The forest held its breath.
A hush swept through the midnight canopy as Kael stalked forward, every line of his body tight, controlled—yet carrying the unmistakable tremor of a storm barely restrained. The chill wind rippled around him, catching on the raw tension rolling off his frame. Behind him, Lyria followed, her steps quiet but her pulse loud enough that even the night seemed to shiver with it.
"Kael," she murmured, voice low, the syllable a quiet plea.
He didn't stop.
Branches cracked under his boots, sharp and unforgiving. His wolf pressed beneath his skin, pacing, snarling, demanding—mine, mine, mine—but Kael kept it caged with iron will. Because giving in meant letting everything unravel. Because touching her now, after what she'd just confessed, would be a surrender he couldn't come back from.
But gods, every breath she took dragged him closer to the edge.
