Chapter 11

POV: Lyra

Rowan laid me down in my bed like I was something precious—something breakable.

The soft sheets cradled me from beneath, cool against my overheated skin, while his body hovered over mine, radiating warmth and hunger. His hands roamed with reverence and want, brushing along my sides, tracing the outline of my ribs, and everywhere he touched, I felt claimed.

I could try to rationalize this. I could think of reasons why I should stop, why I should wait, why this wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

But none of that mattered.

This wasn’t about thought. It wasn’t about logic or duty or destiny. It was instinct. It was the raw ache of my heart and the primal pull of my wolf. And my wolf was howling for him.

I didn’t understand how he wasn’t my mate. But right now, I didn’t care.

I had never been touched like this. I had never been touched at all. But Rowan made my body feel like it already knew everything it needed. Like he was unlocking instincts buried deep in my bones. With him, I didn’t feel like a virgin—I felt like fire.

He kissed me again—slow and deep—like he was drinking me down, savoring the taste. My lips parted under his, and his tongue slid against mine, coaxing a moan from my throat.

I tilted my head back, giving him access I didn’t even know I was offering, and he took it—his mouth moving to my jaw, then lower, trailing kisses down my neck, each one leaving behind heat that shimmered through my nerves like lightning.

My breath hitched. My entire body went still and desperate at once.

His hands were gentle but assured, brushing my nightgown up, exposing inch by inch of bare skin. I helped him, lifting my arms, and he pulled the fabric over my head with such care it nearly made me cry.

He looked at me—really looked at me—and I didn’t feel like a relic. Not like some ghost from another time.

I felt… sacred.

He worshipped me with his mouth. Kissing the slope of my collarbone, the curve of my breast. His lips found my nipple, and when he sucked softly, my hips arched off the bed like I had no control over my body at all.

“Gods,” I whispered, breathless.

He moved to the other, giving it the same reverent attention, while one of his hands slid down my side, grounding me in his touch.

Then he kept going—lower, trailing kisses over my belly, each press of his lips unraveling me.

He skipped my panties. Deliberately.

Instead, he kissed down my thighs, my knees, my calves, even the tops of my feet. When he kissed my ankle, I actually shivered.

I’d never known what it felt like to be worshipped until now.

And gods, he was good at this.

He crawled back up and kissed me again—slow, deep, and dirty—his mouth tasting like heat and hunger.

One of his hands slipped between us, brushing lightly over the fabric of my panties, and I gasped.

He felt how wet I already was.

“So wet for me already…” he murmured against my mouth, like it was a secret he couldn’t believe. His thumb brushed the soaked fabric aside, and then I felt one finger slip inside me—slow and teasing.

My body clenched around him. My eyes fluttered shut.

But then he stopped.

His mouth left mine. His hand stilled.

His gaze found mine.

“You never…” he said quietly, his voice low with realization.

Shame hit me like a slap. I turned my head away, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with my body.

He pulled his hand back, but not out of rejection. He cupped my cheek gently, coaxing me to look at him.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

He smiled, soft and real, and kissed me again.

“You’ve never done this before,” he said, confirming what I couldn’t say out loud.

I shook my head, still staring at the ceiling.

“Back then… we usually waited for a mate bond,” I murmured, feeling ridiculous and ancient and vulnerable all at once.

He chuckled softly. “Yeah… that’s a little old school. These days, people don’t usually wait. But—” he paused, brushing his knuckles over my cheek, “—if you want to wait for your mate… I’ll stop. We don’t have to.”

Despite everything—my shame, my nerves—I laughed. A breathy, surprised little sound.

“I’ve already waited one hundred and seventy-eight years,” I said. “I think it’s safe to say… my mate’s not coming.”

His gaze darkened. His wolf surged behind his eyes.

“I want you to take it,” I said, barely louder than a breath.

He growled—growled—low and guttural, and his whole body tensed.

“Say that again.”

“Take it,” I repeated, watching the way it hit him.

Something broke loose in him.

He kissed me again, harder now, his hands sliding down my body like he couldn’t touch me fast enough.

He moved lower, back to the place he’d skipped, and this time he didn’t skip it. He slipped my panties off in one slow pull, the fabric soaked, clinging to me before he tossed them aside.

Then he kissed the inside of my thigh, and I nearly came undone.

He kissed closer and closer, until finally—finally—his mouth found my clit.

He kissed me there like he kissed my mouth: tender, intense, hungry.

And I shattered.

The wave of pleasure hit so fast and so hard I almost cried out.

He didn’t stop.

He licked and sucked with maddening skill, and I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. My hips bucked. My hands found his hair, gripping, anchoring me.

“Yes,” I gasped. “Gods, yes—”

“Come for me,” he whispered. Then he sucked again—hard.

And I did.

I came with a cry, my body convulsing, the pleasure crashing through me in waves that seemed to go on and on.

I was still catching my breath when Rowan moved over me, his mouth still slick from my release, his blue eyes dark with need.

My fingers trembled as they reached for the hem of his shirt, clumsy and aching with urgency. He helped me—his arms lifting as I pulled the fabric up and over his head. My hands were already at his belt, driven by instinct more than thought. I had never done this before, never imagined myself as bold. I’d always been fierce, yes—commanding, proud, stubborn to a fault—but never like this.

Never desperate.

Never vulnerable.

And gods, it felt so right.

His belt came undone with a sharp metallic clink. I opened the button and tugged his pants down, and in one swift movement, he kicked them off. He was bare before me.

I stared.

My breath caught in my throat. He was thick, hard, flushed with need, and stunning in his masculinity. Fierce and vulnerable all at once. This man—this Alpha—was here for me.

I reached out, part desire, part curiosity, and when my fingers brushed over the smooth skin of him, he groaned—deep and guttural. His jaw clenched, his body shuddering as if he were already at the edge of control.

“Fuck, Lyra,” he rasped, voice cracking on my name.

I guided him to me, brushing his tip against my slick folds, teasing us both. His body shuddered again.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice ragged, every muscle in him trembling with restraint.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, eyes locking with mine, and then he positioned himself at my entrance. His hands came to either side of my head, caging me in—not trapping, but grounding. His eyes didn’t leave mine, not for a second.

And then he pushed inside.

Slowly. Excruciatingly.

My body stretched around him, tight and trembling, and I felt every inch as he filled me. It was overwhelming—too much, too good, too deep—and yet perfect.

“You feel…” he whispered, leaning close to my ear, his breath hot and reverent, “so fucking perfect.”

I whimpered as he kept pushing, inch by inch, his voice like molten honey.

“Warm. Tight. Paradise.”

Then—he paused.

I felt it too. The resistance. The line no one had ever crossed.

He looked down at me, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “You’re really sure?”

I nodded again, this time firmer. “I want you.”

His gaze burned, and then he kissed me—slow and deep—as he pushed the rest of the way in.

There was a brief twinge, a flash of pain—and then it melted into heat, into fullness, into him.

He stilled inside me, letting my body adjust, kissing me softly, whispering soothing words I barely heard over the thunder of my heartbeat.

And then… pleasure.

Rolling through me like fire catching wind.

His hips began to move, slow and deliberate, dragging pleasure from every inch of me. I gasped, arching beneath him. He took my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head, his other sliding down my body, finding my clit again.

I looked at him, breathless, brows raised in surprise. A question in my eyes.

He gave me a wicked smile.

And then I understood.

His hips pressed into mine with each deep thrust, his hand circling me with skilled precision, and I had no control. No escape. Just the overwhelming cage of his body and his pleasure.

His body.

His fingers.

His cock.

It was too much. Too intense. Too perfect.

I cried out as the sensations built, my head tossing back, my back arching. The moans poured from me freely now, raw and unrestrained.

“Yes,” I begged. “Yes, gods, please—”

His voice was a growl near my ear. “Now… you’ll come around me.”

And I did.

My body seized, walls clenching around him, the orgasm ripping through me like a storm. I was gasping, shaking, crying out his name as my world shattered into stars.

And then—he followed.

With a groan that sounded almost like a roar, he buried himself deep and came with me, his hips jerking as he lost himself in my body.

We collapsed in a tangle of limbs, skin slick with sweat, hearts pounding like war drums in our chests.

Breathless. Weightless.

Utterly undone.

After a long moment, he shifted beside me, pulling me close, still inside me, our legs tangled together.

He brushed my hair back from my face, eyes soft now, lips curled in a crooked grin.

“So…” he said, voice still husky. “What did you think?”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Still breathless, still high, still glowing.

“A tangle of limbs.”

He laughed with me, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

“And…?”

I turned my head, grinning up at him. “That was amazing. Can we do it again?”

His smirk was positively sinful.

“Give me five minutes,” he said. “Maybe ten.”

Then he kissed me again, and gods, I wanted him again.

Chapter 12

POV: Lyra

I woke to the smell of him.

That warm, masculine scent of pine and heat and something deeper—something I couldn’t name but now craved like air. My body ached deliciously, my limbs heavy, my muscles tender in places I hadn’t even known could feel sore. The sheets were tangled around us like a battlefield after passion. My thigh was thrown over his hip, my arm curled across his chest. His hand rested on the curve of my waist like it had always belonged there.

We were skin to skin. Every inch of us touching.

