The truce had exactly fourteen hours to breathe before Zara decided to stress-test it.
"Come on," Zara said, bracing both hands on the arms of Amara's chair and spinning her away from the tablet. "Field trip."
Amara clutched the stylus like a lifeline. "I'm literally mid-panel."
"Exactly," Zara said. "You've been mid-panel since breakfast. Your eyeballs are starting to pixelate. Time to see real wolves instead of the meme versions in your head."
"I see real wolves every time I open my DMs," Amara muttered. "They all have opinions about Lucian's jawline."
Zara grinned. "Prepare to have those opinions get louder."
"That's a terrifying sentence."
Zara only tugged harder. "Trust me."
"I have trust issues," Amara said, but she let herself be dragged anyway.
The uneasy truce with Lucian had turned the air in the penthouse… different. Not lighter; there was still a war outside and a destiny humming under her skin. But less suffocating. Like they'd opened a window in one room, at least.
She'd slept that night in fits: weird, fragmented dreams of color-coded battle plans and wolves wearing office lanyards. Woke up to a shared calendar invite titled EPISODE / RISK SYNC – 16:00 and wanted to both laugh and scream.
Now it was just after two. Plenty of time for Zara to cause problems.
"Where are we going?" Amara asked as they headed down a corridor she hadn't explored yet. "If you say 'surprise' I'm turning around."
"Gym," Zara said. "Not the one you saw from the hallway. The real one."
"Oh good," Amara said. "The fake gym was already haunting my thighs."
"You need to see this," Zara insisted, more serious now. "If you're going to draw our fights like battle plans, you should know what we actually look like in a fight. Not just your brain's anime filter."
"I don't draw anime," Amara protested. "I draw… stylized realistic wolves who happen to be extremely hot."
Zara side-eyed her. "You hear yourself, right?"
"Unfortunately," Amara sighed.
Zara led her through a discreet door that looked like it belonged to a broom closet. Inside was a short flight of stairs and a card reader. Zara tapped her badge; the panel flashed green, the lock thunked, and they stepped into another world.
The hidden gym wasn't polished like the public one. It was bigger, for one thing—a whole floor carved out and repurposed. The ceiling was high and exposed, beams and pipes painted matte black. The walls were padded in dark gray panels scuffed by claws and fists. The rubberized floor had faint rings marked on it, not standard gym lines but something older, more ritual.
The air was warm and thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and wolf.
Training noises hit all at once: the thud of bodies, the grunt of effort, the slap of bare feet, the low rasp of someone laughing a little too breathlessly.
Amara stopped just inside the doorway.
Her brain, professional storyteller that it was, tried to turn the scene into panels.
Her body, inconveniently, just reacted.
On the main mat, two men were circling each other. One was Lucian.
He was bare-chested, barefoot, wearing only black training pants that hung low on his hips. His skin gleamed lightly with sweat, picking up the overhead lights in sharp planes: shoulders, chest, the line of his spine.
He wasn't fully shifted. But he wasn't fully human either.
Fine dark hair dusted his arms and chest thicker than usual. His muscles looked… wrong, in a way that didn't show up in mirrors—too dense, too coiled, like there were extra layers under the ones she could see. His hands and feet were human-shaped but fractionally larger, fingers tipped with nails that were just a shade too thick, too dark.
And his eyes—
Gold, full and bright, catching every glint of light like coins at the bottom of a deep well.
Amara's pulse tripped over itself.
Zara snorted softly. "Told you," she said under her breath.
The man facing Lucian was leaner, all wiry muscle and old scars. Adrien. His hair was pulled back in a short tie, a bruise blooming along his ribs, smile crooked and sharp.
They moved.
It wasn't pretty.
It was brutal: a flurry of strikes and blocks that made Amara's comics look slow-motion. Lucian flowed from one movement to the next with terrifying economy. No wasted motion. No theatrics. Just clean, precise violence.
Adrien swept in low, aiming a kick at Lucian's knee. Lucian pivoted, almost lazy, catching Adrien's leg and using the momentum to flip him. Adrien hit the mat hard enough that Amara felt it in her own bones.
He bounced up a second later, laughing.
"Old man's slowing down," he taunted.
Lucian's lips curved. "You say that every time you're on the floor."
His voice was rougher, touched by the wolf. It thrummed through the air.
He didn't look like the man who color-coded meetings, or the one who stood in her studio making truce agreements over a tablet. He looked like something carved for war.
And he was in control.
