The crackling fire is the first thing I hear as I stir from sleep.

  I do not remember when or how I fell asleep, only that whatever comfort I had been seeking was a poor substitute for curling beneath warm sheets in my own bed. As my vision clears and the stone ceiling comes into focus above me, a heavy weight settles on my chest.

  Reality crashes back in.

  I am trapped. Powerless. Alone. Confused.

  The urge to pull the blankets over my head and disappear back into sleep is almost overwhelming. If not for the sharp growl of my stomach, loud and traitorous, I might have given in. I have not eaten since yesterday, and my body is done pretending otherwise.

  Azrael is asleep on the floor near the fire, his back propped against the cave wall. His boots are set neatly beside the hearth. His shirt hangs over the wooden stump that serves as a chair. Firelight dances across his bare chest as it rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm.

  He looks peaceful.

  A strand of dark hair has fallen across his face, softening the sharp angles I have come to associate with danger. Like this, stripped of menace and rage, he is almost disarming.

  My gaze drifts to the small table beside the bed.

  A knife rests there.

  My pulse spikes.

  If I could reach it quietly enough, maybe I could pry the lock open. No. Too loud. Threaten him instead. Force him to unlock the chain.

  No. He would overpower me in seconds. Take the knife. Possibly use it on me if I pushed too far.

  There is only one option left.

  I would have to kill him.

  The thought makes my stomach twist. Cut his throat while he sleeps. End it quickly. He kidnapped me. This would be self-defense. Protection. A way back to my family. To Kellan.

  I slide out from beneath the covers and place my feet softly on the cold stone floor.

  The chain clinks.

  I freeze.

  Azrael shifts slightly, but his eyes remain closed. I hold my breath, waiting. Seconds stretch. Nothing happens.

  Moving slowly again, I edge toward the table. The chain limits my steps, forcing me to move carefully, but the knife is only a few feet away now.

  I keep my eyes locked on him as I reach for the blade.

  No movement.

  No sign he is waking.

  I wrap my fingers around the handle.

  This is it.

  I am about to kill someone.

  The realization hits hard. Sharp. Final.

  Can I do this. Become a murderer.

  Before I can decide, he stirs.

  I snatch the knife and lunge.

  In one swift motion, he has me pinned to the ground, his weight pressing me into the stone. My hand is still raised, the blade pressed against his throat.

  He does not struggle.

  He does not panic.

  “Do it,” he says calmly. “Cut it.”

  My hand trembles. My breath stutters in my chest. I try to force myself to move, to slide the blade across his skin.

  This is for the best, I tell myself. To protect Kellan. To protect my family. To escape whatever twisted plan he has in motion.

  My resolve falters.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  No one would miss him, my mind whispers. Maybe this would even be a mercy.

  “You’re right,” he says quietly, his expression unreadable. “No one would miss me.”

  My breath catches.

  Had I said that out loud.

  My mouth opens, but no words come.

  “Do it,” he repeats, more insistent this time. He leans closer, pressing his throat more firmly against the blade.

  Something about his eyes breaks me.

  I should hate him. Fear him. Be repulsed by him. Instead, a strange ache fills my chest. Pity. Understanding. An unexpected longing to draw closer, to ease the loneliness I suddenly see reflected back at me.

  Are these my feelings, or my wolf’s.

  I pull the knife away, shame flooding through me as I drop my gaze.

  He releases me and rises smoothly to his feet, brushing his hair back from his face. Sweat beads along the hard lines of his body, catching the firelight as it slides down his skin.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, as if nothing happened.

  He extends a hand.

  Confused and dazed, I take it.

  He pulls me up easily, and I nearly collide with him, the heat of his body stealing my breath.

  He does not let go of my hand right away.

  The warmth of his skin seeps into mine, grounding and unsettling all at once. I can feel the calloused roughness of his palm, the strength in his grip, steady but restrained. Like he is holding himself back as much as he is holding me.

  “I’ll make something,” he says, already turning toward the fire.

  Just like that, the moment fractures.

  I sit on the edge of the bed while he moves around the cave, the quiet domesticity of it all leaving me disoriented. The crackle of the fire. The scent of herbs and meat warming over the flame. The soft clink of a bowl being set down.

  It feels wrong how normal it feels.

  When he hands me the food, his fingers brush mine briefly. Just a touch. Barely there. Yet my wolf stirs at the contact, pleased and alert, as if she has been waiting for that exact moment.

  I hate her for it.

  I eat slowly, watching him from beneath my lashes. He does not sit close. Does not crowd me. He keeps his distance with an almost painful precision, as though proximity itself is dangerous.

  “Why did you let me try to kill you?” I ask quietly.

  His shoulders tense.

  “Because I wanted you to choose,” he answers after a moment.

  “Choose what?”

  “Who you are.”

  The words settle between us, heavy and unresolved.

  Something in my chest tightens. Was that a test? Before I can stop myself, I stand and step closer. He looks up at me, surprise flickering across his face before he masks it.

  “I don’t know who I am anymore,” I say softly. “If what you said was true, then everything I believed feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.”

  He does not move. Does not reach for me.

  But my wolf does.

  She surges forward inside me, no longer content to pace or whisper. She presses, claws scraping against my ribs, my spine, my skin. A low thrum builds in my chest, deep and aching, as if something ancient has been awakened and now refuses to be ignored.

  Not him, I tell her. Not him. We cannot have him.

  She does not listen.

  My limbs feel heavy, my head still fogged from the fall, my body weak from hunger and fear and too many truths laid bare. I am so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of being afraid. Tired of holding myself together when everything inside me is unraveling.

  He is here.

  He is solid. Real. Grounded.

  My wolf presses harder, flooding my senses with his scent, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing. She wants safety. She wants certainty. She wants him.

  I stagger slightly, the room tilting.

  “Lirian,” he says quietly, stepping forward at once, concern breaking through his restraint.

  That does it.

  The last of my resolve crumbles. I let myself move closer, not because I am brave, but because I am spent. Because fighting her feels impossible now. Because for the first time since the full moon rose, I want the noise inside me to stop.

  My hand lifts before I can think better of it. I rest it against his chest, feeling the heat of him beneath my palm. Solid. Alive. Real.

  His breath catches.

  This is wrong. I know it is. But my wolf hums in satisfaction, curling closer to the surface, finally appeased.

  For one heartbeat, he does not pull away.

  For one terrible, hopeful moment, I think he might let it happen.

  Then his hands come up, not to hold me, but to still me. Firm. Gentle. Unyielding.

  “No,” he says softly, but there is iron beneath it. “Not like this.”

  Confusion stings sharper than rejection. “What? Why?” I whisper.

  His eyes search my face, dark and conflicted. “Because this isn’t you choosing,” he says. “This is your wolf reaching for something familiar, something strong, because you’re hurting.”

  My throat tightens.

  “I won’t take what you give out of exhaustion,” he continues. “Or fear. Or instinct.”

  His hands fall away, even though I can feel the effort it costs him.

  “When you come to me,” he says quietly, “it has to be because you choose me. Not because she does.”

  The ache that follows is deep and unfamiliar. Not desire. Not anger.

  Loss.

  He steps back, putting distance between us that feels far too wide for the size of the cave.

  “And until then,” he adds, voice low, “I will not be another man influencing your fate.”

  My wolf snarls, furious and wounded.

  I sink back onto the edge of the bed, trembling, the weight of his restraint settling heavily in my chest.

  For the first time, I wonder which is more dangerous.

  The man who took me.

  Or the part of me that wants him anyway.