For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken accusations and unasked questions. I could feel his gaze on me, a tangible weight against my skin.
Servants entered and set down dishes: roasted venison glazed with herbs and honey, fresh bread still steaming from the ovens, thick stew rich with root vegetables and spices I didn't recognize. A platter of early summer berries, glistening like jewels. A carafe of deep red wine.
The smells were warm and heavy and comforting in a way that made my stomach ache.
But I had no appetite.
Not for food.
Not when every cell in my body was tuned to him, when the wolf in me whined and scratched to be closer, to press against his skin, to reclaim what had been lost.
Kael reached for a carafe of water and poured two glasses. His movements were fluid, controlled—but too careful, too precise. The slight tremor in his hand when he set the carafe down revealed what his expression did not.
He was managing himself. Managing the bond.
Managing me.
He slid one glass toward me without looking, the water catching the candlelight, turning momentarily to liquid gold before settling.
I didn't touch it.
"You need to eat," he said finally, voice low, rougher than I remembered it. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who had grown used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.
I shrugged, a deliberately casual gesture that belied the tension coiling through me. "I'm not a prisoner. You said it yourself."
Kael's fingers tightened slightly around his own glass, the only sign of tension. I watched as his knuckles whitened, as he forced himself to relax his grip before the glass could shatter in his hand.
"You're not," he said. "But you are here. Under my protection."
"Convenient," I said, letting the bitterness seep into my tone. "After deciding I wasn't worth protecting at all."
Kael's gaze snapped to mine, sharp and dark. In the candlelight, his eyes seemed almost black, pupils expanded until only a thin ring of gold remained. The bond between us surged in response, a wave of heat that left me momentarily breathless.
"You think I want this, right now?" he said, voice like gravel. "You have no idea what your presence is doing to me."
I arched a brow, forcing myself to stay still under the weight of his stare. To not lean in, to not respond to the call of the bond that urged me closer.
"Then enlighten me," I said coldly.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His scent shifted subtly—the cedar notes deepening, undercut with something wilder, something that made my inner wolf pace faster, more urgently.
For a long moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
"I'm sure I'm not the only one suffering from this bond," he said. "So asking this question is irrelevant."
The word fell between us like a stone into deep water.
Bond.
A reality we had both tried to deny, to bury, to outrun.
My heart twisted painfully, but I kept my expression neutral. Years of survival had taught me to mask my emotions, to bury them so deeply that not even the most perceptive wolf could scent them on me.
"And this scares you," I said.
It wasn't a question.
Kael didn't flinch. His expression remained carefully blank, but I knew him well enough—to see the conflict raging beneath the surface.
"I don't scare easily," he said.
"But I do," I whispered, the admission slipping out before I could stop it. A moment of vulnerability I immediately regretted.
Something flickered in his eyes—too quick to identify before he shuttered it away again. He reached for his knife and began cutting the venison on his plate, the blade scraping against the ceramic with a sound that set my teeth on edge.
We ate in silence after that.
Or rather, he ate. I picked at the bread, tearing it into pieces I didn't touch, arranging and rearranging them on my plate in meaningless patterns. The scent of the food made my stomach clench with hunger—real food, pack food, after months of whatever I could hunt or scavenge on the run—but the knot of tension in my throat made swallowing impossible.
The bond thrummed between us, constant and insistent. A living thing with demands of its own.
He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he reached for the salt, his hand extending across the small space between us.
His fingers brushed mine.
A shock of heat bolted up my arm, searing through my veins like wildfire. The bond roared to life, surging between us with a force that left me gasping.
I pulled back as if burned, the chair scraping against the floor as I jerked away from him. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a painful reminder of what we had been, what we could never be again.
Kael's eyes darkened, nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. The scent of him intensified—cedar and salt and that undefinable something that had always been uniquely him. But now there was something else mingled with it, something sharp and hot that made my inner wolf whine with need.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. The sound echoed in the silence, harsh and startling.
I rose too, heart pounding, every muscle tensed for fight or flight. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—not from him, not from the bond that had found us again despite time and distance and betrayal.
He didn't touch me.
He didn't have to.
The bond wrapped around my throat like a leash, dragging me forward without force. I could feel it pulling, insistent and demanding, urging me to close the distance between us.
Kael stepped closer.
One step.
Then another.
Until there was no space left.
Until I could feel the heat of his skin against mine, though we weren't touching. Until I could count each individual eyelash, could see the flecks of amber in his otherwise dark eyes.
Until I could smell the salt and cedar and something darker beneath it—the scent of a wolf too long without its mate.
My breath hitched in my throat. My skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. The wolf in me surged forward, clawing to reach him, to reclaim what had been taken from us.
His hand rose—slow, deliberate—and hovered near my face. I could feel the heat of his palm against my cheek, so close that the slightest movement would bring us into contact.
Not touching.
Never quite touching.
"You should hate me," he said roughly, his voice barely more than a growl.
"I do," I whispered.
Liar.
His hand trembled slightly before dropping back to his side. The loss of his nearness, even without contact, left me cold.
"I'll have a guard stationed outside your room," he said, stepping back. The movement seemed to cost him, as if fighting against a physical pull. "For your safety."
I lifted my chin, refusing to show how much his retreat affected me. "From whom?"
He didn't answer.
Because we both knew the truth.
It wasn't the Elders he feared. It wasn't the rival packs who had been encroaching on Crescent territory.
It was himself.
He left without another word, his steps echoing against the stone as he crossed to the door. It clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the roaring silence of my own heart.
And the undeniable, inescapable pull of a bond that should have been broken.
But wasn't.
Couldn't be.
Would never be.
I stood there for long moments after he'd gone, trying to reclaim my composure. The candles guttered in a draft, shadows dancing across the walls like restless spirits. Beyond the thick stone walls of Crescent Hall, I could hear the distant howl of a lone wolf—a sentry, perhaps, or a pack member running the perimeter under the cloud-covered moon.
Slowly, I sank back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. The food lay untouched before me, growing cold in the chill air of the dining chamber.
If Kael Blackthorn thought he could reclaim what he'd thrown away, he would soon learn just how sharp my edges had become.
I stood again, pushing away from the table. Let the servants clear away the wasted food.
Tonight, I would rest. Tomorrow, I would find a way to sever this bond once and for all, no matter the cost.
Even if it killed us both.