And it felt… safe.

I blinked against the early morning light filtering through the curtains, golden and soft. For a second, I just stayed there—listening to his steady breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath my palm. My body still thrummed faintly from the night before, echoing with memories: the sound of his voice, the taste of his kiss, the way he said my name like it meant something sacred.

He stirred.

His hand slid up my side, slow and warm, and I felt his lips brush the top of my head. “You awake, wild thing?”

His voice was rough from sleep, deeper, raspier—and it did something to me.

I smiled against his skin. “Barely.”

He chuckled, the vibration of it rumbling beneath me. “You wore me out.”

I raised an eyebrow and tilted my head to look at him. “I wore you out?”

Rowan looked down at me with a lopsided smirk, his blue eyes still soft with sleep. “I lost count after the fourth time. You’re dangerous.”

I snorted. “You’re the one who bit my shoulder and said, ‘Again.’ Like some feral beast.”

He laughed—deep and real—and it made something flutter in my chest. A kind of warmth that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with him.

“Do you regret it?” I asked softly, before I could stop myself. The question slipped out, small and uncertain.

His expression shifted immediately. The teasing faded, replaced by something earnest and a little solemn.

He cupped my cheek, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “No,” he said, voice low. “Not for a second. Do you?”

I shook my head. “No. It felt… like it was always supposed to happen.”

He kissed me then, slow and gentle. A morning kiss—quiet, sweet, full of things we weren’t ready to say out loud.

When he pulled back, he smiled. “We’re definitely going to be late for breakfast.”

I smirked. “Good. Maybe they’ll think we’re dead and leave us alone for once.”

He laughed again, and then he stretched with a low groan, muscles rippling. The movement made me aware of our nakedness all over again.

My gaze dipped—slowly, shamelessly—and he caught it.

“Staring already?” he teased, pulling me closer. “You’re insatiable.”

I pretended to sigh. “I am a cursed, dethroned Alpha princess. Surely I deserve a little indulgence.”

His hand slid down my back, over the curve of my ass, and he leaned in. “Then let me spoil you.”

He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing mine with lazy heat.

But then he pulled back, eyes twinkling. “Come. Let’s take a bath before we get tempted into skipping the entire day.”

I blinked. “You have a bath?”

“I have everything, Lyra.”

The way he said my name made me shiver.

He lifted me easily in his arms—like I weighed nothing, like I was precious—and carried me toward the massive bathroom adjoining his room. I barely had time to admire the marble floors and the oversized tub before he was setting me down gently inside it.

The water was already warm. He’d turned it on with a flick of magic—or perhaps he’d prepared it while I was still half-asleep.

“Planning ahead?” I asked, raising a brow.

He gave me a slow smile. “Strategic instincts. You should try trusting them.”

He stepped in behind me, and I leaned back against his chest as the water enveloped us both in liquid heat. My body melted into his, my back pressed to his front, his arms wrapping around me in a loose embrace.

We didn’t speak for a moment.

Just breathing.

Just being.

And then his hands began to move—slow and reverent. He lathered soap in his palms and slid them over my arms, my shoulders, down my back. Every touch was soft, unhurried, like a prayer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against my ear.

I turned my head to him, eyes half-lidded. “You already did.”

His hand dipped between my legs under the water, and I gasped—my breath catching in surprise.

“Rowan,” I warned, breathless.

He grinned against my neck. “Shh. I’m being tender.”

I let out a soft moan as his fingers found their rhythm beneath the water. My head fell back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

His fingers were relentless.

My back was pressed to his chest, the warm water swirling around us, but it was nothing compared to the heat spreading low and fast through my body. Every stroke of his fingers sent aftershocks through me—his thumb circling my clit with practiced precision while two fingers thrust deep inside me, curling just right, hitting that place that made me see stars.

I gasped—my head falling back onto his shoulder, lips parted, body trembling as he worked me open with devastating focus.

“Rowan,” I moaned, helpless.

His other hand moved to my breast, fingers brushing over my nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. He kissed the side of my neck, slow and tender, like he could kiss the breath out of me. “I love how you say my name like that,” he whispered, voice low and reverent.

It was too much.

Too much and not enough.

The heat coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped—sharp, overwhelming, crashing into me like a wave. My body convulsed in his arms, writhing as the pleasure broke me open, and I sobbed his name as I came undone.

He held me through it, whispering softly into my skin, his lips brushing my temple. “Yes… that’s it. That’s my girl.”

I could feel his cock pressed hard against my lower back, hot and urgent under the water. I was still trembling, still catching my breath when I shifted in his arms and turned to face him.

His eyes darkened the moment our skin met—my soaked core brushing against the thick length of him beneath the water. He hissed through his teeth, muscles tensing as I settled into his lap.

“God, Lyra…” His hands gripped my hips, eyes flicking down to where our bodies aligned. “You are so fucking dangerous.”

I smiled lazily, drunk on pleasure, on him. “And you love it.”

His lips curved into a wicked grin, and he kissed me hard, possessive, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he owned it. “I do,” he breathed against my lips. “I love all of it. You. This.”

I reached between us and guided him to my entrance, locking eyes with him as I sank down on his cock—inch by inch—never breaking that electric gaze.

He groaned deep in his throat, his hands clutching my thighs like a lifeline. “Fuck, you feel like heaven.”

I began to move, slow and steady, rolling my hips in small circles, dictating the pace. The water sloshed gently around us, heat rising with every breath, every moan. My hands slid up his chest, fingers digging into his shoulders for balance.

He watched me like he couldn’t look away.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured. “Like a fever dream. Mine.”

I leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep—and whispered, “Yours.”

But something in me wanted more. Wanted to feel him lose control.

So I shifted, turning in the water, bracing my hands on the edge of the tub. He understood immediately.

In one smooth motion, Rowan slid into me from behind, gripping my hips, burying himself deep with a growl. The new angle made me cry out, my forehead pressing to the edge of the marble as he began to thrust—deep, sure, claiming.

His hand slid up to wrap around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding—and the other gripped my hip tight, guiding me back onto him.

The sounds—my moans, the slap of water, the sharp slap of skin on skin—echoed off the tiles like music.

“You love when I take control, don’t you?” he said low against my ear.

“Yes,” I gasped. “God, yes.”

His fingers left my throat to find my clit again, circling it with maddening care. I sobbed, my knees nearly giving out.

“I’m already so sensitive,” I whimpered.

“I know,” he said. “And you’re still going to come for me.”

I shattered.

A raw cry tore from my throat as the second orgasm hit me, harder than the first, my body clenching around him in frantic spasms. Rowan cursed and followed, hips jerking as he came with a deep groan, collapsing over my back, his mouth pressing kisses along my spine.

We stayed like that for a moment—breathing, panting, trembling.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back into his chest, both of us half-submerged, water swirling lazily around us.

“Remind me to install grab bars in here,” he muttered, and I laughed—weak and breathless.

“I’m pretty sure you just ruined baths for me forever. Nothing will ever compare.”

He kissed my wet shoulder. “Good. That means you’ll always come back to my bath.”

I leaned back, my head against his chest, and smiled. “Cocky Alpha.”

“Only because I’ve got the fiercest girl in the world shaking in my arms.”

We stayed there, soaking in the silence and each other, until the water cooled and our bodies began to stir with the hunger of another kind.

But this time… it was for breakfast.

Chapter 13

POV: Lyra

By the time I finally got out of the bathroom, wrapped in a robe and still flushed with the ghost of what we’d done, Rowan was already half-dressed, shirtless, his pants hanging low on his hips as he leaned casually against the dresser, watching me.

“You’re not seriously going to wear another dress today, are you?” he teased, eyes dragging over my bare legs as I passed him toward the closet.

“Yes,” I said, chin high. “Until the council decides to acknowledge me as Alpha, I’ll cling to the traditions of my rank. That includes skirts.”

He smirked. “You’re going to start a fashion rebellion. The soldiers already whisper when you walk past.”

“They can whisper louder,” I muttered, and picked a deep blue dress with leather straps that buckled at the waist. “It’ll make no difference.”

Rowan stepped behind me, hands brushing my waist as he kissed the back of my shoulder. “You know you don’t have to prove anything anymore.”

“I do,” I said quietly. “But not today.”

He studied me for a moment longer, as if debating something, then kissed my temple and grabbed his shirt. “Fine. But if I see one more man nearly trip over himself trying to get a glimpse up your skirt, I’m burning the entire female section of the closet.”

“Possessive Alpha,” I teased.

“Damn right.”

He left me with that, disappearing to change in his own room—probably to avoid suspicion. Smart. We hadn’t exactly been discreet last night.

By the time I reached the breakfast hall, Rowan was already seated at the long oak table, speaking quietly with his beta. He glanced up the moment I entered, and our eyes locked—just a second too long. His mouth twitched in the corner like he was remembering everything we’d done.

I fought the smile tugging at my lips and forced myself to walk past him without a word.

We stole glances throughout the meal—beneath the clatter of plates and casual conversation, no one else seemed to notice. Not the tension, not the hunger in his gaze, not the way my skin prickled every time his arm brushed mine when reaching for something.

But I knew. And he knew.

After breakfast, a soldier approached Rowan and whispered something in his ear. He stood, brushing crumbs off his shirt, and gave me an apologetic look.

