"Your eyes," Kaelen whispered, his voice dangerously low, "remind me of a dead person."
Lyra's hand jolted. The heavy iron shears slipped. The sharp blade sliced a deep, jagged line straight across the back of her left hand.
Warm blood welled up instantly.
She yanked her hand back and shoved the bleeding knuckles deep into the oversized sleeve of her coarse dress, squeezing her fist tight, trapping the blood against her own palm.
"Keep your gaze on the fabric," Kaelen ordered. He stepped back. The heat of his chest vanished, replaced entirely by the freezing draft from the unsealed window.
"Yes, Alpha," Lyra said, staring straight ahead at the shimmering silver material.
"If you ruin Selene's gown, I will take your hands." His heavy boots turned toward the exit. He walked out, pulling the heavy iron door shut. The lock clicked into place.
Lyra exhaled a shaky breath. She pulled her injured hand from her sleeve. A steady stream of red ran down her wrist. She grabbed a scrap of discarded linen from the floor, wrapped it tight around her knuckles, and knotted it with her teeth.
She dragged the heavy spool of silk toward the cast-iron sewing machine in the corner. She fed the edge of the material under the sharp needle. Her foot pressed the cold iron pedal. The machine clattered to life, the rhythmic metallic thud echoing against the stone walls. She lowered her head and pedaled faster. The two tiny pulses in her womb needed her to survive the night.
Four hours after the lock clicked into place, the oil lamp flickered low.
A heavy thud echoed from the corridor. The iron lock rattled violently, then gave with a sharp metallic snap. The door kicked open.
A guard stumbled into the room. He reeked of cheap ale and stale sweat. Not one of Kaelen's elite enforcers—just a low-ranking border patroller with a slack grin.
"Well, well," the guard slurred, kicking the door shut behind him. "The Alpha locked a little stray up here all alone."
Lyra stopped pedaling. She stood up, keeping the wide worktable between them. "Get out. The Alpha ordered me to complete this gown by morning."
"The Alpha is busy celebrating with his new Luna." He took a staggering step forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He won't care if I keep you company for a few hours."
"Leave immediately." Lyra gripped the edge of the table. "If I bleed on this silk, Kaelen will mount your head on a pike."
"Then we do it on the floor," the guard laughed.
He lunged across the room.
Lyra dodged left, but his massive hand caught the collar of her coarse dress. He yanked her forward with brutal force. She crashed chest-first onto the worktable. The spool of silver thread rolled off the edge and clattered onto the stone floor.
He pressed his heavy weight against her back, pinning her flat. "Stop fighting."
He tore at her collar. The cheap fabric ripped down the center.
"Get off me!" Lyra yelled. She thrashed her legs backward, catching his shins.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her face against the table. "Quiet, stray."
Her right hand blindly searched the smooth wood. Her fingers brushed cold, heavy metal.
The iron shears.
She gripped the handles tight.
Lyra twisted her upper body and drove the sharp blades straight down into the guard's thick thigh.
The guard roared in agony. He ripped the shears from his leg and swung his arm in a wild arc. The back of his massive hand struck Lyra's jaw like a stone hammer, lifting her entirely off her feet.
She flew backward across the room.
Her lower abdomen slammed directly into the sharp, unyielding corner of the oak table.
A sickening impact. Then silence for one terrible second.
Lyra hit the stone floor. White-hot agony exploded in her womb. She curled into a tight ball, wrapping both arms around her stomach.
"My pups," she gasped. Black spots swarmed the edges of her vision.
The guard limped toward her, blood pouring down his leg, face twisted in absolute rage. "I'll kill you, you worthless—"
The heavy wooden door did not just open.
It exploded inward.
Splinters of thick oak rained across the stone floor. A towering figure filled the doorway. Kaelen stood there, his chest heaving violently, his human skin split along his forearms to reveal patches of coarse black fur. Long, curved claws extended from his fingertips, gouging deep lines into the stone doorframe.
His golden eyes were gone. In their place: a bloodthirsty, glowing crimson.
He crossed the room. He did not walk. He simply ceased to exist in the doorway and reappeared directly in front of the guard.
"Alpha," the guard choked out, stumbling backward.
Kaelen's massive hand clamped around the man's throat. His claws pierced the cheap leather armor, drawing immediate beads of dark blood. He lifted the guard entirely off the ground.
"Explain why you are in the eastern tower," Kaelen said, his voice a low, vibrating growl that rattled the remaining glass in the window frame. "No one enters this floor without my direct command."
The guard kicked uselessly against the air. "The stray—she called me in—she begged for meat from the kitchens—she tore her own clothes—" He pointed a shaking finger at Lyra on the floor. "She offered a trade."
"She called you in through a locked iron door."
"Yes! Yes, Alpha, she—"
"You abandoned your post at the southern gate," Kaelen said, "for a stray."
