It happens in the training yard.
That's what makes it unforgivable.
The pack is awake, moving, alive—steel clashing, wolves circling, the normal rhythm of dominance and discipline. Caelan stands at the center of it, Alpha again in posture if not in truth, forcing his wolf into obedience through sheer will.
Then Lyra steps into the yard.
The bond detonates.
Not pain.
Not heat.
Memory.
The world fractures sideways.
Caelan's vision tunnels as the sounds around him dull to a distant roar. The stone beneath his boots is no longer sun-warmed—it's cold, damp, slick with blood. The air sharpens with pine and iron.
He sees it.
All of it.
Lyra on her knees in the forest clearing, wrists bound with silver thread. Her chin lifted despite the tremor in her breath. Moonlight silvering her hair. The way she refused to look away from him.
"You don't have to do this," she said.
And gods help him—he had believed that too.
Caelan staggers.
A sound rips from his chest—half growl, half gasp—as the memory slams fully into place.
The council behind him.
The order spoken aloud.
The weight of the blade in his hand.
Mercy meant speed.
His knees buckle.
Lyra feels it like a blade through her spine.
She turns just in time to see him drop to one knee, hands clawing at his chest as if something inside him is trying to escape. The pack freezes. Whispers ripple outward.
"Alpha?"
Caelan looks up.
Their eyes meet.
The bond erupts.
Power surges through him violently, unchecked, tearing past restraint and slamming into his body like a command he can't disobey. His canines lengthen painfully. His vision sharpens to a predatory focus that locks only on her.
On her throat.
Lyra's breath catches as the shift hits her through the bond—raw dominance, panic, and a hunger so ancient it makes her knees weaken.
"No," she whispers.
Caelan doesn't hear her.
He smells her fear—and something else beneath it. Acceptance. Recognition. The echo of a bond completed once before in blood.
His body moves.
Too fast.
He has her against the stone wall at the edge of the yard before anyone can react, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. The pack erupts into shouts, but none of them dare get closer.
The air crackles with Alpha power.
Lyra gasps, heart hammering as his mouth hovers at her throat. She can feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his restraint.
"This is it," he pants, eyes wild. "This is where it happened."
"Yes," she says shakily. "And this is where you stop."
His wolf screams—furious, desperate.
Claim her. Seal it. Fix it.
His fangs graze her skin.
Not biting.
Almost.
The bond surges so violently it steals Lyra's breath, flooding her veins with heat and terror and something dangerously close to longing. Her body reacts despite her fear—arching just enough to make his control fracture further.
"Don't," she begs, fingers fisting in his shirt. "If you mark me now, it won't be love. It'll be penance."
The word cuts through him.
Penance.
Caelan's hands shake violently. Blood roars in his ears as the full memory crashes down—her blood on his hands, the sound she made when the blade struck, the moment he told himself it was for the greater good.
"I killed you," he whispers, broken.
"Yes," Lyra breathes. "And if you bite me now, you'll do it again. Just slower."
Something inside him finally breaks the right way.
With a strangled sound, Caelan pulls back, ripping himself away from her like it costs him flesh. He turns and roars—a sound of agony and defiance that sends the pack dropping to their knees.
The pressure lifts.
The danger recedes.
Lyra slides down the wall, shaking, fingers pressed to her throat where his fangs almost marked her forever.
Caelan stands several feet away, chest heaving, eyes burning with memory and horror.
"I remember," he says hoarsely. "All of it."
The yard is silent.
The bond settles into something new.
Not hunger.
Not peace.
War.
Because now he knows what he did.
And next time, stopping might not be possible.