With one swift movement, he has me tightly in his arms, his hand clamped over my mouth. I try to cry out again, but the sound comes out muffled, swallowed by his palm.

  We both still.

  He listens.

  The cave holds its breath.

  No answering footsteps. No voices. No sudden rush of bodies bursting through the entrance. Only the low crackle of the fire and the steady, controlled rhythm of his breathing.

  His attention shifts back to me.

  His grip does not loosen, but the emotion in his face is not anger. It is not cruelty. It is worry. And beneath that, something that looks dangerously close to sadness.

  I meet his gaze without flinching.

  I will not be ashamed of trying to escape.

  In this moment, I see him more clearly than I ever have before. The hard edges he presents to the world are there, but behind them are eyes that do not match the stories told about him. Green. Deep. Alive. When the firelight catches them, flecks of gold shimmer like embers buried beneath ash.

  He does not release me. Instead, he holds my stare, unyielding.

  Heat builds between us, slow and insistent, crawling up my spine and pooling low in my belly. My wolf stirs, restless and needy, pawing at the edges of my mind like a caged thing begging to be let loose.

  I fight her.

  Kellan is our mate.

  Kellan is the one we love.

  But my wolf does not respond to logic.

  She responds to scent.

  And his scent is dangerous. Wild. Untamed. It wraps around my senses like smoke and fire and earth after rain. It sinks into me, heavy and intoxicating, and my breath stutters before I can stop it.

  A soft, involuntary whimper slips from my throat.

  His eyes darken.

  His grip loosens. His hand drops away from my mouth, though he does not step back. We are still far too close, our bodies nearly touching, breath mingling in the narrow space between us.

  “I’m…” He stops himself. Swallows. “I’m sorry.”

  His voice is low, strained. Controlled only by force of will.

  His gaze flicks to my lips.

  Desire flashes across his features, raw and unguarded. He leans in slowly, deliberately, giving me time. Giving me a choice.

  I should pull away.

  I could pull away.

  I don’t.

  A low growl rips from his chest, sudden and violent. He tears himself back as if burned and turns away without another word, crossing the cave in long strides until he reaches the table and the open book resting there.

  My wolf is furious.

  Disappointed.

  Confused.

  I don’t understand why she wants him so badly. What it is about him that draws her like gravity. I wish she would explain herself, because the ache twisting in my chest makes no sense, and I hate not knowing why.

  I drop back onto the bed, glaring at his broad back while he devours the pages of that book like they hold the key to the universe.

  “You know,” I say sharply, breaking the silence, “I do have certain basic needs. Like washing. And other hygienic necessities.”

  He looks up, though pointedly not at me.

  Then he stands.

  Without a word, he crosses the cave and reaches for my wrists. My muscles tense, ready to fight, but instead of tightening the chains, he removes one with a quiet click. Then he steps back and returns to his book as if nothing monumental has just happened.

  I blink.

  “How is this supposed to help?” I mutter.

  I tug experimentally on the remaining chain.

  It slides.

  Not freely, but far more than before. Enough to stand. Enough to move.

  Enough to reach deeper into the cave.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I glance at Azrael. He does not stop me. His expression remains unreadable, though there is something almost mischievous flickering behind his eyes.

  So I follow the chain.

  The tunnel curves subtly, concealing what lies beyond. Warmth brushes my skin before I even step inside, and when I do, my breath catches.

  A cavernous hot spring glows softly in the dim light. Steam rises in lazy spirals, curling toward the ceiling. Candles line the stone edge, their wax pooled thick at the bases. They must have been burning for hours.

  Above, a narrow opening in the cliff allows a muted shaft of daylight to spill in, illuminating drifting specks of dust like stars suspended in air.

  In one corner, a small stone facility clearly meant for bodily needs sits discreetly out of the way. Clean. Thoughtful.

  Prepared.

  My jaw tightens.

  I do not want to appreciate this.

  I am a prisoner. I should feel violated. Furious. Indignant.

  And yet my body aches for warmth. For relief.