“Legal department,” he murmured. “Be back soon.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without wanting to drag him back to that bath.

With nowhere else to put all the restless energy buzzing through me, I went to training.

And gods, it felt good.

The rhythm of my limbs, the ache of muscle, the sharp snap of a blade as it met mine—it was all clarity. Power. Release. But something else hummed beneath the surface now, something raw and bright.

My wolf.

She was there—closer than she had been since I woke. I felt her pacing beneath my skin, eager and alive. It made me pause. My breath hitched. Could last night have triggered something?

Needing answers, I left the training yard and made my way toward the healer’s wing, where the wizard Meron was said to reside when not brooding in the archives.

He was alone, tending to a small tray of potion vials when I arrived.

“Princess,” he greeted with a tight smile. “To what do I owe—”

“I felt her,” I cut in, stepping closer. “My wolf. She was there. Not just a flicker. She was awake.”

His eyes flickered. Just a beat. But it was enough.

“It’s not suposed to happedn yet,” he said too quickly.

I narrowed my gaze. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he repeated, calmer this time. “It’s not unusual to feel… echoes.”

“You said it’s not supposed to happen yet.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re imagining things.”

No, I wasn’t. Something shifted in the air around us, something subtle and wrong. My instincts flared.

“I’m going,” I said sharply, already backing toward the door. “Thanks,”

He didn’t stop me.

I ran. Not because I was scared—but because I knew who I needed. Who made me feel safe. Who would never lie to me.

Rowan.

I found him just as he stepped out of a side corridor, a stack of papers in hand. I didn’t hesitate. I stormed toward him, grabbing his arm.

“Meron said something,” I blurted, breathless. “He slipped. He said I wasn’t supposed to feel my wolf yet. Then he lied to cover it. Rowan, I don’t trust him.”

His jaw tensed, and a low curse slipped from his lips.

“Fuck.” He looked around, then called over two soldiers from nearby. “Wes. Hana. Meron, the healer—follow him. Quietly. Don’t let him out of your sight. If he so much as blinks wrong, I want to know.”

They nodded and vanished like shadows.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until Rowan took my hand.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now. “You did the right thing coming to me.”

I nodded, my throat tight.

He cupped my cheek, his touch grounding. “You’re not alone anymore, Lyra.”

And for the first time in what felt like days, I believed him.

Rowan didn’t waste a second after the soldiers left. He turned to me, his jaw tight.

We went straight to the hospital. I didn’t even argue this time.

Rowan didn’t let go of my hand once as we walked through the sterile halls, and for the first time since waking from the curse, I didn’t mind the white lights or the strange smells. Because I knew where we were going—and who we were going to see.

Dra. Strauss.

Red-haired and sharp-eyed, she had been the first person I saw when I woke up in this new world. She’d taken care of me through the worst days of confusion and pain. She knew my body. My magic. My wolf. If anyone could tell me the truth, it was her.

She greeted us with that warm smile of hers, her green eyes flicking from Rowan to me as we stepped into the exam room.

“Princess Lyra,” she said gently. “You look stronger.”

I tried to smile, but it faltered. “I need your help.”

Rowan didn’t waste time. “She went to Meron. He slipped. Mentioned she shouldn’t be feeling her wolf already. When she pressed, he brushed it off. Now he’s running. My soldiers are following him.”

Dra. Strauss’s expression hardened. “I see.”

She motioned for me to lie back on the examination bed. I did, letting her hands hover over me as they always had—only this time, I wasn’t unconscious or half-healed. I was wide awake, and terrified.

A soft green light glowed from her palms, brushing over my chest, my stomach, my head. She muttered a few words I didn’t recognize—something ancient, something pulsing with magic.

And then she paused.

Her brows drew together.

“What?” I asked, the panic already curling under my skin.

“I feel your wolf,” she said slowly. “She’s there. Awake, not sleeping as the last time I checked.”

Relief bloomed—and then she added, “But your magic… it’s not whole.”

My stomach dropped.

“What do you mean?”

She moved her hands again, slower, more deliberate. “It’s not damaged or blocked. It’s just… incomplete. Like a piece of it is missing entirely. Not corrupted. Not gone bad. Just… not here.”

I sat up abruptly. “Can someone take it?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But whatever Meron was trying to hide… I think it’s connected.”

The panic rose again, sharp and ugly, and I couldn’t breathe. I swung my legs off the bed and stood too fast.

“Lyra—” Rowan’s voice was calm, steady, but I was already shaking.

“What if it’s the witches?” I whispered. “What if they took something from me when they cursed me? What if I’m not whole? What if I’m never going to be—”

Rowan stepped in front of me, cupping my face in both hands. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing—” My voice cracked.

“Look at me,” he said firmly.

I did. Gods, I did.

His blue eyes burned into mine, grounding me. “I’ve got you,” he said. “No matter what it is. No matter what they did. I’ve got you.”

The world steadied just enough for me to let out a shaking breath and collapse into his chest. His arms closed around me instantly.

We stayed there until Dra. Strauss quietly excused herself, promising to run deeper magical scans.

Later, we returned to the packhouse.

I sat curled up in one of the chairs in Rowan’s office, watching the fire burn low while he paced nearby, phone in hand, waiting for updates from the soldiers.

“Still no word?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

“They’re still tracking him,” Rowan said. “He crossed into witches’ territory about an hour ago. They’re following at a distance, trying not to draw attention. As soon as they know where he’s going exactly, they’ll report in.”

“And then?”

His jaw tightened. “Then I’ll decide what we do next.”

I nodded slowly.

Outside, the sun was starting to set, casting gold through the windows. Inside, I stayed where I was, wrapped in Rowan’s scent and the firelight, the ache of what I didn’t know humming low in my chest.

I didn’t know what was missing. I didn’t know what they’d done to me.

But I knew one thing, and I whispered it into the quiet of the room as he walked past me:

“I trust you.”

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he said again.

And I believed him.

Rowan’s phone buzzed once, and he picked it up instantly.

I sat up straighter in my chair, heart already pounding.

“They found him,” he said after a pause. “He went inside a cave. Deep into the cliffs bordering the witches’ territory.”

Chapter 14

POV: Lyra

Rowan’s phone buzzed once, and he picked it up instantly.

I sat up straighter in my chair, heart already pounding.

“They found him,” he said after a pause. “He went inside a cave. Deep into the cliffs bordering the witches’ territory.”

“Did they follow?”

“They couldn’t,” he muttered, brows furrowing. “There was some kind of warding—dark magic. Said it felt like trying to walk through stone.”

I stood, pacing now. “So he’s gone.”

“Not gone.” Rowan’s voice sharpened. “He’ll come back. And next time, I’ll be ready.”

He grabbed his phone and typed a message. “I’m having them come back. I’ll fit Meron’s vest with a camera. He won’t even notice—it’ll look like a pin. Old fool still thinks magic’s more advanced than tech.”

I couldn’t help the half-smile. “You sound so calm.”

“I’m not,” he said simply. “But I know we can’t rush this. Not yet. Right now, all we can do is wait.”

His eyes lifted to mine. There was something softer in them now—quiet, sure, like he wasn’t just thinking strategy anymore.

“Come to my room.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Not for that,” he added quickly. “I mean… not only that.”

I laughed, and he cracked a grin too, but then his voice softened.

“I just… don’t want you to be alone tonight. I want to be near you. If you’ll let me.”

There it was again—that strange, warm ache in my chest.

Not just lust. Not anger. Not even magic.

Something older. Something terrifyingly real.

I nodded once, and that was all it took.

His room was darker than mine—shades drawn, fire burning low, everything smelling like pine, leather, and him.

I wandered in slowly, still barefoot, and Rowan just watched me like I was something he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t look away from. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, collar loose, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms. He looked strong. Relaxed. Masculine in a way that made my insides twist.

He pulled the covers down, offering the space beside him. “You can have all the pillows.”

I raised a brow. “Do I strike you as the kind of woman who needs pampering?”

He smirked. “You strike me as the kind of woman who deserves it.”

My chest fluttered, but I ignored it. Slipped under the sheets. They were warm from the fire, cool against my bare legs. I hadn’t worn pants. Again.

Rowan slid in beside me, careful not to touch at first. But it didn’t last long.

Our shoulders brushed. Our arms aligned.

And then his hand found mine under the sheets.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured.

I turned my face toward him, finding his eyes in the dim light. “I don’t know what this is.”

“This?”

“You and me,” I whispered. “This feeling. It’s not the mate bond, is it?”

Rowan exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding it in. “No. It’s not.”

I stared at him. At the faint scar along his jaw. The pulse ticking in his throat.

“I think I’m…” I couldn’t say it yet. The words felt too big. Too final.

So instead, I kissed him.

Soft at first. Just a press of lips. A whisper of what I couldn’t say.

And then his hand curled behind my neck and the kiss deepened, mouths sliding, breath tangling. I moved to straddle him, legs wrapping around his waist. He groaned into my mouth, hands firm on my hips.

“Lyra…”

“I want to feel,” I whispered. “Not think. Just feel you.”

And then we weren’t still anymore.

He sat up, mouth dragging down my throat, hands trailing under the hem of my sleep shirt. I arched into him, skin to skin, heat sparking everywhere.