Every time Adrien darted in with a half-shifted snarl—eyes flashing, teeth bared—Lucian matched him without overreaching. His transitions between human and wolf were seamless: a clawed swipe here, a human elbow there. He pulled back hits at the last possible second, turning what could have been bone-breaking into just bruising.
A couple of other wolves ringed the mat, watching. Some she recognized from the lobby, the hallways, the edges of her vision. Guards. Pack.
One of them—broad-shouldered, buzzcut, nose slightly crooked from an old break—glanced over and nodded at Zara, then at Amara.
"Hey, inkwitch," he called. "Welcome to the murder sandbox."
"Don't call it that," Zara said cheerfully. "We're trying to rebrand to 'dynamic conflict resolution space'."
Amara's mouth was dry.
She watched as Lucian let Adrien land a hit.
It took her a second to realize it wasn't an accident. Adrien's fist slammed into Lucian's ribs; Lucian grunted, absorbed it, stepped back instead of retaliating instantly.
Adrien froze, eyes narrowing. "Why'd you give me that?"
Lucian rolled his shoulder once like he was checking a hinge.
"Because you telegraphed the last three," he said. "Had to remind you what it feels like when they land."
"So your teaching method is 'be a punching bag'," Adrien said.
"Sometimes," Lucian replied. "Better you hit me here than get wrecked outside."
He said it like it was obvious; like his body was just another resource to be used.
Amara's fingers tightened on the railing in front of her.
Zara nudged her. "See?" she murmured. "That's why we don't let him do solo missions. He 'for the pack' himself into the ground."
Amara didn't answer.
Adrien shook out his hand, flexing it. "You're getting harder," he complained. "Like punching a tree."
"I could shift more," Lucian offered. "Then you'd be punching a truck."
"Pass," Adrien said, then moved in again.
They clashed, faster this time.
Lucian's partial shift deepened: hair thickening along his shoulders, teeth flashing sharper. Not full fur, not the full beast she'd only glimpsed in her mind's half-space, but enough to make her instincts scream predator.
He moved like a storm contained in a man-shaped bottle.
Every strike, every dodge, every pivot screamed discipline. Not just power. Power plus will. The difference between a bomb and a blade.
Claws slid out for a heartbeat to catch Adrien's ankle, then retracted before they could cut. Teeth snapped close enough to Adrien's throat to make her flinch, then diverted into a shoulder shove instead.
He was always holding back.
Amara realized, with a small, unnerving click, that this was probably still the training wheels version. The one safe enough for others to watch.
"This is half-puppy for him," Zara murmured, reading her face. "Full shift looks like a nightmare using steroids."
"Helpful," Amara whispered, feeling a little faint.
As she watched, Lucian ducked a wild swing, hooked his arm under Adrien's, and twisted. Adrien went down hard, breath exploding out of him. Lucian landed with a knee in his back and a hand on the back of his neck, pinning him, claws just barely grazing skin.
Adrien tapped the mat twice.
"Fine," he wheezed. "Alpha wins. As usual."
Lucian stayed where he was for one more heartbeat, making the hierarchy absolute, then released him and got to his feet in one smooth motion.
He turned his head, scanning the room like he always did after a fight, checking for threats beyond the obvious.
His gaze snagged on Zara.
And then on Amara.
For a second, the gym disappeared.
It was just the man and the wolf staring straight at her.
The bond reacted like someone had jerked on a wire. Heat shot through her chest, sharp and bright, not entirely pleasant, not even remotely ignorable.
Her pulse spiked so fast she heard it in her ears.
Fear, she told herself automatically. Adrenaline. Witnessing live violence does that. Totally normal.
Then his eyes softened. Not much—he was still half-shifted, blood up—but enough that the gold turned warmer, the predator sharpening into something almost… relieved.
Something in her lower belly tightened.
Okay. So not just fear.
She whipped her gaze away, cheeks heating.
The broad-shouldered guard nearby chuckled. "Somebody's bond is yelling," he muttered.
"Shut up, Dane," Zara said.
Lucian said nothing.
He walked toward them, unhurried, grabbing a towel off a rack as he went. The wolves around the mat drifted back, giving him space as naturally as planets orbiting a star.
He wiped his face and neck, movements economical. His chest was still heaving a little, a sheen of sweat making every line of muscle absurdly visible.
Amara stared very hard at a spot somewhere over his left shoulder.
"Good timing," he said to Zara. His voice was still rough around the edges, a hint of growl under the words. "We were about to rotate partners."
"You were about to break Adrien's arm," Zara said. "You need new toys."
"I prefer 'lieutenants'," Adrien called from the mat, still on his back. "And I'm fine."
