped breakfast. I couldn’t sit across from him with that kiss hanging between us, like it meant nothing. Like it didn’t set fire to every part of me that had been numb for over a century.

So I grabbed my gear, laced my boots with trembling hands, and went straight to the training grounds.

I needed to sweat this out.

Hit something.

Anything.

Maybe if I spar hard enough, I can silence the echo of his touch.

My body moved, sharp and fast, but my mind? It was still back in that damn library. The weight of his body against mine. His breath mingling with mine. His voice saying he believed me.

“Focus,” the soldier I was sparring with grunted, blocking one of my blows with ease. “You’re distracted.”

No shit.

I clenched my jaw and launched forward, fists flying, heart pounding harder with every missed hit.

Then I felt it.

The shift in the air.

Like the room changed temperature.

Like the ground knew he was there before I saw him.

Rowan.

I turned my head and caught sight of him walking into the training grounds, dark pants hugging strong legs, black shirt rolled up at the sleeves, arms tense. His presence hit me like a wave—grounding and infuriating all at once.

My stomach twisted, heart hammering in my chest.

I pulled back from the fight. “I’m done,” I muttered, grabbing a towel and heading toward the exit.

“Lyra,” he called, voice calm but firm.

I didn’t stop.

A moment later, his hand caught mine—large, warm, unshakably steady.

“You don’t have to leave.”

I froze. My pulse thundered in my ears.

“I didn’t mean to make things worse last night.” His voice lowered. “If you didn’t like the kiss…”

“I did,” I snapped, sharper than I meant.

He blinked.

“I did like it,” I said again, softer this time. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped closer, eyes locked on mine. “Then why run?”

“Because I don’t know what the hell this is. Because I wake up after a hundred and fifty years and the only thing that makes me feel alive is you—the man who took my place.”

His gaze burned. “I didn’t take your place, Lyra. I’ve spent my life carrying the weight of something I didn’t choose. I’m not your enemy.”

I stared at him, heart a mess, mind a battlefield. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me again.”

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said everything.

And then he did it.

Closed the space between us in a single step.

His hand slid behind my neck, the other at my hip.

His mouth found mine with no hesitation.

And I melted.

This kiss wasn’t soft.

It was hunger.

Years of emptiness devouring something finally real.

His lips moved against mine like he’d been starving.

Like he was starving.

I moaned into his mouth, hands clenching the fabric of his shirt as his tongue slid over mine.

His body pressed into mine, hard, unrelenting.

I felt the wall behind me before I knew we’d moved.

Felt the line of his body pinning me gently but firmly.

Felt his arousal through his pants—and gods, it made my knees shake.

My wolf stirred.

Not just stirred—awakened.

It was a flash of golden heat across my chest.

A whisper of fur under skin.

A heartbeat that wasn’t only mine.

I gasped and pulled back just enough to breathe.

“She’s awake,” I whispered, forehead pressed to his. “My wolf. She—she opened her eyes.”

He held me like I might fall apart. “I told you. She was never gone.”

My throat tightened. Emotions clogged my lungs. Everything was too much and not enough.

His hands still rested on me, and I didn’t want them to move.

Then the training doors opened and a young woman rushed in, holding a tablet. “Alpha—sorry. Law department. They’ve got something. They said you’d want to see it right away.”

Rowan exhaled, jaw tight, but he didn’t look away from me. He grabbed my hand.

“Come with me,” he said. “I want you there for this.”

And just like that, I was breathless again—torn between the fire of his kiss and the ache of everything we still didn’t know.

Chapter 9

POV: Lyra

My heart wouldn’t stop racing.

It wasn’t just the kiss—though gods, that kiss had undone me. It was the way his hand still held mine. The way his presence at my side felt like armor I didn’t ask for but desperately needed.

Rowan guided me through the halls of the packhouse like I belonged there. Like I was something more than a relic.

We stepped into a wing I hadn’t yet seen—sleek, modern, full of strange lights and humming tech. Everything here smelled of sterilized ambition and quiet power.

The legal department.

A set of double glass doors parted and a rush of cool air hit my skin. Inside, three people turned to stare—two women and one man, all dressed in dark tones, eyes flicking between me and Rowan like they weren’t sure what to make of us. Of me.

I let go of Rowan’s hand.

He didn’t flinch. “Tell me everything,” he ordered, voice firm but controlled.

They exchanged glances. The older woman stepped forward, tablet in hand.

“We had to go deep,” she said, tapping the screen, “into physical archives and magical storage. This law wasn’t digitized with the rest. It wasn’t in the modern system at all.”