  I begin to undress, folding my clothes neatly beside the water without quite knowing why. When my toes break the surface, heat floods me instantly, and I sink down inch by inch until the water reaches my shoulders.

  A sigh escapes me before I can stop it.

  I close my eyes, resting my head against the smooth stone edge, my fingers tracing absent patterns along its surface.

  Then they stop.

  The stone is not smooth.

  It is carved.

  I lift myself enough to see.

  Old markings cover the wall. Wolves with elongated, elegant forms. Some crowned in gold. Some ringed by crescent moons. One stands alone, massive, marked with swirling lines that mirror the moonlit markings etched across Azrael’s skin.

  Across from it stands a smaller she-wolf.

  White.

  Radiant.

  Beneath her paws, vines curl outward, touching every other figure. Above her head, a broken crescent moon hangs suspended.

  Beneath them, faint lines of script. Too worn to read.

  But I feel them.

  A shiver races down my spine.

  I do not know what I am looking at, but my soul recognizes it long before my mind does. A curse.

  I lean back too quickly.

  My foot slips.

  The slick stone betrays me, and panic flares as my balance vanishes. My head strikes the edge of the pool with a sharp crack, pain exploding across my skull as I slip beneath the surface.

  Water rushes into my ears.

  Darkness presses in.

  No. Not now.

  I fight to surface, but my limbs feel heavy, sluggish, as if the water itself is pulling me down. The warmth that once soothed now suffocates. My lungs burn. My vision dims.

  Strong arms seize me.

  I am hauled upward in one powerful motion, water cascading off my skin as I gasp violently for air. Lights burst behind my eyes as I cling weakly to the solid warmth anchoring me.

  “Lirian.” His voice cuts through the haze, sharp and urgent. “Stay with me.”

  That voice.

  The one from my dreams. From the quiet corners of my mind. Always there. Watching. Waiting.

  Calling my name.

  I know that voice.

  I try to answer, but the words tangle on my tongue. The world tilts again, consciousness dragging me down like an undertow.

  “No,” he growls, tightening his hold. “You don’t get to leave just yet.”

  He lowers us carefully to the stone edge, one arm braced behind my back, the other cradling my skull with surprising gentleness.

  “Breathe,” he murmurs. “In. Slow.”

  I focus on the sound of his voice, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. My lungs obey reluctantly, pulling in shallow breaths until the spinning eases.

  My wolf stirs.

  Not panicked.

  Comforted.

  The realization unsettles me more than the fall.

  “I’ve got you,” he says quietly, more to himself than to me. “You’re not leaving. Not like this.”

  I blink, forcing my eyes open. He is close. Too close. His jaw clenched, green eyes blazing with something raw and barely restrained. Relief. Anger. Fear. All tangled together.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper, though my head throbs. “You can let go.”

  He doesn’t immediately release me. His gaze searches my face, as if confirming I am real, present, breathing.

  Only then does he ease back, giving me space without turning away completely.

  My attention drifts.

  A folded robe rests nearby. Soft. Clean. Waiting.

  Beside it lies a small cluster of white moonflowers, their petals faintly luminous.

  A gift.

  For me.

  My throat tightens.

  Next to them rests another robe. Darker. Heavier.

  His.

  Without thinking, I lift it and inhale.

  Cedar. Citrus. Earth.

  Wild. Familiar.

  My chest aches.

  I lower it quickly, embarrassed by a reaction I could not control.

  Then I see it.

  Partially hidden beneath the robe is a strip of faded fabric, frayed at the edges.

  My ribbon.

  My breath catches as I lift it, fingers trembling. I wore it every day as a child. Until the day at the waterfall. Until the bear. Until it vanished and I thought it lost forever.

  “How…” I whisper. “Where did you get this?”

  Stone shifts softly behind me.

  I turn.

  Azrael stands there, watching, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.

  He does not answer.

  He does not need to.

  The truth presses into me, heavy and undeniable.

  Somehow, impossibly…

  He was there even back then.