The wind howled through the trees, carrying the scent of rain and something darker—blood, perhaps, or fury barely restrained. Lyra Vale stood at the edge of the forest, fingers clenched around the hilt of her dagger, its silver blade glinting under the moon. Her pulse thudded like war drums, but she refused to take a step back.
"Are you going to stare at the trees all night, or do you plan to run like the rest of your pack?" The voice was deep, laced with mockery—and unmistakably male.
Lyra's jaw tightened. She turned slowly, locking eyes with the last person she wanted to see. Kael Thorne. Alpha of the Bloodfang Pack. Her sworn enemy.
He emerged from the shadows like a nightmare made flesh—tall, broad-shouldered, every inch of him carved from tension and barely leashed power. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes glowing amber in the low light, the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips.
"You're trespassing," Lyra said coldly.
"And you're out here alone," he replied, stepping closer. "That's a dangerous choice, little Vale."
"Don't call me that." Her grip tightened on her dagger. She hated how his voice slithered down her spine, how her wolf stirred beneath her skin at the mere sound of it. Not him. Anyone but him.
Kael's smirk widened, and he came to a stop just inches from her. "Still carrying that little blade? How cute."
"It cuts just fine. Want to test it?"
He leaned in, voice lowering to a whisper. "I'd rather test something else."
Lyra's heart skipped, traitorously. She hated him. She had to hate him. Their packs had been enemies for generations, and he had only made it worse—raids, challenges, the death of her cousin two years ago, all under his command. But now the Blood Moon was rising, and with it came the ancient rite neither of them could escape.
Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
"I came to warn you," Kael said, his tone suddenly serious. "Your Alpha is planning something stupid. If he crosses the border again, there will be no mercy."
"You're one to talk of mercy," she snapped. "Your wolves tore apart half our patrol last winter."
"They were ambushed."
"They were defending our land."
"They were ordered by fools."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, crackling with heat. Lyra could feel the power rolling off him now—Alpha strength, undeniable. Her own magic, inherited from her witchblood grandmother, flared in response. Not as strong, not as dominant, but laced with a different kind of danger.
"I don't need your warnings," she said, stepping back.
"You do if you want to survive what's coming." Kael's voice dropped, more growl than speech. "The High Council is calling a summit. War is on the horizon. And when it breaks—" His eyes locked with hers, golden and unblinking. "You'll need me."
"I'd rather die."
"Don't tempt me."
Lightning split the sky above them, thunder cracking a heartbeat later. The scent of ozone mingled with his musk, dark and wild and impossible to ignore. Lyra took another step back, but Kael caught her wrist, not rough but firm.
"I don't want this either," he said quietly. "But the bond is forming. You feel it. Don't lie."
She did. Goddess help her, she felt it.
It had started two nights ago—dreams she couldn't shake, heat that lingered under her skin, an ache that pulsed when he was near. Lyra had tried to deny it, to drown it in training and patrols, but now with his touch sparking fire through her veins, she couldn't run from it anymore.
"You think a bond changes everything?" she whispered. "That it erases what you've done?"
"No," he said. "But it means we're not enemies anymore."
She stared at him, breath catching. "We will always be enemies."
Kael's gaze darkened. "Then why don't you pull away?"
Lyra hesitated—and that hesitation was her downfall.
His hand slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped, but her body betrayed her, melting into his heat. Their lips hovered a breath apart, the forest spinning around them in shadows and silver light.
"This is madness," she said, voice trembling.
He pressed his forehead to hers. "Maybe. But it's our madness."
The first raindrops fell, cool against her flushed skin, but neither of them moved. Something ancient thrummed between them, a tether spun by fate, thickening with each heartbeat.
And Lyra knew, even as she clenched her fists and told herself she'd never forgive him—she was already his.
Whether she wanted to be or not.