"You're wheezing," Zara pointed out.
"That's just my soul trying to escape my body," Adrien replied. "Put it on the risk schedule."
Lucian flicked a look at Amara, taking her in from head to toe in a quick, assessing sweep that wasn't sexual at all and still made her want to simultaneously straighten her hoodie and step behind something.
"You okay?" he asked.
It wasn't soft. It was the same tone he used on his wolves after a hit. Check for blood, then move on.
Weirdly, that made it easier to answer.
"I'm not used to seeing you shirtless and actively deadly," she said. "Usually the deadly part is in a boardroom."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "This is the same thing," he said. "Just with fewer suits and more bruises."
"And less lying," Zara added.
He shot his sister a look.
Zara ignored it and turned to Amara, gesturing expansively at the gym. "Welcome to the part of his life you haven't drawn yet."
Amara swallowed.
"I've drawn it," she admitted. "Just… wrong."
Lucian's brows rose. "Wrong how?"
She gestured helplessly at the mat, the wolves, the scuffed walls.
"In my comic," she said, "you're the ominous figure in the shadows. The manipulative Alpha. The guy the hero has to decide whether to trust or overthrow. All your fights are… stylized. Lots of dramatic silhouettes. Lightning. Rain. You're always framed as the threat."
"And now?" he asked.
She looked at him. At Adrien rubbing his back and grinning like an idiot. At Dane stretching his shoulders, eyes always on the room. At the other wolves doing drills in the background, moving in synchronized patterns that screamed practice and care.
"And now I see who you're actually fighting for," she said quietly. "And what it looks like when you don't hold back enough."
She nodded toward Adrien, who was rolling his shoulder experimentally.
"You take hits you don't have to," she said. "So they can learn. So they don't die when it's not a mat under them."
Lucian's throat worked.
"That's what Alphas do," he said. "Same as what we do in the company. I take the risk. If something blows up, better it hit me than the ones who can't afford it."
Dane snorted. "He says that like it isn't infuriating."
"You can file a complaint," Lucian said dryly.
"To who?" Dane asked. "You?"
"Exactly," Lucian said.
Amara shook her head.
"You are a nightmare," she said. "And also…" She trailed off, words sticking.
Also the one holding the line. Also the one teaching them how not to die. Also the one my ink keeps trying to kill on paper.
Lucian watched her, expression unreadable.
Zara clapped her hands, breaking the tension.
"Okay!" she said brightly. "Now that we've all had our daily dose of mutual emotional terror, let's do the thing I brought you here for."
Amara eyed her. "Please tell me it's not 'throw the fate-artist into the ring'."
"Tempting," Zara said. "But no. Lucian would kill me."
"Correct," Lucian said, without missing a beat.
Zara stuck her tongue out at him. "Relax, Alpha. I'm not that chaotic before lunch. I just want her to watch."
Adrien, now on his feet, rolled his neck and eyes simultaneously. "Of course you do."
Zara hopped up to sit on the railing, swinging her legs. "Civilians watch, wolves train," she said. "That's the rule."
"I'm not a civilian anymore," Amara muttered.
"No," Lucian said quietly. "You're not."
His gaze flicked to the mat, then back to her.
"Stay up here," he said. "Walls are reinforced. If someone shifts too much, the ring keeps it contained."
"Reassuring," she said faintly.
"It's not that bad," Zara said. "Last week we only had one broken wall and a minor concussion."
"Zara," Lucian said warningly.
She mimed zipping her mouth.
Lucian stepped back onto the mat. As he did, something shifted in him again, like a switch being flipped. The softer edges she'd seen in the studio, in late-night arguments and rooftop almost-confessions, slid away.
What remained was the Alpha.
"Round two," he said to the room at large. "Pairs. Half-shift. Control drills."
Groans and grins answered him.
Wolves moved into the ring in groups, pairing off. Some took positions around the edges, acting as spotters. The air heated with anticipation.
Amara watched.
She saw the difference now, between the way the others fought and the way Lucian did.
They were powerful, fast, fierce. Claws flashed, teeth bared. Some lost themselves to the rush of it, snarls spilling out, eyes going fully wolf for moments too long. They corrected, pulled back, but the line between training and frenzy blurred at the edges.
Lucian never crossed it.
Even half-shifted, even blood up, he was a metronome of violence: sharp, steady, deliberate. Each movement precise, each strike calibrated. He pushed his wolves hard—too hard, she thought, sometimes—but always with purpose: testing their weaknesses, forcing them to adapt.
