"He was breaking. I could feel it. But so was I — in ways I didn't want to admit."
He stood behind that desk like it was the only thing anchoring him in place, hands clenched behind his back, jaw taut, shoulders tense beneath the dark folds of his cloak. The evening shadows stretched across the room, darkening the corners and stealing the warmth from the air. Outside, the territories he ruled sprawled vast and wild, but in here—in this moment—his domain had shrunk to the space between us.
The air in the room had thickened. Subtly at first. Then steadily — with every breath, every silence, every second he didn't look away from me. The candles along the wall flickered as if disturbed by an unseen current, their flames dancing in response to the tension crackling between us.
And I didn't give him the courtesy of softening either.
I remained seated in the chair opposite his desk, my spine rigid, fingers curled around the armrests. The wood was smooth beneath my touch, worn from years of similar grips—though I doubted anyone had ever sat here with such defiance before. I could feel the bond buzzing faintly under my skin again. Not warm. Not inviting.
It was volatile.
Like holding two exposed wires too close together.
The pain had started the moment I'd crossed into his lands. A low, persistent hum that now threatened to crescendo into something unbearable. Something we'd both regret acknowledging. It had been three months since I'd felt it last—three months of blessed numbness, of rebuilding the parts of myself he'd torn away. Now it returned with a vengeance, as if punishing me for my absence.
Through the tall windows behind him, I could see the forest's edge where the moon was beginning to rise, casting silver light across the pines.
"I'm trying to be nice to you," he finally said, the words pushed through grit teeth. "So don't challenge my patience."
His tone was sharp.
Not angry.
Warning.
The way one might warn of a storm brewing on the horizon. The way one might caution about treading too close to a cliff's edge. His voice carried the weight of authority he'd earned through blood and sacrifice — the voice that had commanded armies and brought rival packs to their knees.
But I knew better.
He was losing it.
His control. His calm. The mask he'd so carefully rebuilt after tearing me down.
I watched him from beneath lowered lashes, noting the slight tremor in his left hand before he clenched it into a fist. Noting the barely perceptible tick at the corner of his eye. The shallow rise and fall of his chest. The silver at his temples that hadn't been there three months ago, gleaming like moonlight against the darkness of his hair. Evidence of the toll his position was taking. Evidence of what our separation had cost him.
My wolf stirred beneath my skin, restless and raw. She'd been quiet for so long, dormant in her grief. Now she paced the cage of my ribs, sensing his distress, his weakness. Sensing the opportunity. She remembered him—remembered us—in ways my human mind tried desperately to forget. Ways that made my heart ache and my blood simmer.
I scoffed lightly, without even meaning to.
The sound cracked the tension in the air like a whip.
His eyes narrowed. Just slightly. Just enough for me to know I'd struck a nerve. Just enough to make the predator in him take notice.
Then, quieter — just for me — I muttered,
"Says the one who can't even shift."
A pause.
A heartbeat.
The words hung between us like poison.
And that was my mistake.
He heard it.
His gaze snapped up, fire flashing through storm-gray eyes — not just rage, but wounded pride. Pain so raw I almost flinched. Almost apologized. The bond between us flared, a sharp, electric surge that made my teeth ache and my vision blur at the edges. Something ancient and primal moved beneath his human skin—something that wanted out but couldn't break free. The something that had once made him the most formidable Alpha in three generations.
And in a single, fluid movement, he moved around the desk like gravity didn't apply to him.
I didn't get the chance to react.
One moment I was seated — arms folded, chin high — and the next I was being yanked upward by the arm, my body pulled off balance with raw force. My boots scraped against the hardwood floor as I struggled to gain purchase, the sound harsh in the tense silence.
My wolf snarled, hackles rising, but didn't fight. Couldn't fight. Not him. Never him. She recognized what my human half refused to acknowledge—that despite everything, he was still ours. Still the other half of a bond we'd tried and failed to sever.
"Kael—"
Before the word finished leaving my mouth, I was slammed back into the wall.
Not hard enough to hurt.
But hard enough to feel it.
Books rattled on the nearby shelves. A map slipped from the desk to the floor, parchment rasping against wood. Outside, a crow took flight from the windowsill, startled by the sudden movement within. Its wings beat a frantic rhythm as it disappeared into the gathering darkness, a warning neither of us heeded.
His hand gripped my arm just below the shoulder, fingers tight, the fabric of my cloak bunching beneath his palm. His chest pressed just shy of mine. His breath came fast — too fast — and it fanned across my cheek like a heatwave.
I sucked in air.
It didn't help.
He was everywhere now.
Over me. Around me. Inside that flickering bond between us that neither of us knew how to control.
The scent of him hit me full force — pine and smoke and something deeper, something primal that made my wolf keen. The same scent that had once been home. That had once been safety even if for a mere second. Now it was a torment, a reminder of everything we'd lost. Everything he'd destroyed.
"And who do you think…" he growled, voice low and rough, "…whose fault is this, Evelyn Hart?"
I felt every syllable in my spine.
No one used my full name anymore except for the elders. But in his mouth, my name became something else. Something sacred and profane all at once. Something that belonged to him alone, though I'd never admit it.
"Do you think I'm weak because I can't shift?" he hissed.
The words were ragged, torn from somewhere deep and wounded. I knew what those words cost him. Knew what it meant for the Alpha of the Territories to admit such vulnerability. Even to me. Especially to me.
An Alpha unable to shift was like a bird unable to fly—crippled, diminished. In a world where power was measured by the beast you could become, his inability was a death sentence waiting to be carried out. The other packs were circling, sensing weakness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I'd heard the whispers even in my self-imposed exile—rumors of challenges brewing, of alliances fracturing, of enemies gathering courage.
I opened my mouth to retort, but the words tangled in my throat.
Because even like this — unshifting, fraying, undone — Kael was still strong.
His grip was firm but not cruel. His arm ached with tension. Every muscle in his body was vibrating — not just from anger, but from something else.
Something barely leashed.
Three months ago, before the bond between us had stretched thin enough to snap, he would have already shifted. Would have let the wolf take over, let instinct guide him. The great black beast with eyes like winter storms would have emerged, towering and magnificent. Terrifying to others.
But now... now he stood before me, painfully human. Trapped in skin that couldn't change, in a form that couldn't flee. His wolf locked away, unreachable. And I knew—knew with bone-deep certainty—that he blamed me for it.
My wolf stirred, restless. Alert. But not afraid.
We were too close.
Close enough to hear the stutter in his heartbeat.
Close enough to know he could hear mine.
His nose brushed mine when he exhaled — just slightly.
Not on purpose.
But devastating all the same.
I caught a glimpse of the scar that now sliced across his collarbone, disappearing beneath his shirt. I wanted to touch it, to trace its path with my fingers, to demand its story. I wanted to heal it. To press my palm against it and let my gift flow through him, knitting flesh, easing pain. The urge was so strong it made my fingertips tingle with unused power.
My breath caught.
His eyes flicked down to my lips.
And for a second — one terrible, perfect second — I thought he might kiss me.
He didn't.
He just stared.
The silence between us cracked open.
A thousand unspoken things surged in that space.
Regret. Rage. Longing. Hunger.