“I’m falling for you,” I said before I could stop myself.

He froze.

His eyes met mine, wide open, no shields.

“Then fall,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll catch you.”

And then he kissed me again, and everything else melted away.

We moved together like waves—slow, deep, endless. Not just hunger now, but something more. Something sacred. My name on his lips was reverent. His touch was worship.

We didn’t speak after. We didn’t have to.

He held me as I drifted to sleep, his fingers gently combing through my hair, and somewhere in the quiet dark, I felt it fully for the first time.

My wolf. Whole. Awake.

And for once, not just mine.

Ours.

I slipped off my nightgown slowly, deliberately, letting it fall in a whisper to the floor. Rowan’s eyes tracked every inch of skin like it was the first time all over again. The heat between us simmered and surged.

I was the one who reached for the waistband of what he called sweatpants. “Such a ridiculous name,” I murmured, fingers curling into the hem. He smirked, but didn’t stop me.

In seconds, we were bare to each other.

Skin to skin, chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

He pulled me into him, one arm wrapped around my back, the other cupping my jaw as he kissed me—first my lips, then my cheek, then down the line of my throat. His breath was warm, reverent, like he was learning my pulse by taste.

“I love so much to feel your skin on mine,” I whispered against his shoulder.

“Me too,” he said, voice thick. Then he smiled, dark and tender all at once. “But I love even more the feeling of me inside you.”

The words made me gasp softly, my whole body already aching.

I chuckled low in my throat as he kissed lower, down the center of my chest. “Gods, you’re shameless.”

“For you?” His mouth curved against my skin. “Always.”

When he took my nipple in his mouth, heat surged through me like a lightning strike. He licked, then sucked gently, then bit—just enough to make my breath stutter. His hand trailed lower, skimming over my stomach, brushing just above my core.

“I love how you react to me,” he murmured, voice rough with want. “You’re already so wet, baby.”

His fingers slipped between my folds, slow and sure. He teased my clit with his thumb, circling until I was shaking. Then one finger entered me. Then two. Curling perfectly, drawing soft gasps from my throat as his mouth returned to my nipple. It was like I couldn’t escape him—not that I ever wanted to.

“Gods… don’t stop,” I pleaded, clinging to his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he growled. “I want you to come for me. Right here, baby girl.”

He kissed me again—hot, deep, messy—and I shattered against his hand, moaning his name into his mouth. My body trembled with the intensity, the waves crashing over me, again and again.

His lips brushed my ear, and he whispered, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

That man… he worshipped me like I was sacred. And I couldn’t take all of it without giving something back.

I kissed my way down his chest, tracing the lines of his abs with my tongue until I reached his cock—thick, hard, and already leaking for me. I wrapped my hand around the base and licked up the length, teasing first, until his head fell back and a low groan rumbled from his chest.

Then I took him in my mouth.

His fingers tangled in my hair, grounding himself, holding on as I sucked, slow and deep, letting him feel every inch of my mouth. He cursed softly, hips flexing, but he still let me lead. Still let me claim him.

Until he couldn’t anymore.

He grabbed my thighs and pulled me up his body, flipping me with a growl. I was still on top, straddling him, but his fingers found my clit again as I hovered over him, mouth still wet from the taste of him.

“Rowan—” I whimpered, already unraveling.

“Come for me again,” he commanded. “Let me feel it before I’m inside you.”

I moaned around his cock as his touch pushed me over the edge again, the pleasure crashing so hard it stole my breath.

He caught my jaw and pulled me up to him, kissed me deep—hungry, claiming. “You have no idea how sexy you are,” he breathed, “moaning like that… around my cock. Fuck, Lyra.”

His hands gripped my hips as he shifted us, and suddenly I was on my back again, legs wide, his cock pressing at my entrance.

“You’re a princess,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. “But for now… you’re my princess.”

And I wanted to be. Gods, I wanted to be his forever.

He sank into me slowly, inch by inch, stretching me perfectly until we were joined completely. I gasped, clawing at his back.

He kissed me through it, swallowing every sound. His thrusts were slow, deep, unhurried.

“I love the way you take me,” he whispered. “So tight, so warm. Like you were made for me.”

And then he picked up the pace.

Faster. Deeper. Harder.

Our bodies moved in rhythm, the bed creaking beneath us, our skin slick with sweat. He filled me so completely it felt like I was breaking open and being rebuilt all at once.

My name left his lips like a prayer.

His like a growl on mine.

We came together—loud and raw and helpless—our bodies shuddering in sync, eyes locked, hands clutching tight.

And when it was done, when we collapsed in a tangle of limbs and kisses and tangled sheets, I curled into him.

His arms wrapped around me.

His breath evened.

And mine did too.

I didn’t know yet why the Moon brought me back after a hundred and fifty years. Didn’t know what fate or prophecy was waiting.

But I was starting to believe it had something to do with this man.

With Rowan Dareth.

With the way he made me feel like I belonged—to the world, to my body, to myself—just by holding me close.

Chapter 15

POV: Lyra

I woke with the warmth of his chest beneath my cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breath lulling, grounding. The sheets were tangled around us, the scent of sex and skin still hanging in the air like a memory refusing to fade.

My thigh was draped over his hip. His hand rested low on my back, fingers splayed like he’d fallen asleep still trying to hold all of me.

I blinked, adjusting to the golden morning light sneaking through his window. A rare kind of peace settled in my chest—fragile, unfamiliar, but real.

“You’re staring at me,” Rowan’s voice came low, rough with sleep, and unfairly sexy.

“I’m not,” I lied immediately, shifting a little but not enough to move away. “I was just… thinking.”

He opened one eye. Smirked. “That I’m devastatingly handsome in the morning?”

“Hmm. More like wondering how someone with that much muscle still snores.”

His hand slid lower on my back, teasing. “Lies. I do not snore.”

“Oh, you do,” I said, unable to hide the grin. “It’s like a wolf trying to purr.”

He groaned, rolled us so he was on top of me, pressing me into the bed with his full weight. “You’re lucky I like your mouth.”

“Because of what it says?” I teased, arching a brow.

He leaned down, lips brushing mine. “Because of what it does.”

Gods.

His kiss was slow, claiming, still tasting of sleep and sweetness. I melted into it, arms winding around his neck, fingers threading through his dark hair. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against mine.

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured.

I sighed. “Unfortunately, we have witches and betrayals and ancient laws to worry about.”

He groaned again and rolled off me, covering his eyes with his arm. “You ruin everything.”

I laughed, then sat up, clutching the sheet around me as I looked for something to wear. “You were the one who invited me just for company.”

He grinned up at me. “And you were the one who started the fire.”

“Touché.”

Once dressed—him in dark jeans and a fitted shirt, me in one dress I took on my room (I still refused to wear pants)—we headed downstairs to the pack’s main room. The tension returned slowly, creeping in with the scent of coffee, the low murmur of voices from the kitchen, and the weight of everything left unresolved.

Rowan took a call from his beta, stepping away to the side of the room while I poured myself tea.

When he returned, his expression was sharper. More Alpha.

“They’ve confirmed Menor entered the cave again this morning,” he said. “The soldiers couldn’t follow—same barrier as before.”

“Is he still inside?” I asked.

“For now.” Rowan’s eyes glinted with something calculating. “But next time he goes in, we’ll see everything.”

He reached into a drawer near the council table and pulled out a tiny black device.

“A camera,” he explained, holding it between his fingers. “I’ll have it stitched into the inside of his vest. He won’t notice—it’s light, discrete. And he’s not exactly fluent in modern tech.”

“That’s clever,” I said, feeling a flicker of admiration—and a pang of fear. “But what if he finds it?”

“He won’t.” His gaze met mine, serious. “And if he does… we act fast.”

I nodded, trusting him.

Just then, another soldier entered the room and handed Rowan a thick folder, freshly printed and sealed with the Council’s insignia. He broke the seal, flipped through the pages, and his jaw tensed.

“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer.

“The Council finally sent over the old law protocols,” he said. “Every record of legislation altered or removed in the last hundred years. We’ll start here. We’ll find out who erased your right to rule.”

He handed the folder to me, and I felt the weight of it—literal and symbolic—in my hands. My legacy, buried somewhere in ink and lies.

Rowan leaned in, brushing his lips against my temple. “One step at a time, princess.”

I looked up at him, the steady thrum of my wolf alive beneath my skin.

“Yes,” I whispered. “One step closer to the truth.”

I needed space.

Not from Rowan—gods, no—but from the weight of everything. From the camera plan, from the Council’s documents, from the sickening knowledge that someone I once trusted had betrayed me. My thoughts were a chaos I couldn’t silence, so I did the only thing that ever made sense when the world didn’t.

I trained.

I didn’t even tell Rowan where I was going. I just tied back my hair, grabbed a training set from the wardrobe—one of those stretchy things Dra. Strauss insisted were “modern and breathable”—and headed to the sparring hall behind the pack house.

I needed to feel my muscles burn, to ground myself in the now. But of course, not long after I started, Rowan showed up. Dressed in black, arms crossed, that smirk on his lips that always managed to set my blood racing.

“Skipping breakfast with me for punching things?” he asked, stepping onto the mat.