He didn't go for showy attacks. He went for the moves that would save their lives outside: disarms, pins, feints, the ugly, efficient stuff you didn't put in movies because it looked too real.
He took hits. He bled a little. He never let it slow him down.
And every few minutes, his eyes would flick up, scanning the perimeter.
Every time, without fail, they found her.
The first time, she told herself it was coincidence. The second, she told herself he was just checking the balcony where Zara had parked them. By the fifth, she had to admit the truth: no matter how many opponents were in front of him, some part of him was tracking her like a fixed star.
Each time his gaze crashed into hers, the bond thrummed.
Her pulse fluttered. Not full panic. Not the suffocating fear from the elevator lobby. Something… else. A low, insistent heat that had nothing to do with the warm air of the gym.
He'd offered to keep the mate stuff out of the war room. To be Alpha and strategist there, not fated partner.
Here, though—with his wolf so close to the skin, claws half out, breath coming hard—it was impossible to forget.
This was the beast that had smelled her and said mine.
The same beast now was pulling its hits so his wolves came away with bruises instead of broken bones.
Villain panel. Protector reality.
Her brain kept flipping back and forth between them, trying to reconcile the two versions she'd drawn and the one in front of her.
On the mat, Adrien caught a punch wrong and yelped, shaking out his hand.
"Break?" Lucian asked, already pulling back.
"No," Adrien said through gritted teeth. "Again."
Lucian nodded once. No coddling. No "you sure?" Just acceptance of his choice.
He stepped in, slow-motion for half a second, correcting Adrien's stance with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Lead with your eyes, not your ego," Lucian said quietly. "You're telegraphing every time you think you're being clever."
Adrien snorted. "You love my ego."
"It's very useful," Lucian said. "I know exactly where you'll be. Again."
They moved.
Amara leaned on the railing, watching the pattern: push, support, punish, protect. Lucian in the center, the pivot point everyone else spun around.
He was dangerous.
He was necessary.
He was both.
Somewhere in her drafts folder, a version of him knelt in broken glass, bleeding.
Her stomach tightened.
Zara nudged her knee with her sneaker. "Mind blown yet?" she asked.
Amara swallowed.
"I drew him as the big bad," she said. "The chessmaster. The necessary evil. The guy whose downfall would be cathartic and tragic."
Zara hummed. "And now?"
"And now," Amara said slowly, "I'm realizing that if he falls, everything falls with him."
She looked at Lucian again, at the way the others moved unconsciously into positions that complemented his. At the guard from the lobby—Dane—matching his rhythm, covering his flank without needing a signal. At the younger wolf whose stance relaxed the second Lucian stepped back-to-back with him.
"He's not the storm," she said softly. "He's the thing holding it back."
Zara was quiet for once.
"You see why we're so annoying about keeping him alive now?" she asked after a moment.
Amara let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"Yeah," she said. "Unfortunately."
Her eyes met Lucian's one more time as he rolled away from a strike.
Something in his gaze shifted.
Not just the usual check-in. Not just "are you bleeding?" or "are you panicking?".
He looked at her like he knew what she'd just realized.
Like he'd felt the flip in her chest.
A flush climbed up her neck.
She tore her gaze away, suddenly hyper-aware of her own body: the heat in her face, the tightness in her throat, the way her fingers still twitched with the muscle memory of drawing him as a monster in panel after panel.
Maybe he was.
A monster.
A beast.
The thing the story warned everyone about.
But he was her monster, whether she liked it or not. Her beast. The one whose claws were pointed outward more than in. The one her power kept trying to kill and save at the same time.
It would be easier, she thought, if he were only one thing.
If she could file him under "villain" and be done.
If the way her pulse reacted when those gold eyes found her was just fear.
Down on the mat, Lucian took another hit he didn't have to. Adrien's fist thudded into his stomach. Lucian doubled over, then laughed—actually laughed—before straightening and correcting Adrien's footwork mid-exhale.
Brutal, precise, always in control—even of his own pain.
Yeah.
Amara thought grimly.
There was no way this ended clean.
Zara elbowed her lightly. "So," she said. "Still planning to draw him as a cackling overlord?"
Amara's lips quirked.
"Oh, absolutely," she said. "But now the readers are going to get very confused about why they're in love with him."
Zara grinned, wicked and pleased. "Perfect," she said. "Let them suffer."
Amara watched the man–wolf in the ring, the one her comics had turned into a villain and her heart refused to keep in a single frame.
For the first time, she understood:
The line between cage and shield was razor-thin.
And Lucian Gray walked it every day with teeth bared, holding back a chaos that wanted to swallow them all.
Including her.