"Please—"
"You bled on my floor."
Kaelen closed his five fingers.
A sharp, wet crack echoed through the circular room. The sound of snapping bone. The guard's eyes rolled backward. His arms dropped limply to his sides.
Kaelen opened his hand. The massive body dropped like a stone, landing mere inches from Lyra's boots. Dead weight hit the floorboards with a dull, sickening thud.
Lyra stayed on the ground. She pulled her knees tighter against her chest, both arms wrapped around her lower abdomen. She focused entirely on the faint, hidden thrum deep inside her womb, pressing through the terror to find those two tiny pulses.
Still there.
Still there.
She did not look at the corpse. She did not look at the Alpha.
Kaelen stood over her. The crimson glow faded from his eyes, returning to their piercing gold. The black fur retreated into his skin. He stared at the broken body at his feet, then shifted his gaze to the shivering woman on the floor.
"Get up," Kaelen commanded.
Lyra didn't move. Her muscles had locked in a desperate bid to protect her stomach.
Kaelen stared down at her torn collar, the cheap fabric hanging in tatters. The pale skin of her shoulder was marked with red fingerprints from the guard's attack. Something shifted in his jaw.
He ripped his heavy wool trench coat off his shoulders.
He threw it.
The thick fabric struck Lyra, covering her exposed skin. The coat radiated immense heat, carrying the overwhelming scent of pine and rain. The scent from the dark cabin. The scent of her mate.
Lyra flinched at the impact. She grabbed the lapels, pulling the wool tight against her throat. The lingering warmth of his body seeped into her freezing blood. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Kaelen crouched. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jawline, and forced her to look up from the bloody floor.
"Do you think I am blind to your tricks?" he demanded.
Lyra stared into his golden eyes. She tasted copper on her tongue.
"You lure a patroller up here," Kaelen sneered, his grip tightening. "You try to whore yourself for a meal. You disgust me."
Lyra kept her mouth shut. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a defense.
"You are a scullery maid. You belong in the dirt." He shoved her face away. "But if you spread your legs for my men and bleed all over Selene's silk, I will string you up by your ankles."
Lyra hit the stone floor again. Her bruised cheek stung against the cold rock.
"Keep your filthy habits away from the Luna's gown. Do you understand me?"
Lyra did not scream. She did not cry.
She sat up. She gathered the oversized coat around her shivering frame. She crawled toward the scattered supplies near the cast-iron sewing machine. Her fingers found the spool of silver thread. Then a sharp steel needle.
"Answer me," Kaelen commanded, taking a step closer.
Lyra threaded the needle. Her hands shook, but she forced the silver tip through the eye. She lifted the torn edge of her coarse collar.
"Do you hear me?" He kicked the wooden leg of the worktable. The heavy oak shuddered. "I asked you a question."
She pierced the cheap fabric and pulled the thread tight. She stitched her own clothes closed. In, out, pull. In, out, pull. It kept her mind from shattering. It kept her from screaming the truth at him.
"I told you to answer me," Kaelen growled. He grabbed her wrist, stopping the needle mid-air. "Look at me when I speak to you."
Lyra looked at his hand wrapped around her wrist. Then she looked up into his eyes. Her expression was entirely hollow.
Kaelen's grip faltered. Something moved across his face—not recognition, not exactly, but a fracture in his certainty. He let go of her wrist.
Lyra pushed the needle through the fabric a second time. Silence filled the cold tower room, broken only by the soft scrape of steel against linen.
"You test my patience," Kaelen warned. He loomed over her, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light of the oil lamp.
Lyra bit the thread. She snapped the silver string with her teeth and tied a small knot. She smoothed the mended collar. Her face was entirely blank.
Kaelen stared at her. His jaw clenched hard. A muscle ticked beneath his cheek. This was not the reaction of a terrified rogue. This was absolute, infuriating defiance.
"Fine. Freeze in your silence," Kaelen ordered. He kicked the dead guard's boot out of his way. "Clean up this mess. Finish the hem by dawn."
He turned his back on her. His heavy leather soles struck the stone floor as he walked out of the ruined doorway.
Out in the corridor, Kaelen took three strides. The freezing wind whipped through the open stone arches.
He stopped.
His hand shot up, grabbing the center of his chest. A sharp, tearing sensation ripped through his sternum—not the guard's blow, not the cold, something older and deeper, like a rope pulled taut from somewhere he couldn't name or reach. He let out a harsh, suffocating gasp. His fingers dug into his own shirt, tearing the buttons loose.
A violent tremor wracked his massive frame. He staggered sideways. His shoulder slammed against the cold stone wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He dropped heavily onto one knee, his head bowing as a blinding pain fractured across his skull.
Behind him, through the locked iron door, the rhythmic clatter of the sewing machine resumed.
Slow. Steady. Relentless.
As if nothing in the world could stop her.