I didn’t answer. Just beckoned him forward with two fingers. “Thought you said you like my mouth.”

He grinned and rolled his neck. “I do. But I like it best when it’s breathless.”

Gods.

We clashed.

The moment his body met mine, it was fire and pull and tension. Our movements were a conversation, a dance, laced with sparks and half-hidden smiles. He caught my wrist—I twisted free. I went for his legs—he dodged and pressed in close. Too close. His body heat wrapped around me, and I could feel every inch of him, every beat of his heart.

“You always train like this?” he asked, voice low, brushing against my ear as he pinned me.

“Only when I’m trying not to kiss my opponent.”

His smile flickered, then vanished as his gaze dropped to my lips. For a moment, it was only us—us and the pulse between.

But before we could cross the line again, the door burst open.

“Alpha!” a soldier called, breathless. “It’s time. We’ve got something. From the camera.”

Rowan released me instantly, but not before I caught the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Mine mirrored it. Without another word, we followed the soldier down the hall to the tech room in the lower wing.

The feed was already up—grainy footage taken from the tiny camera Rowan had hidden inside Menor’s vest. The old wizard had entered the cave again this morning, muttering to himself. What we hadn’t expected was the scope of what he walked into.

The cave was massive—an underground network of carved stone, glowing sigils, and tunnels that spiraled far beyond what any of us had imagined. It wasn’t just a hiding spot.

It was a fortress.

Witches moved everywhere—organizing, chanting, placing crystals and carved bone in patterns across the cavern floor. Menor blended in, unnoticed, his camera capturing it all.

And then… he reached a room.

Unlike the others, this one had no chants. No movement. Only a pedestal at its center. Upon it, encased in a crystal-glass globe, was something so small, so seemingly insignificant it almost looked like a mistake.

A tiny shard of something fleshy, suspended in liquid, glowing faintly from within.

“What… is that?” I asked, stepping closer to the screen. My skin prickled. My wolf stirred restlessly.

“I don’t know,” Rowan murmured. “But it’s important. They treat it like something sacred.”

“I want Strauss here,” I said quickly. “Now.”

Rowan was already calling her.

Minutes passed like hours. I could barely sit still. The image replayed on loop. The shard. The glow. The pedestal. My heart thudded like a war drum, louder each time I saw it again.

When Dra. Strauss arrived, red hair tousled and green eyes wide, she didn’t waste time. She stepped to the screen and stilled.

And gasped.

“What?” I asked, moving beside her.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I’ve seen this before,” she whispered.

“Where?” Rowan’s voice was steel now.

“In my old texts. Ritual studies. Forbidden magic. This… this looks like a physical manifestation of a mate bond.”

My breath caught.

Strauss turned, her expression pale. “They pulled it out, somehow. Separated it. It’s not supposed to exist like this—not outside the soul.”

My knees nearly buckled. Rowan’s hand steadied me instantly.

“You’re saying…” I began, unable to finish the thought.

“That piece,” Strauss said softly, “if it is what I think it is, could be yours, Lyra. Your mate bond. What was extracted during the curse.”

My stomach twisted. “That’s why I haven’t felt whole. Why my wolf is fragmented.”

Rowan was silent.

Strauss continued, “That could explain the magic you’re missing. Why your bond with your wolf only stirs near him. They took it from you. And they’re keeping it.”

I turned to Rowan. His blue eyes were already on me—dark with emotion, with rage, with something deeper I couldn’t name.

“They stole it from me,” I whispered, broken.

Rowan’s jaw clenched. “Then we’ll take it back.”

I could barely breathe. I didn’t know what this meant. I didn’t know how to fix it. But I knew one thing, as sure as I knew my own name:

The witches had my bond.

And I wanted it back.

Chapter 16

POV: Lyra

The library smelled like dust and forgotten wars.

I stood beside Rowan, my fingers brushing the cracked leather spines of books that hadn’t been touched since before my birth. Or… my first birth. Before the sleep that stole a century and a half from me.

Rowan was hunched over a long, worn table, a mountain of parchment and ledgers spread before him. His brows were knitted, his jaw locked tight. I’d seen him command warriors and silence a room with a look. But now, facing these rotting records, he looked like he was fighting ghosts.

“We’re missing too much,” he muttered, flipping through a brittle book, the pages flaking under his careful touch. “Dates that don’t match. Events that never happened. Someone scrubbed the truth clean.”

I hovered near him, my heart pounding with a beat that had nothing to do with rage or fear—something heavier, more poisonous. Betrayal.

“Here,” Rowan said sharply, dragging a parchment closer. His finger pointed to a faded symbol scribbled in the margin—small enough that most would miss it.

A crescent moon split by a dagger.

I leaned in, close enough that our arms brushed. The contact was grounding. “What is that?”

He looked up at me, something like grim satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “A wizard’s mark. Historians used to brand records they deemed dangerous—or sacred. This one belonged to a man named Evan Calder. He disappeared decades ago. Presumed dead.”

“But not before he left his fingerprints all over our history,” I said bitterly.

Rowan nodded. “There could be more. Hidden archives. Sealed knowledge.”

A rush of air left my lungs, and I had to close my eyes for a second.

This was bigger than forgotten laws or stolen titles.

This was about the deliberate dismantling of my family’s legacy.

“I won’t let them erase us,” I whispered to myself.

Rowan’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing once. Strong. Steady.

I’m with you, his touch said, even when his mouth stayed silent.

We needed help. Someone who remembered the old ways.

Someone who hadn’t bowed to fear.

The temple archivist lived like the records he kept—half in shadow, half in the past.

The journey to the sacred archives felt heavier with every step, as if the stone walls themselves disapproved of our trespass.

Eldon was ancient, his back bent like an old oak battered by storms. His white hair floated like mist around his shoulders, and his pale green robes whispered against the floor as he shuffled toward us.

At first, he refused to meet my eyes. A lifetime of bowing to newer powers.

But Rowan stood tall beside me, a silent wall of loyalty, and Eldon’s gaze finally lifted.

“You seek what was hidden,” he said, voice papery thin.

“Yes,” I answered. “And I won’t leave without it.”

Something in my tone must have reached through his layers of fear and habit.

The old man nodded once and turned away, leading us deeper into the labyrinth of the temple.

Past the public halls, past the grand archives, to a door so old it looked like it might crumble at a breath.

Eldon muttered words under his breath—old words, magic words—and the heavy iron lock gave way with a groan that echoed down the empty corridors.

Inside was a single pedestal.

And on it, a scroll wrapped in black silk, sealed with the crest of my family.

The sigil of the Alpha Crown.

My legs almost buckled at the sight of it. I reached for the scroll, but Eldon’s withered hand stopped mine.

“Blood,” he rasped. “Only blood can awaken it. Your blood.”

I swallowed hard. Somewhere behind me, Rowan shifted, a silent warning in his presence, a readiness to strike if needed. But I shook my head, telling him with my glance that I needed to do this.

I pulled a dagger from my boot—a habit from another lifetime—and pressed the tip lightly against my palm. A sharp sting, a bead of blood, and then I let it drip onto the wax seal.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the seal hissed, smoke curling up in the still air, and the silk binding the scroll slithered free like a living thing.

I unrolled the parchment with trembling fingers.

Words shimmered into view, inked in the familiar, looping script of my mother.

“To my daughter,

If you read this, we are gone. Not by fate’s cruel hand, but by betrayal. Beware the ones who wear your colors but not your loyalty. Beware the ones who smile at the Council’s table. The witches have been promised much—and they take more than they give. Protect the heir. Protect the future. Trust the blood, not the titles.”

My throat closed around a sob. I blinked furiously, refusing to let tears fall.

There was more. A list of names. Symbols. Codes I would need time to decipher.

But it didn’t matter.

I had my truth.

I had proof.

“They planned it,” I whispered.

Rowan moved beside me, a silent shield, his presence anchoring me when the world felt like it was cracking open beneath my feet.

“They killed them,” I said, voice breaking. “They killed my parents. They stole my future.”

I turned toward Rowan, my hand still bleeding, the scroll clenched in my fist.

And I swore, right there, with the ancient stones as my witnesses:

“I will burn their world to the ground before I let them take anything more.”

And Rowan—my constant, my storm, my strength—nodded once.

“As it should be,” he said.

We were no longer just fighting for my crown.

We were fighting for the truth.

And gods help anyone who dared stand in our way.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t even sit.

I paced the war room like a caged wolf, the scroll open across the wide oak table, symbols and names glaring up at me like accusations.

Rowan stood near the door, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and commanding. He was calling in every favor, every specialist, every loyal soul we had.

Within hours, the war room was full—trusted teachers from the old academy, analysts from the tech department, even a few mages Rowan had personally vetted. They spread out around the room, murmuring over ancient ciphers and cross-referencing old Council files.

Still, none of it moved fast enough for me.

“Lyra,” Rowan said once, catching my wrist when I passed too close. His fingers were warm, grounding. “You’re bleeding again.”

I looked down. I hadn’t realized my nails had dug into my palms hard enough to break the skin.

“I’m fine,” I said, yanking away gently.

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue.

I didn’t have time to be fine.

Not when every second felt like another betrayal slipping through my fingers.

A sharp beep cut through the muttered conversations.