“What law?” I asked, stepping closer. My voice came out steadier than I expected. My fingers curled into my palms.

“The one you mentioned,” Rowan said, turning to me. “Law 6339.”

A beat of silence passed. Then the woman tilted the tablet so I could see it.

My breath caught.

The parchment was ancient, yes—but not unfamiliar. It had the royal crest at the top, faded gold ink swirled through delicate calligraphy. My name was there. My family’s seal.

I reached for the screen, fingertips trembling. “This is it.”

She nodded. “It’s beautifully crafted. Structured with formal support from your High Council of the time. Law 6339 granted the right of succession to female heirs—full Alpha status, including military command and mating independence. It was radical for the time, but legally sound.”

“And it was sent to the Council,” Rowan said, stepping closer. His voice had dropped into a dangerous quiet.

“Yes,” the man added. “Stamped. Sealed. Registered. But then—nothing. It never made it into implementation records. Never got a public reading. It disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” I echoed. “How does a law disappear?”

“We don’t know,” the second woman said. “It’s clear it was buried. The documents were preserved in magical archives that require senior access to even retrieve. Someone didn’t want it found.”

Silence rang out like a slap.

Rowan looked at me, and there was something fierce in his eyes. “They silenced you.”

I swallowed hard, trying to breathe around the storm brewing in my chest.

“They didn’t just silence me,” I whispered. “They erased me.”

All this time… I thought maybe I was dreaming too big. That maybe I’d misremembered. But it was real. The law was real. My future—my right—was real.

And someone had stolen it.

“Why?” I asked. “Why go through the trouble to kill a law that could’ve changed everything?”

Rowan clenched his fists. “Because it would’ve changed everything.”

I looked at the tablet again. “One female Alpha would’ve been enough to set a precedent. To open the doors.”

“And it’s 150 years later,” Rowan muttered, “and there still hasn’t been one. Just males.”

I met his gaze. “This wasn’t an accident.”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Someone wanted to make sure the world stayed the same.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then Rowan turned to the team. “Make copies. Magical and physical. I want this law restored, visible, and brought before the current Council. We’ll demand a review.”

“Yes, Alpha,” the woman said immediately.

Rowan looked at me then, and there was no hesitation in his voice when he added, “We’ll do this together.”

My breath hitched.

Not I. We.

He wasn’t just listening—he was standing beside me. Lifting my voice with his power.

And that? That meant more than any kiss.

I nodded, blinking against the burn behind my eyes. “Thank you.”

Rowan stepped close, his hand brushing the small of my back in quiet reassurance.

“I told you,” he said softly. “I’m not your enemy.”

I should’ve gone to my room. I should’ve locked the door, buried myself under the too-soft sheets, and begged my heart to calm down. But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I went to the library.

I didn’t even hear the door open. I just felt him.

That pressure in the air, that tug on something ancient and hidden in my chest—it was him. Rowan. Again.

I was surrounded by books, old scrolls, even older laws. Pages of broken truths and half-legends. But my heart didn’t start pounding until he stepped into the room.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, watching me. I felt his gaze like a touch.

“Did you find anything?” he finally asked, his voice low and soft.

I closed the book I wasn’t really reading. “Not yet,” I murmured. “But I will.”

He took a step closer, and I swore I could feel my wolf stretch inside me like she was waking from a long nap.

“And I’ll keep looking too,” he said.

That should’ve been the end of it. Just a shared goal. Just an alliance. But then I looked at him—really looked. The way his shirt strained slightly across his shoulders, the deep furrow of concern between his brows, the unspoken heat behind those glacier-blue eyes.

“I think… she only wakes up when you’re near.”

My voice was barely a whisper. I didn’t mean to say it. But it was the truth.

Rowan blinked once, like he was processing it. “Your wolf?” he asked, quietly. “She stirs when I’m close?”

I nodded. “Or when we… kiss.” My cheeks flushed instantly. “I don’t know why. I—I don’t know what that means.”

He took another step. Closer. Slowly. Like I was something sacred.

“I don’t either,” he admitted. “Maybe because we’re both Alphas. Maybe because your magic knows me. Maybe… maybe it’s something deeper.”

His eyes locked onto mine, and he stepped even closer.

“Do you want to feel her again?”

I didn’t speak. I just stood up, now facing him. I nodded—just once. A small, helpless movement. My breath caught in my throat.

That was all it took.

Rowan crossed the space between us, his hands cradling my face before his lips crashed into mine. The kiss was nothing like before—desperate and hungry at first, then deeper, slower, like he was tasting something forbidden and savoring every stolen second.

