Caelan knows where she is at all times.
He does not decide this.
It simply happens.
When Lyra moves through the fortress, something in his chest shifts—subtle, involuntary, like a compass needle twitching toward true north. He can feel the change in pressure when she enters a room, the absence when she leaves it.
It is maddening.
By the third day, he has memorized her patterns without meaning to.
Morning: the eastern corridor near the archives.
Midday: the lower courtyard, where sunlight spills between stone walls.
Evening: the balcony overlooking the ravine.
He never orders the guards to report on her.
They do it anyway.
"She's in the archive again, Alpha."
"She took the western stairs."
"She's alone."
Alone.
The word sinks claws into him.
Caelan's jaw tightens as he dismisses the messenger with a sharp gesture. The moment the doors close, his wolf surges violently, pacing beneath his skin like a caged predator.
Why does it matter?
He doesn't know her.
He shouldn't care.
And yet—
When another male wolf laughs too loudly in the courtyard where Lyra stands reading, something inside Caelan snaps.
The sound echoes up the stone walls.
So does the rage.
His vision darkens at the edges as his wolf slams forward, territorial and furious.
Too close.
He doesn't remember moving.
One moment he is in the council chamber. The next, he is in the courtyard, boots striking stone with lethal intent. The laughter dies instantly as the wolves sense him.
Lyra looks up.
Their eyes lock.
The bond detonates.
Heat floods his blood, sharp and punishing. His attention narrows violently—he barely registers the others stepping back, instinctively clearing space around her.
Around them.
"Alpha," one of the wolves stammers. "We were just—"
"Leave," Caelan growls.
His voice is low. Dangerous.
No one questions it.
Within seconds, the courtyard empties, leaving only Lyra and the echo of footsteps fading into silence.
"What was that?" she asks coolly.
Caelan doesn't answer immediately.
He is too busy staring at the way her fingers curl tighter around the book she's holding. The way her pulse jumps at her throat. The way the wind lifts strands of her hair like it belongs to him.
Mine.
The thought hits him hard enough to make him recoil internally.
"I don't like you being watched," he says finally.
Lyra's eyes sharpen. "That's unfortunate. I exist."
His nostrils flare as her scent spikes—anger, steel, something darker beneath. It pulls at him, demanding proximity, demanding control.
"Who was he?" Caelan asks abruptly.
Lyra blinks once. Then smiles slowly.
"Does it matter?"
The bond tightens viciously, pain flaring behind his eyes.
"Yes," he snaps.
She steps closer.
Deliberately.
"Why?" she asks softly. "You don't even know me."
"That's the problem," he growls.
The admission hangs between them, raw and exposed.
He should step back.
He doesn't.
"Stay away from my wolves," he says instead.
Lyra laughs quietly. "They don't belong to you the way you think."
Something feral flashes across his face.
"This territory does."
"So you keep reminding everyone."
Her gaze flicks briefly to his clenched fists, his rigid posture, the barely leashed violence in him.
"You're losing control," she adds.
The words strike deep.
Caelan exhales sharply, forcing his wolf down by sheer will. "You don't get to diagnose me."
"No," Lyra agrees. "But I get to notice."
She turns to leave.
The moment she steps away, panic surges through him—irrational and sharp. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, fingers closing around her wrist.
The contact is electric.
The bond screams.
Lyra freezes.
Slowly, she looks down at where his hand grips her.
Then she looks back up at him.
"Let go," she says quietly.
Caelan's breath stutters. His wolf howls, furious at the idea of release, at the loss of contact. His grip tightens for half a second—
Then he drops her hand like he's been burned.
Lyra rubs her wrist, eyes dark.
"Careful, Alpha," she murmurs. "You're starting to look like a man who doesn't know where his boundaries are."
She walks away.
This time, Caelan follows.
Not openly.
Not yet.
But he shadows her through the fortress, senses locked, wolf coiled tight and furious.
Because someone else watches her that night.
A visiting Alpha from a neighboring pack—too confident, too interested, his gaze lingering too long as Lyra speaks.
Caelan feels it like a knife between his ribs.
Rage detonates.
The bond surges violently, feeding the fire, stripping restraint.
He steps forward, voice cutting through the hall like a blade.
"She's not available."
The visiting Alpha stiffens. "Excuse me?"
Caelan doesn't blink.
"She's under my protection."
Lyra turns slowly, eyes widening just a fraction.
"I didn't agree to that," she says.
Caelan's gaze never leaves the other male.
"You don't have to."
The silence that follows is thick with threat.
The visiting Alpha backs down first.
Later—alone in his chamber—Caelan slams his fist into the stone wall hard enough to crack it.
"I don't know you," he snarls into the darkness.
The bond pulses in response.
Unyielding.
Possessive.
Hungry.
Across the fortress, Lyra lies awake, pulse racing as she feels the echo of his rage through the bond.
She smiles, slow and dangerous.
"Good," she whispers.
"Let it consume you."