The wall between them doesn't feel solid anymore.
Caelan feels Lyra before he hears her—before she moves, before she breathes. The bond hums low and relentless, tightening with every second of restraint. His wolf prowls, restless, agitated, pressing hard against his ribs.
She's afraid, it murmurs.
She should be.
"No," Caelan whispers aloud.
On the other side of the wall, Lyra stiffens.
"You didn't say that out loud," she says quietly.
The realization lands between them like a blade.
"I—" He exhales sharply. "You're too loud."
"That's funny," she replies. "I was thinking the same thing."
The bond pulses—hot, invasive.
Suddenly, his vision blurs.
Moonlight.
Cold air.
The metallic scent of blood.
Caelan staggers, bracing himself against the stone wall as the images crash through him without warning. His heart hammers violently.
Not now.
"You felt that," Lyra says.
"I felt something," he admits hoarsely.
Silence stretches—tight, dangerous.
Then footsteps.
Her door opens.
Lyra doesn't turn. She already knows he's there. His presence presses against her back like heat, too close, too aware.
"You shouldn't be here," she says.
"I know."
He doesn't touch her.
That restraint is deliberate. Painful.
She turns slowly, eyes dark and searching.
"You're shaking," she says.
"So are you."
The bond thrums, threading fear through want until Lyra's breath stutters against her will. Her body betrays her, responding to him even as her mind screams caution.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispers.
"Like I'm remembering?" he asks quietly.
Her eyes flicker.
"I don't remember you," he continues, voice rough. "But I remember the ground being cold. I remember my hands not shaking until after."
Lyra's breath catches.
"I remember thinking it would be quick," he says. "That mercy meant speed."
The air between them goes razor-thin.
"That's not memory," she says softly. "That's guilt bleeding through."
His hand lifts without permission, hovering inches from her throat. His fingers tremble—not with hunger, but with recognition.
"I stood right here," he murmurs. "Didn't I?"
Her pulse jumps violently. He feels it through the bond—fast, exposed.
"Yes."
The bond screams.
Heat coils low in his gut, sharp and humiliating. Fear rides it just as close. He wants to touch her—wants to confirm what his body already knows.
"If I touch you," he says hoarsely, "I think I'll remember everything."
Lyra swallows. "And I think you'll finish it."
The truth hangs between them.
She steps back.
He follows.
Too close now. Not touching. Almost.
"Tell me to leave," he says.
She opens her mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Moonlight flashes behind his eyes again—her knees on the ground, his shadow falling over her, her chin lifted in defiance even then.
Caelan jerks back like he's been struck.
"This is how it starts," he says, breath ragged. "This is the moment before."
Lyra's voice is barely steady. "Then stop."
He does.
Barely.
Caelan turns and leaves abruptly, slamming the door behind him like it's the only thing holding him together.
Lyra sinks onto the edge of the bed, hand pressed to her throat, skin still burning where he almost touched.
Across the wall, Caelan slides down against the stone, head dropping back.
He doesn't remember killing her.
But he remembers deciding to.
And that might be worse.