And then—I felt her.

My wolf.

Awake, delighted. Like feeling my soul again.

His hands roamed down my sides, finding my waist, sliding over the soft fabric of my dress. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, opening myself to him completely. My heart was thudding so fast it echoed in my ears.

Desire. Lust. Something primal.

My wolf.

It could be so wrong in my mind, but it felt so fucking right.

I wanted to touch him—badly. I never thought I’d have the boldness, but Rowan’s hands moved lower, gripping my waist, my hips, then the curve of my ass. His desire was overwhelming. And it felt so good.

My hands roamed over his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. His body was all strength, all heat, and I wanted more. Needed more. I traced his abs, and when I touched the line of his waistband, his breath hitched—like he couldn’t believe I was going to do this.

I summoned all the courage I had and did the thing I wanted most:

I touched him.

Really touched him.

I brushed my hand down between us and cupped his already hard, ready cock through the front of his pants. He groaned against my mouth.

“Fuck, Lyra…”

His hands found the back of my dress, undoing the small ties and buttons with aching slowness. Cool air kissed my skin as the straps slipped from my shoulders. I felt the fabric cling uncomfortably against my flushed skin—I didn’t want it anymore. I wanted to be bare for him.

Rowan’s lips trailed down my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone, tasting every inch. My skin burned where he touched. My body trembled. My thighs pressed together with need, and I felt electric shocks all over me. I shrugged out of the dress, letting it pool to the floor.

I stood in just my panties and bra.

He pulled back slightly, chest rising hard with each breath. His gaze swept over me—hungry, reverent. He swallowed.

“So fucking beautiful,” he said hoarsely.

Then, slower, his voice rough with restraint:

“If you don’t want this… you have to tell me now. Because if I keep going, I won’t be able to stop. Not this time.”

I stared at him—his tousled hair, kiss-bitten lips, pupils blown wide—and felt my wolf purring beneath my skin.

Gods, I wanted this. I’d never wanted anything more.

I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back to me.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

His mouth crashed onto mine again, harder this time. One hand slid between my thighs, finding exactly where I needed him most. He touched my clit through the fabric—hot, slow circles—and a moan tore from me.

His other hand pushed my bra down, and then his lips closed over my nipple.

Pleasure exploded through me. My back arched into his touch as he explored me like he needed to memorize every inch.

When his hand slipped beneath my panties and found how wet I already was, he groaned against my skin.

“Gods, Lyra… you feel like fire.”

I could barely breathe. “Touch me,” I whispered. “Please, Rowan…”

And he did.

His fingers moved with slow, devastating precision, circling and teasing, while his mouth kissed down my throat, over my chest. He made me feel sacred. Wild. Wanted.

I clung to him, biting back moans, the library spinning as my wolf surged inside me—alive, awake, present.

“Come for me, princess,” he murmured like a command.

And my body obeyed.

I came hard—pleasure so sharp it stole my breath. My mind blanked. My knees buckled. My soul felt scorched and lit anew.

Chapter 10

POV: Lyra

But just as everything was about to tip into something deeper—

Knock knock.

The door stayed closed, but a voice called in, “Alpha? The legal report from the Council just arrived.”

Rowan froze. His forehead dropped to mine, our breaths tangled and harsh.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he muttered, frustration thick in his voice. “But I’ll send them away—”

That’s when reality hit me.

“No. You should go,” I said quickly, grabbing my dress and pulling it on, barely caring how disheveled I looked.

He reached for me, catching my arms.

“Hey. This isn’t over.”

Still breathless, dazed, aching, I managed a crooked little smirk. He kissed me again—rough, deep, possessive—before slipping out the doors.

And I was left alone.

What the hell just happened?

I didn’t see Rowan for the rest of the afternoon. And that was a blessing. And a curse.

Because my body still burned from his touch.

Because I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d looked at me—touched me.

And because I had no idea what any of it meant.

I needed distance. I needed space to think. But my soul—it wanted to find him again. Like he’d awoken something ancient and powerful inside me that didn’t want to go back to sleep.

At dinner, I made myself go downstairs, pretending everything was fine. The moment I stepped into the dining hall, his eyes found me.

And I felt it.

Hunger.

Not for food.

Rowan was sitting at the head of the table, flanked by warriors and council members. But the second his gaze met mine, I felt the tension snap into place between us, invisible but suffocating.

His eyes roamed over me like he could still taste me on his tongue. Like he wanted to finish what we’d started.

My skin flushed. I sat across from him, ignoring the heat twisting low in my belly.