Theo, one of Rowan’s tech heads, jogged over with a tablet.

“Got something,” he said breathlessly. “From Menor’s vest cam.”

My heart stuttered.

They projected the footage onto the wall.

Grainy, shaky footage of Menor slipping into the dark mouth of the old caves, his breathing heavy in the mic.

The further he went, the stranger the air seemed to grow—shadows moving unnaturally, whispers too faint to understand.

And then—

The camera caught it.

Chapter 17

POV: Lyra

An enormous cavern, walls slick with ancient runes, lit by the flickering light of hundreds of floating candles.

At the heart of it all stood witches—hooded figures weaving spells, murmuring in a language that made my skin crawl.

And then, Menor approached one of them.

A woman, tall and regal, with a cruel mouth and eyes like shards of ice.

Cewilla.

She glanced at him and smiled thinly. “The Sleeping Princess,” she said mockingly. “Has she found her wolf yet?”

Menor’s voice, low and deferential: “She felt the wolf stir. But she hasn’t shifted.”

Cewilla’s laugh was soft and sharp as broken glass.

“Of course she hasn’t,” she said. “We have her mate bond. Without it, she will never shift.”

My stomach twisted.

Menor asked, “How? How do you have it?”

Cewilla’s gaze turned distant, her voice dropping into a lilting, cruel cadence.

“When we killed her parents, we laid a spell on her too. The plan was simple: kill the King and Queen, kill the heir, leave the pack without a leader. Anarchy would rot them from the inside.”

I could barely breathe.

“But,” Cewilla continued, her voice sharpening, “the spell misfired. Instead of killing the girl, it tore her soul apart. It stole her mate bond and bound her to a sleep she could not wake from.”

She paced in a slow circle around Menor.

“Her body lived. Her soul wandered. Searching forever for what we had stolen.”

Menor shifted nervously. “And the pack?”

Cewilla sneered. “We had plans for that too. Disrupt the Order Delphos created. Shatter their laws. Break their spirit.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Your new Alpha’s grandfather—Oliver Dareth—he stole our victory when he rebuilt the pack. Starved, broken creatures that should have eaten each other alive… and yet he saved them.”

She looked almost impressed. Almost.

“But it won’t matter. Not now.”

Menor cleared his throat. “I should go. Before they miss me.”

Cewilla smiled a razor-sharp smile.

“Good boy.”

The footage cut off.

The room was dead silent.

I stood frozen, the words echoing through my mind.

My parents’ death.

The destruction of my pack.

My stolen bond.

All of it… part of a calculated, monstrous plan.

Rowan was the first to move.

He turned slowly, his voice sharp.

“No one,” he said, “tells Menor we know. Not yet.”

A ripple of nods.

They would treat him like one of their own.

Smile. Trust him.

While behind the scenes, we would dismantle every lie he had helped build.

I couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

The betrayal wrapped around me like barbed wire, cutting deeper with every breath.

I felt Rowan’s hand at my back, solid, steady.

I leaned into him without thinking, the only thing anchoring me to the ground.

“We’ll fix this,” he whispered fiercely in my ear. “I swear it.”

But even his certainty couldn’t stop the truth from tearing into me:

I had been robbed of everything.

My family. My future. My strength.

And worst of all…

They had tried to erase me.

But they had failed.

I was still here.

And I was going to burn their world to the ground.

The list of names from the scroll offered little comfort.

Theo and the others cross-checked every name, digging through death records, lineage charts, Council minutes.

Most of them were long dead.

Some from natural causes. Others… suspicious accidents.

Only one name stood out.

Evan Calder.

Missing.

No death certificate. No grave.

Just… gone.

“Calder,” Rowan muttered, tapping the name. “Evan Calder—the man who left the wizard’s mark.”

A thread, finally.

We pulled it, hard.

Through old property records, forgotten letters, abandoned safehouses.

Clue after clue pointed us north, to a crumbling estate deep in the abandoned part of the territory.

Evan Calder had vanished over a hundred years ago… but someone had kept the property alive.

Taxes paid. Repairs made, in secret.

A descendant, maybe.

Someone who still held the key to all of this.

The witches.

The Council’s betrayal.

My parents’ murder.

My curse.

It was all tangled together, rotting under centuries of lies.

And I was going to rip it all into the light.

Hours passed like minutes.

I barely ate. Barely spoke.

I was a blade honed too sharp, vibrating with tension.

Rowan watched me through it all, silent, waiting.

Until finally, he stepped into my path, blocking my endless pacing, his hands firm but gentle as they caught my arms.

“Enough,” he said, voice low, a command wrapped in tenderness. “You need to stop. Just for a minute.”

I shook my head, trying to pull away. “I can’t. There’s too much—”

“Lyra,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Please.”

I froze.

He never begged.

Not for anything.

My heart twisted painfully.

Rowan’s thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, feeling the frantic beat of my pulse.

“Come with me,” he murmured.

He didn’t wait for me to argue.

Just took my hand and led me from the war room, down the hall, away from the chaos, away from the endless cycle of fear and fury.

He took me to his room.

To us.

To something that was still real.

The moment the door closed behind us, Rowan pulled me into his arms.

Not carefully. Not cautiously.

He crushed me against his chest like he was afraid I might vanish too.

And for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—I let myself fall into him.

His scent enveloped me, heady and grounding: earth after rain, the deep smoke of burning wood, and something rawer underneath, something wild and alive.

Something that called to me as deeply as my own blood.

His hands moved firmly along my back, anchoring me, keeping me from falling apart.

His mouth brushed against my hair, my temple, my cheekbone, whispering promises I hadn’t realized I needed to hear.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer.

“I’ve got you, Lyra.”

I clutched his shirt in trembling fists, trying to hold on to something solid, something real.

My throat burned with the weight of words I couldn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” I rasped out, the only thing that managed to break free.

Rowan shifted, gently framing my face with his hands.

His touch was warm, his thumbs brushing away tears I hadn’t even noticed were falling.

He tipped my chin up so I had to look at him—his blue eyes storm-dark, full of things I wasn’t ready to name.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough.

But I had to.

I had to say it.

Even if it broke me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, my voice too wrecked to be anything but a murmur. “I’m sorry for calling you my enemy. I’m sorry for saying your grandfather stole my kingdom.”

Another tear slipped free, and Rowan caught it with his thumb like it hurt him to see it fall.

“Your grandfather saved my people,” I breathed. “He did what I couldn’t. Your father carried that legacy. And you…”

My voice cracked completely.

“You turned what was left of a failed kingdom into a beautiful pack. You gave them a future when I wasn’t there to protect them. Thank you for that, Rowan.”

For a long moment, he just stared at me, something fierce and aching burning behind his gaze.

Then he pressed his forehead to mine, our noses brushing.

Breathing each other in like it was the only thing keeping us alive.

“Lyra,” he whispered, so close I felt the word against my mouth. “Never apologize for that. You were scared. You were grieving. You were a victim of this conspiracy too.”

His hands cradled my face like I was something precious.

“I’m just grateful we could save them. That we’re still standing.”

A broken sound tore out of me then—part laugh, part sob.

And before I could lose my nerve, I kissed him.

It wasn’t frantic, or desperate.

It was slow. Deep.

A kiss that was an anchor. A lifeline. A promise.

Rowan kissed me back with a quiet fierceness that made my knees buckle.

Like he understood. Like he needed this too.

When we broke apart, his forehead still resting against mine, he slipped his hand into mine, lacing our fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come lay down with me,” he said softly, tugging me gently toward the bed.

“Just five minutes. You need this.”

Chapter 18

POV: Lyra

I shook my head, instincts screaming that there was still so much to do.

But he silenced me the best way he could—by kissing me again, slow and tender, stealing the fight right out of me.

“It’s just five minutes,” he murmured against my mouth. “Come on, Lyra. Just breathe for a second.”

Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Maybe it was the way his arms felt like safety when the whole world had been stripped away.

But I nodded.

He toed off his shoes and slid under the covers fully clothed, his body sprawling carelessly across the bed like he belonged there. Like he belonged with me.

I followed, crawling in beside him.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t careful.

It was natural.

I laid my head against his chest, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart beneath my ear.

His arms came around me instantly, strong and unbreakable, pulling me closer until there wasn’t a sliver of space between us.

I breathed him in.

Breathed in safety.

Breathed in strength.

And without even realizing it, I fell asleep in his arms.

I woke slowly, the warm weight of Rowan’s arm heavy across my waist, the steady thud of his heartbeat thrumming against my ear.

For a moment, I just laid there, caught between dreams and reality, floating in the rare, precious feeling of being safe.

But then guilt slammed into me like a blade between the ribs.

I was supposed to be searching.

Planning.

Fighting.

I couldn’t afford this. Not now.

I shifted, trying to untangle myself from him as carefully as possible, but Rowan’s arm tightened around me like a steel band.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he muttered, voice thick with sleep and something huskier underneath.

“I—I fell asleep,” I stammered, heart hammering. “I wasn’t supposed to. We have work to do. I should—”

His hand slid up my back, large and warm and grounding, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head, cutting off the rest of my panic.

“Lyra,” he said, low and rough.

“You needed to sleep. You need to breathe.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he shifted, rolling me onto my back and caging me between his arms before I could slip away.

