The night swallowed Alaric's silhouette before Adam could even shift. One heartbeat, he was there—mocking, taunting, threatening—and the next, he was smoke dissolving into the treetops.
Eleanor's breath hitched painfully.
Adam stood in front of her like a living wall, chest heaving, jaw set so tightly the muscles twitched. His claws were still sliding from his fingertips, the alpha fighting the urge to pursue.
She broke the silence first.
"Adam—"
"No."
His voice was a low earthquake.
"You're coming with me."
He didn't wait. He took her hand—firm, not forceful—and pulled her with him.
Not toward the pack house.
Toward the western wing.
Toward his private war room.
Eleanor followed, heart pounding. Adam was furious—but not reckless. His fury was protective, controlled, coiled. The most dangerous kind.
Inside the war room, he locked the door.
Only then did he turn to her.
"Sit."
It wasn't an alpha order. It was concern wrapped like steel around a blade.
She didn't sit.
Instead, she stepped forward. "Adam, listen—"
"I am listening," he growled.
"To your heartbeat."
He pointed to his chest. "It's shaking."
She stiffened. "Because my brother just threatened my life."
He closed the distance between them.
"And because you're terrified of what happens next."
Her lips parted. "Yes."
"Good." He cupped her jaw with surprising gentleness.
"Fear keeps you alive."
She swallowed. "It won't stop Alaric."
"No," Adam agreed, his voice dropping.
"But I will."
Eleanor's chest tightened painfully.
"Adam—he's my brother."
"And he is a murderer," Adam said without hesitation.
"Your family ties don't excuse his actions."
The words stung—not because they were wrong… but because they were true.
"He's here because of your father," Adam continued, pacing now like a caged beast. "He's here to watch you. Manipulate you. Or drag you back."
A shudder ran through her.
Alphonsus didn't drag.
He destroyed.
Adam's eyes darkened further as he watched her expression.
"Eleanor," he said quietly, "what exactly does your father do to children who disobey him?"
The air went ice-cold.
She wrapped her arms around herself unconsciously.
"Nothing you want to hear."
"Tell me."
She shook her head. "No."
Adam stepped in front of her, closer than before—not demanding, but offering his presence like a shield.
"You don't have to protect me from your past," he murmured.
"I'm not afraid of Alphonsus Thorne."
Her laugh came out sharp and bitter.
"You should be."
He lifted her chin.
"And you shouldn't be facing him alone."
Her breath trembled.
This man.
This cursed, wounded alpha.
This enemy she was meant to betray.
Why did he keep choosing her?
Her voice was small when she whispered, "What are you trying to say?"
Adam didn't hesitate.
"That I'm on your side."
Her heart squeezed.
"You don't even know what side I'm on."
"I know enough."
He brushed his thumb over her cheek.
"You're not with him."
Her voice cracked. "He's my father."
"And?" Adam stepped closer, the heat of him melting her defenses.
"You think blood defines loyalty?"
She looked away. "For my family… yes."
"Then your family is wrong."
His hand moved from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her gently but firmly as he leaned in. Their foreheads touched.
"I don't care who your father is," he whispered.
"I care who you are."
Her breath caught.
And then—
Something pulsed.
At first she thought it was her heartbeat. But no—
It was under Adam's skin.
A dark ripple.
A shudder that wasn't physical.
She jerked back slightly. "Adam—"
But he staggered before she could finish.
He caught himself on the table, his knuckles white, his shoulders trembling.
No.
Not now.
"Adam?" she whispered, voice tight with fear.
He didn't answer.
His breath grew ragged, sharp, pulled through clenched teeth. The veins around his eyes darkened, his muscles tensing as if fighting an invisible chain.
The curse.
The shadow spirit inside him.
Zakriel.
It was waking.
"Adam, listen to me—" She stepped forward.
"Stay back."
His voice was distorted.
Half his.
Half something older.
Darker.
Eleanor didn't listen.
She grabbed his arm.
Instantly his head snapped up—eyes no longer the warm dark she recognized, but glowing with a feral, unnatural light.
Her pulse stopped.
Zakriel spoke through him, the voice layered and echoing.
"You do not belong to him, little Thorne."
Her spine turned to ice.
Adam growled through clenched teeth, fighting for control.
"Eleanor—run—"
"No."
She tightened her grip.
"I'm not leaving you."
The shadow inside him laughed—a sound like cold steel and hunger.
"How noble."
A cold wind swept through the room despite closed windows.
"Your father marked you with his power. I can smell it on you. You are bait. A tool. A gift delivered straight to my host."
Eleanor's breath shook.
Adam roared in fury at the insult—but the sound twisted, half-beast, half-something else.
"Let him go!" she shouted.
The spirit focused on her, and the temperature plunged further.
"He is mine, little wolf. And soon—"
Adam's body jerked violently.
"—you will be too."
Eleanor stepped closer.
Close enough to touch his face.
Close enough to whisper:
"You can't have him."
She pressed her forehead to his.
Adam gasped—in pain, in struggle—but he didn't pull away.
And then she whispered the words her bloodline had taught her, the ancient command hidden in the Thorne rites:
"I see you, shadow.
And I refuse you."
The reaction was instant.
A blast of energy threw her backward—
—but Adam fell to his knees, gasping, the curse retreating like smoke shattering in sunlight.
He was himself again.
Eleanor crawled to him, grabbing his face.
"Adam—talk to me—"
He caught her wrist, pulling her into his arms so suddenly she lost her breath.
His voice was hoarse, shaking.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"You would've lost control."
He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, breathing her in like he needed her scent to stay sane.
"You could have died."
"But I didn't," she whispered.
Silence stretched, heavy and intimate.
He pulled back, cupping her face with trembling hands.
"Eleanor…"
He swallowed.
"The curse wants you."
Her blood went cold.
"And that means," Adam said softly,
"your father is not the only threat."
Eleanor's heart pounded.
Because for the first time—
It wasn't just Alphonsus.
It wasn't just Alaric.
The curse itself wanted her.
And that meant the war was no longer just political.
It was personal.
Intimate.
Deadly.
Adam's jaw tightened.
"I won't let it touch you."
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Then we fight it together."
His eyes softened—just for her.
"Together," he echoed.
But she didn't miss the fear that flickered in his gaze.
Not fear for himself.
Fear for her.