We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Until his head of guard leaned down and whispered something in his ear. Rowan’s jaw tensed. He stood, nodding once to the warrior, and disappeared into the hallway without a word.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Later, alone in my room again, I tried to sleep. Tried to stop thinking about him. I changed into a soft nightgown—thin, ivory, a little too delicate—and curled into bed. I was almost calm.

Then—

Knock knock.

My heart flipped.

I sat up. “Yes?”

The door creaked open, and there he was.

Rowan.

Holding a tray with two cups of tea.

“I thought you might need something warm,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

I swallowed hard. “Tea? That’s… unexpectedly gentle of you.”

He set the tray down beside the bed. “Don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What reputation? That of a brooding, emotionally constipated Alpha?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

I hesitated, then gestured to the chair near the bed. “Sit. But only if you promise not to bite.”

“No promises,” he said, settling into the chair anyway.

For a moment, we sipped in silence. The air between us thick with everything unspoken.

Then I asked, quietly, “What are we doing, Rowan?”

He didn’t pretend not to know what I meant.

“I don’t know,” he said, setting his cup down. “I don’t understand it. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like you got under my skin without even trying.”

I watched him, heart thudding. “You’re unmated?”

“Yes. I’ve… never found my mate.”

I blinked. “But you’re thirty-five.”

He shrugged. “I spent fifteen years looking. Some wolves find them early, some never do. I figured… I’d just missed mine. Or maybe I wasn’t meant to have one.”

I felt a strange tightness in my chest. “I’m not mated either,” I admitted. “I’m what… a hundred and seventy-eight?”

Rowan’s eyes widened. “Oh my gods.”

“What?”

“I kissed someone that old. That’s practically ancient.”

I laughed, shoving his arm. “Watch it, pup.”

He grinned. “Do I need to start calling you grandma now?”

“Do you want to be thrown out the window?”

“Honestly? If that’s how you show affection, I’m into it.”

I shook my head, smiling in spite of myself. But the lightness faded a little, and I asked, more quietly, “Did you ever imagine… I might be your mate?”

He looked away for a moment, as if debating the truth. Then he met my eyes.

“Sometimes I’d go to the Moon Temple that I build for you,” he said softly, “and I’d stand by your stone. And I’d think… what if? What if you were my mate?”

My breath caught.

“But if you were,” he went on, “we’d know. You’d have felt the pull the moment you saw me. The magic doesn’t lie.”

He paused, then added, almost to himself, “I think I dreamed of you being mine because… you were beautiful. And unreachable. Because it was easier to imagine a mate who was asleep forever than face the fact that I might not have one at all.”

His honesty punched something deep in me.

“We’d know if we were, right?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“We would.” His voice was calm, but his gaze burned. “But I feel something, Lyra. And I can’t explain it. I just know I’ve never wanted someone like I want you.”

My chest tightened. The wolf in me stirred again, drawn to the weight of his words. I wasn’t his mate. But maybe fate was wrong.

“I always thought I’d find my mate,” I said quietly. “But I was already twenty-eight… and that’s considered old for a woman, you know.”

I stood and moved across the room, setting the tray and cups on the table.

He chuckled. “Well, now you’re one hundred and seventy-eight. So… definitely old.”

“Hey.” I laughed and shoved his shoulder in protest.

He caught my wrist—and the teasing in his expression vanished.

“So we’re two unmated wolves who like to kiss each other,” he said, voice low.

“And maybe do more than kiss…” I said before I could stop myself.

His eyes darkened instantly. “You mean…”

“I mean…” I whispered, stepping closer. His scent wrapped around me, woodsmoke and something wild. The heat of his body, the tension in the air—it pulled me in like gravity. “I’ve never felt like this. And the only thing I know for sure is… I want you.”

He was so close now. His body nearly touched mine, the heat of him radiating over my skin.

“You want me?” he asked, voice rough as he tilted my chin up with his hand. His eyes—those piercing oceans of blue—held me still.

My lips parted, breath shallow. I could barely breathe.

“Yes,” I whispered.

The kiss that followed was slower this time—but no less intense. His lips brushed mine, featherlight, and still it sent shivers cascading through my whole body.

Then he deepened it. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me into him, and my fingers tangled in his hair as our mouths moved together. His tongue teased mine, claiming me with unrelenting hunger.

His palms roamed over my body, and the thin fabric of my nightgown did little to shield me from the fire in his touch.

When his hands found my thighs, I wrapped my legs around his waist without hesitation.

He lifted me effortlessly, holding me like I was made for him, and carried me to the bed.

I didn’t resist.

I ached for him. This time, we wouldn’t stop.