His face hovered over mine, those wild brown eyes catching the morning light, making my heart ache.

His thumb traced the curve of my cheekbone, slow and reverent.

“You can’t pour from an empty cup, princess,” he said, voice softer now. “You have to take care of yourself too.”

I swallowed hard, the guilt still gnawing at me, but the warmth of him above me, the way his body fit over mine so perfectly, made it hard to think about anything else.

He lowered his mouth to mine in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, stealing the breath from my lungs.

Every brush of his lips against mine, every teasing flick of his tongue, was a promise and a temptation.

I arched into him without meaning to, my body betraying me, desperate for him, for more.

He groaned quietly against my mouth, shifting so that his hips pressed into mine, and the sudden heat that flared between us was enough to burn the world down.

He kissed along my jaw, down the column of my throat, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, splaying across my bare skin, making me shiver.

“Stay with me,” he murmured against my skin. “Just a little longer.”

Gods, I wanted to.

I wanted nothing more than to forget everything for a few stolen hours.

To lose myself in him.

To feel whole again.

“I want to,” I breathed, threading my fingers through his hair and tugging him back to me for another kiss, deeper, hungrier.

“I want you so much, Rowan.”

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me, making my pulse stutter.

But even through the haze of desire, the memories of what we’d discovered earlier—the danger still looming over us—cut through the fog.

Reluctantly, I pulled back, resting my forehead against his.

“But we can’t,” I whispered, hating the words even as I said them. “Not yet. We need to check the war room. See if anything’s happened.”

For a second, Rowan didn’t move.

Just breathed me in.

Just felt me.

Then he exhaled heavily, pressing one last lingering kiss to my mouth, sweet and slow.

“You’re right,” he said, voice thick with frustration and tenderness all at once.

“But when this is over, Lyra…”

He brushed his thumb along my jaw, his eyes burning into mine.

“When this is over, you’re not running from me.”

I nodded, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurt.

When this was over—if it ever ended—I wouldn’t want to.

Rowan finally let me go, pushing himself up with a groan, raking a hand through his messy hair.

I sat up too, pulling my armor of purpose back around me, even though part of me wanted nothing more than to stay tangled in the sheets with him forever.

Duty first.

Always.

But now… now I had something to fight for too.

Not just revenge.

Not just survival.

But us.

We made our way back to the war room in silence, the air between us still charged with everything we hadn’t said, everything we hadn’t yet allowed ourselves to take.

Duty first.

Always.

The moment we stepped inside, I saw Ethan and two of Rowan’s most trusted guards standing over the table, their faces tight with urgency.

Ethan looked up, relief flashing across his face before he handed a small, battered tablet to Rowan.

“We tracked the records you found. Cross-referenced the land titles.”

He hesitated, glancing at me. “There’s a farm. On old Calder property.”

“Someone’s living there?” Rowan asked, already moving toward the door.

“A man named Gregory. No last name on the record,” Ethan said grimly. “But the blood registry from a few decades ago links him to the Calder line.”

My heart skipped a beat, a strange, painful hope unfurling in my chest.

A descendant.

A living link to the truth.

“We go now,” Rowan said, his voice a low command. “Prepare a team. Small and fast. No uniforms.”

I followed him without question, my blood roaring in my ears.

The farm was tucked into a forgotten stretch of green at the edge of the woods, simple and worn but stubbornly alive.

The fence was half-falling, sheep and a handful of chickens milling around lazily in the sun. A man was bent over a garden bed, tending to a patch of herbs with careful hands.

He looked up at the sound of our approach—Rowan, me, and two guards—and the moment he saw us, fear flashed across his weathered face.

Rowan lifted his hands slowly, palms up, his voice calm but firm.

“I’m Alpha Rowan Dareth. We aren’t here to harm you. We just need to talk.”

The man backed up a step, his eyes darting toward his small house like he was calculating how fast he could reach the door.

“We know who you are,” Rowan said, voice steady. “You’re descended from Evans Calder.”

That was all it took.

The man paled, his breath catching hard in his chest, and then he turned on his heel, bolting for the house.

“Wait!” I cried out, pushing past Rowan without thinking.

“I am the Princess!”

He froze mid-stride, half-turned toward me, his eyes wide with disbelief.

I swallowed hard, my throat burning, my voice barely a whisper at first.

“I’m Lyra Valen. Daughter of King Aaleric and Queen Selene. Princess of this kingdom.”

I took a step closer, my heart hammering so violently I could barely hear my own words.

“I spent a century and a half trapped in sleep because of a conspiracy that murdered my parents. A conspiracy that erased our laws, our history—”

My voice cracked, but I pushed on.

“I believe Evans Calder might have left behind answers. I don’t want revenge. I just want the truth.”

The man’s face twisted, emotion warring across it—fear, disbelief, sorrow.

Chapter 19

POV: Lyra

Slowly, he shook his head and whispered, “My name is Gregory. Gregory… not Calder. We stopped using that name long ago.”

He glanced around like the trees might be listening.

“My grandfather, Evans… he raised my father hiding who we were. Because of the witches. Because it was dangerous.”

I swallowed against the lump rising in my throat.

Gregory looked at me, really looked at me, and something in his expression softened.

“If Evans owed anything to anyone,” he said quietly, “it was the truth. Especially to you.”

He turned toward the house and, after a beat of hesitation, gestured for us to follow.

The house smelled like earth and firewood, like it had been standing through storms long forgotten.

My breath hitched.

Rowan stood close behind me, silent and still, but his presence wrapped around me like armor. Gregory knelt near the hearth, shifting aside a loose board. From the hollow beneath, he pulled out a battered chest.

He opened it carefully, reverently—and inside were old books, scrolls, cracked leather journals, all faded with age but humming with importance.

Gregory’s hands shook as he carried the leather-bound satchel to the table, the aged buckles cracking as he undid them. He didn’t speak as he laid out the contents—scrolls faded with time, journals stained by candle wax and ink, and a single piece of parchment that bore the unmistakable royal seal of my father.

I stared, my heart pounding so hard it felt like the walls themselves might hear it.

The truth.

Right there.

Finally within reach.

Gregory cleared his throat, his voice low and rough like gravel. “My grandfather, Evans Calder, used to say… the truth burns hotter than any spell. And he was right.” He paused, his eyes glassy. “He was part of it. The beginning of it. The conspiracy that destroyed your family.”

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He continued. “There were Council members who feared your rise to power. Feared the shift your reign would bring. And the witches… they saw an opportunity. They offered help in exchange for something they couldn’t get any other way—your kingdom’s sacred land.”

“The Witches’ Grove,” I whispered, my voice a phantom.

Gregory nodded. “That land was never theirs. It was a gift from your great-grandfather to the people of Valen, meant to be preserved, watched over by royal blood and the old magic. When your parents were killed, when you were cursed… that land changed hands under the table. The Council let it happen.”

My legs nearly gave out, but Rowan’s hand found my waist, grounding me.

Gregory gently pushed forward a thick journal, the leather cracked with age. “Evans kept this after he fled. He didn’t want to be part of it anymore. He tried to stop it, but by then, the witches had their claws in deep. He disappeared to keep my father safe. He raised us in silence and shame. But he made me swear—if you ever returned, I was to give this to you.”

I reached out with trembling fingers, my hand brushing the cover. I felt it, the ghost of my father’s energy lingering on the pages, like a forgotten lullaby echoing across lifetimes.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” I choked out, tears burning behind my eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Rowan murmured behind me. “We’ll say it for you. In the Council chambers. In every corner of this kingdom.”

Gregory held up a hand. “You must be careful. If this is still alive—if even one person from that original Council lives, or trained others in secret—you’ll be hunted again.”

I met his gaze. “Then let them come.”

He looked at me like he was seeing a ghost. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

Rowan stepped forward, resting his hand on the journal beside mine. “We’ll take this. The scrolls too. But for your safety, Gregory… no one can know we came here. Not yet.”

Gregory nodded. “You’ll find the rest of the truth in those pages.”

We left Gregory’s farm with the past cradled in our hands—scrolls, journals, and a weight I could hardly breathe under.

Rowan hadn’t let go of me since we’d stepped outside. The sun had dipped behind the trees, bleeding orange across the sky, but the air felt wrong. Still. Stale. Like something ancient was holding its breath.

I should’ve known.

I felt it before I saw it—a hum in my bones, a whisper in my blood.

“Rowan,” I murmured, just as the wind shifted.

His eyes snapped to the treeline.

Too late.

The world cracked open with power.

A blast of magic hit the ground in front of us, throwing two of our guards back into the dirt with bone-breaking force. The others drew weapons, shifting into stances, but the air was already thick with enchantment—humming, pulsing. Alive.

They stepped from the shadows like smoke, their cloaks fluttering like torn wings. Witches. A dozen, maybe more. Their eyes burned gold, inhuman and unblinking.

“Get behind me,” Rowan ordered, already pulling his shirt off, his body shifting in a blur of power and light.

“No,” I said, but my voice was thin, my limbs sluggish. The magic in the air—it was like poison.

Rowan’s wolf burst forward, massive and silver, and charged.

The witches moved fast—too fast. Spells shot through the air, crackling with sickening force. The guards fell back, overwhelmed. I tried to call my wolf, tried to shift, but the bond—the empty space where it should’ve been—screamed.

