Caelan installs new patrols by morning.
He tells himself it's about security.
He lies.
The routes form a pattern—subtle enough that no one questions it, tight enough that Lyra never walks more than fifty steps without being seen. Guards rotate. Shadows shift. Eyes follow.
Always toward her.
He memorizes her habits the way one memorizes an enemy.
The way she pauses before entering a room, listening.
The way she favors her left side when she's tired.
The way she pretends not to notice when wolves stare.
She notices everything.
That's what makes it worse.
When she changes her routine on the fourth day, Caelan feels it immediately—a wrongness, a sudden hollow pressure in his chest.
She should be in the lower courtyard.
She isn't.
His wolf surges, furious and sharp.
Find her.
Caelan abandons the council meeting mid-sentence.
Elders protest. He ignores them.
He tracks her by instinct alone, following the pull through stone corridors and narrow stairwells until it leads him somewhere she's never gone before.
The old watchtower.
Unused. Isolated.
His anger spikes—not loud, not explosive, but cold and precise.
When he opens the door, she's standing by the narrow window, moonlight spilling over her like a deliberate provocation.
"You moved the patrols," she says without turning.
Caelan closes the door behind him.
"You noticed."
"I always notice when cages get smaller."
The word hits him harder than any accusation.
"This isn't a cage," he says.
Lyra turns then, eyes bright with challenge. "Then why do I feel like prey?"
His wolf snarls at the implication—offended, possessive.
"You're not prey," Caelan growls. "You're—"
He stops.
Because he doesn't know what she is.
The bond thrums violently, demanding an answer he doesn't have.
"You don't get to decide where I go," Lyra continues, stepping closer. "Or who I speak to."
"You provoke other Alphas," he snaps. "You let them think—"
"Think what?" she interrupts. "That I'm available?"
The word ignites him.
His control slips.
"You are not," he says flatly.
Silence stretches between them, heavy and dangerous.
Lyra studies him, slow and deliberate. "To whom?"
The bond tightens like a noose.
Caelan's breath roughens. "That's not what I meant."
"But it's what you felt."
She steps closer still—too close. The air between them crackles, thick with heat and tension. His wolf presses hard, demanding contact, dominance, certainty.
"You're unraveling," Lyra says quietly. "And you don't even know why."
Caelan's hand lifts without conscious thought, stopping inches from her throat.
Not touching.
Hovering.
His fingers tremble.
"Tell me what you are," he says hoarsely.
Lyra's gaze flicks to his hand. Her pulse jumps.
"You wouldn't like the answer."
"Try me."
For a moment, he thinks she might say it. Whatever truth coils behind her eyes, sharp and patient.
Instead, she reaches up and grips his wrist.
The contact detonates.
The bond screams—white-hot, invasive, overwhelming. His wolf howls, slamming against his control with feral insistence.
Caelan gasps, vision blurring.
Lyra's voice drops to a whisper. "You don't remember killing me."
The words land like a blade driven deep.
"What?" he breathes.
She releases him immediately, stepping back as if nothing happened.
"Careful, Alpha," she says coolly. "You're starting to cross lines you won't survive."
She moves past him, opening the door.
This time, he doesn't stop her.
He can't.
He stands alone in the watchtower, chest heaving, mind splintering around a single, impossible sentence.
Killing me.
Below, the fortress stirs uneasily.
Wolves feel it now—the instability, the Alpha's fractured control. Whispers spread. Elders watch him with unease.
That night, Caelan stands at his window again.
But he isn't staring at the courtyard.
He's staring at the old watchtower.
And for the first time since Lyra arrived, the obsession sharpens into something darker than possession.
Fear.
Because if she's telling the truth—
Then the monster haunting his instincts is not outside him.
It's him.