One of them turned to me, lips parting in a cruel smile.

“She’s still broken,” she hissed. “Still searching for what we took.”

A blast hit me square in the chest, pain tearing through me like claws. I dropped to my knees, gasping.

Rowan howled.

I saw him fighting—tearing through spell after spell, blood on his fur, rage in his eyes—but they kept coming. And I couldn’t help him. Not like this.

Another witch raised her hands, and the sky darkened.

“Lyra!” Rowan’s voice—his real voice—echoed through the chaos as he shifted mid-motion, trying to reach me.

Then—

Blackness.

They took me.

Chapter 20

POV: Rowan

She is gone.

Not just missing.

Gone.

And I felt it like a hole torn in the center of me—clean and brutal and final. Like someone had cut the air out of my lungs, scooped out something vital and left me hollow.

Lyra is gone.

The princess is gone.

The witches vanished like smoke, leaving only chaos in their wake. My soldiers lay injured, stunned, the earth scorched where spells had landed. The scrolls, the journals, all the proof we found with Gregory—still there, scattered like bones in the dirt. Like they didn’t matter.

And they didn’t.

Not to me.

Not anymore.

Because she was all that mattered. And she’s gone.

I stood there, naked from the shift, hands shaking, chest heaving, still tasting the blood from the fight in the back of my throat. I didn’t remember falling to my knees, but I was on them now. My wolf still howling inside me—furious and wild and empty.

Fuck.

The first time I saw her, I was just a boy.

My father sat me down one night, his voice thick with that rare kind of reverence. He told me the stories were real. That the Sleeping Princess of Valen was not just legend. She was real—sealed away in a forgotten wing of the keep. The last remnant of a line drowned in blood and shadow. My duty, one day, would be to guard her. Protect her.

But no one really cared. Not back then. They treated her like a relic—an artifact sealed in time. A symbol. A secret.

But when I saw her… really saw her?

My entire world shifted.

She wasn’t a relic. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on. Golden hair fanned across a dusty pillow, lips parted like she was still whispering something from another century. Even asleep, she was power. Grace. A legend wrapped in flesh.

And I… fuck, I was just a kid with too much curiosity and too many dreams. But from that day on, I never forgot her. I built the sarcophagus myself when I became Alpha. Marble and glass. I wanted to build a temple, make people remember her. Celebrate her legacy, her sacrifice.

But she woke before I could.

She walked into my life like a blade—fury and fire and heartbreak. And that first moment, when she stormed through my home and accused me of stealing her crown, I should’ve been angry.

But all I could think was: She’s real. She’s here. And she’s everything.

She didn’t know what my family had done to save the kingdom she left behind. How we’d clawed it from ruin. Starvation. War. How my grandfather bled for it. How my father sacrificed everything to keep it safe. And how I—

How I worshipped the idea of her.

I thought it was respect. Nostalgia. A boyhood reverence for something untouchable.

Until I saw her train.

Until I saw her fight.

Until she pinned me to the mat and told me I was wrong.

Then it wasn’t just admiration. It was want.

Need.

She awakened something in me—more than lust. More than legacy.

I didn’t just want to kiss her.

I wanted to take her. Claim her. Fuck her until she forgot every century she lost.

And she wanted it too.

I saw it in the way her breath caught when I touched her. In the way she kissed me like she hated herself for needing me. I felt her wolf waking for me. Only me.

And then the first time we made love—Goddess, it undid me. It wasn’t just sex. It was like something ancient took root in my soul.

She was mine.

The princess. The Alpha. The woman.

And I, the Alpha with no mate, the leader who had sworn to never let emotions compromise his command—I was fucking hers.

For the first time in my life, I let myself believe in fate. I let myself imagine a world where I could love her openly. Where she’d wear my mark, rule beside me, rebuild what had been stolen from her.

I wanted to fight her battles. Tear down every last traitor who betrayed her. Hunt the witches who cursed her and burn their fucking covens to ash.

But now she’s gone.

They took her from me. From us. And I will tear this world apart to get her back.

No Council. No laws. No mercy.

They’ve made the worst mistake of their lives.

Because I will burn their bloodline down to the bones if they so much as touched her.

And I swear to the Goddess herself—

I will bring Lyra home.

I slammed the war room doors open so hard they cracked against the stone.

Every pair of eyes turned to me.

My Beta started to speak—something clipped and cautious—but I raised a hand and the silence snapped into place like a blade sheathed. I could still feel her. Lyra. In my blood, my bones. That empty feeling carving me out from the inside. Like she’d been torn from my ribcage and I was walking around half-alive.

But I was done grieving.

Now I was going to hunt.

I dropped the ancient scrolls and leather-bound books onto the central table. They hit with a dusty thud and a storm of centuries spilled across the surface—ink and secrets and blood.

“Scan everything,” I barked at my tech chief. “Translate it. Cross-reference it. Use every archive, every database, every surveillance log we’ve ever archived. Find everyone who was ever tied to Evans Calder or the witch alliances. I want the names of every Council member who touched this conspiracy. I want to know where they eat, sleep, shit. Find the cracks. And when you do, we gut the rot.”

They scattered. Good.

“I want Menor,” I growled, turning to my guards. “Alive.”

“He’s protected by—”

“I don’t care who’s protecting him.” My voice dropped an octave. “I don’t care if he’s wrapped in enchantments or pissing behind a ring of runes. Rip him from his fucking bed and bring him to me. Tell his allies he’s being honored. Tell them whatever lie you need to, just get him in my goddamn hands.”

I moved to the map wall, where a massive digital display blinked with pack borders and witch territories. My hand hovered over the red-lit section—the one Lyra told me used to belong to the Valen Kingdom. Her kingdom.

Their bloodline stole it.

And now they had her.

A fresh kind of fury boiled beneath my ribs, sharp and white-hot. It didn’t matter how long this had been in motion. It didn’t matter how ancient the betrayal was. The witches had woken the wrong goddamn Alpha.

I turned to my magic unit. Two dozen mages, sorcerers, and gifted wolves stood tense, waiting.

“We’ve been infiltrated,” I said, quiet but deadly. “At least one of you is not who you claim to be.”

They started to shift, eyes flickering, hearts racing. Good. Let them sweat.

“Tonight, we run a sweep. Full energy audit. Every magical signature verified. Every lineage traced. Anyone who flinches under scrutiny gets chained.”

I saw the flash of panic in one of the younger witches.

There it is.

Got you.

“My wolves will set the trap. You’ll walk into it willingly. If you don’t… well.” I smiled, sharp and empty. “That’s an admission.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the fire building in my chest. My wolf clawed beneath the surface. Not for blood.

For her.

“I’ll question Menor myself,” I muttered, turning away.

“Alpha—”

“No one else touches him.” My voice dropped again, low and lethal. “He knew. He played the game. He stood beside me all this time and watched her suffer. And now—he answers to me.”

I left them scrambling, shouting orders behind me. The gears were turning. The trap was set. Menor would be in my hands before midnight.

And when he was—

He’d talk.

Because I was done playing the nice, modern Alpha.

I was done pretending diplomacy would save us.

They took my mate.

They took my fucking heart.

Now I would tear the world down piece by piece until I got her back.

Even if I had to become the monster they feared.

The room was cold.

Not because of the temperature.

Because of the silence.

Menor sat chained to the iron chair bolted into the concrete floor. The room was spelled, reinforced, and sealed with wolfsbane and binding runes. No one could hear his screams down here. No one would care even if they could.

I stared at him for a long time.

Let him feel the weight of it. Of me.

He shifted, fingers trembling. I saw the sweat bead at his brow. I saw the fear in his eyes. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

“You lied to me,” I said, voice low. “You advised me. Dined with me. Fought beside me.”

He didn’t answer.

I stepped forward, slow, controlled. “And all the while you were protecting the people who took her family. Who cursed her. Who just took her again.”

Still nothing. That silence was the last dignity he’d be allowed.

“I’m going to ask once,” I said. “And if you don’t answer, I will peel every fucking secret from your bones.”

He smiled. A flicker. Mocking. Wrong move.

I punched him. Once. Hard. His head snapped back, blood spattering the floor.

“I trusted you, Menor,” I whispered. “I would’ve given you my life in battle. And all this time, you were working against me. Against her.”

He spit blood at my boots. “You were never supposed to fall for her.”

That did it.

I slammed him back against the chair, claws half-shifted, voice shaking with rage. “She’s mine. And you’re going to tell me where she is. Or I’ll make you beg me to end it.”

Then the real work began.

I didn’t enjoy it—not the pain, not the blood—but I didn’t flinch from it either. This wasn’t vengeance. It was justice. For Lyra. For her parents. For the wolves who died without ever knowing the truth.

The first hour, he gave me nothing.

The second, he screamed names.

Three members of the current Council.

Witches embedded in the eastern province.

Secret meetings held in the woods beyond the Black Hollow, masked as trade exchanges.

I kept going. Gave him time to breathe. Just enough to feel the fear rising again.

The third hour… he cracked.

“They kept her… in the ruins of the Moonroot Temple,” he gasped. “The old one. Where her line used to pray. They’ve taken it. Twisted it. They want to break her there. Drain her.” My heart stopped.