Sleep finally claims me despite the chaos still twisting through my thoughts, my wolf pacing endlessly beneath my skin. I am so tired of sleeping. It feels strange to think it, but since Azrael took me, rest has been the only escape my body allows.

  Wake.

  Worry.

  Wait.

  Sleep.

  Over and over again.

  Morning comes with a restless surge that snaps me awake.

  Energy thrums sharply in my chest, wild and desperate, like a caged thing rattling its bars. I was starting to lose my mind. I needed to run. I needed open air, movement, the sound of another voice. I had completed my first shift, and yet I had not been allowed to shift again. My wolf was unraveling because of it, clawing at the edges of my thoughts, insistent and unrelenting.

  Before, she had been a whisper.

  Now she was fully awake. Fully present.

  And unbearable.

  She tugged constantly at the reins, trying to take control, sending waves of heat and tension through my body until my skin prickled and my muscles ached.

  This could not be how it was for others.

  My parents had warned me about tension between wolf and human, but they had spoken of it like a growing pain. Manageable. Temporary. They had never described this constant war for control. Never described feeling like you housed two minds fighting for dominion over the same body.

  And now I had no one to ask.

  Maybe Azrael would have answers.

  The thought catches me off guard.

  I throw the blankets aside and sit up abruptly, scanning the cave.

  Empty.

  He is gone.

  The realization sinks deeper than I expect. I had actually been looking forward to asking him about the struggle with my wolf. About why she was so fixated on him. Maybe our wolves were tangled in something instinctive that I did not yet understand.

  Was that even possible?

  I shove the thought away before it can root.

  A tidy stack of fresh clothes waits beside the bed. A soft t-shirt. Cotton shorts. Simple sandals. Still no undergarments.

  The image of Azrael attempting to select those nearly draws a smile from me.

  I frown immediately.

  No. Absolutely not. I am not growing fond of him. That is ridiculous. He is still my captor. Still the rogue everyone feared. Still a piece in whatever dangerous game he is playing.

  But what is his plan?

  Eventually the pack will find me. They will not come alone. Azrael cannot fight an entire pack, no matter how large or powerful his wolf is. And he certainly cannot keep me here forever.

  So then what is the endgame?

  I retreat to the hot spring, easing into the warm water and letting it loosen the tight knots in my muscles. Steam curls around me, softening the edges of my thoughts. Along the edge of the pool, I notice a new addition.

  A carefully arranged collection of bathing supplies.

  Floral. Gentle. Unmistakably chosen with intention.

  Vanilla. Citrus. Jasmine. A hint of wild flowers.

  The scent soothes something tight in my chest.

  “Well done, Azrael,” I murmur under my breath.

  As I wash my hair, my fingers brush the tender spot where I struck my head. The wound has already healed, but the skin remains sensitive. Our bodies recover quickly. Too quickly sometimes. As if meant to endure things we should never have to.

  I sink deeper into the pool, resting my head back against the stone edge. My fingers trace the carved grooves etched into the rock, following familiar patterns.

  Moon cycles.

  Wolves in pairs.

  A crowned female figure surrounded by stars.

  Then something new.

  A female wolf standing between two males. One crowned in silver. One shadowed in black. Beneath them, a symbol etched again and again.

  A broken chain.

  My breath catches.

  I do not understand the markings fully, but they stir something in me. A memory. A fragment of a warning whispered long ago. Luna Marienne’s voice echoes in my mind, her fingers tightening on my shoulder beneath the moonlight when I was very young.

  “She must never stand between them,” she had murmured to Alpha Kennan. “If she does, the balance will break.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  At the time, I had thought it was about pack politics. Alpha succession. Nothing more.

  Now my skin prickles.

  I climb from the pool and dry myself, dressing in the clothes Azrael left for me. They fit comfortably, as if chosen with care.

  Back in the main cave, the silence presses in.

  My gaze lands on the knife.

  Escape, you idiot.

  I pull at the chain until my arms burn. Nothing. I try the lock with the knife. Still nothing. I grab a rock and strike the shackle with all my strength.

  It does not budge.

  Frustration drives me to one final attempt. I wedge the blade into the lock and bring the rock down hard.

  A mistake.

  The knife jerks free and slices into my wrist. I curse sharply as blood wells, bright and startling. The cut is not deep, but it bleeds stubbornly before I bind it again, tighter this time.

  Defeated, I retreat to the cave entrance, stepping as far into the sunlight as the chain allows.

  I call for help until my voice grows hoarse.

  Nothing answers.

  So I sit.

  The sun warms my skin, soothing and strangely restorative. My wolf finally settles, content for the moment. I stretch out on the stone floor and close my eyes.

  “Where is Azrael anyway?” I murmur.

  At the sound of his name, my wolf purrs.

  “You and I need to talk about these feelings,” I tell her firmly. “We are fated for Kellan. You will have to be content with his wolf.”

  She bristles in irritation.

  “Azrael is not an option,” I add. “That ship never even reached port.”

  Silence.

  I sigh.

  I never imagined I would worry about him. Yet the thought creeps in unbidden. If something happened to him, how would I leave? How would I eat?

  The question coils tight in my chest, heavier than it has any right to be.

  “Where are you?” I whisper.

  Sleep claims me again.

  My dreams fracture into moments from my past. My parents hovering too closely. Whispered discussions that fell silent when I entered the room. Luna Marienne pressing a protective charm into my palm as a child, her expression strained.

  “Some bonds awaken early,” she had said. “Yours must never awaken at all.”

  I see shadows lingering just out of sight. A presence I had felt long before I ever knew his name.

  Fragments of prophecy whispered beneath the full moon. Warnings disguised as reassurances.

  A cool breeze raises goosebumps along my skin, pulling me awake.

  The sun has begun to set.

  Hunger coils sharply in my stomach as I rise to search for food. The hearth is empty, but something catches my eye.

  A small brown package tied with string.

  Inside, two ripe peaches. Dried meat. A square of chocolate.

  My chest tightens.

  I eat slowly, savoring the sweetness, when my gaze drifts to the book Azrael had been studying. I glance around, wipe peach juice from my hands, then carefully pick it up.

  The leather is ancient, worn thin by time. The writing inside is mostly incomprehensible, etched in a language older than the packs. A marker holds a place.

  Beside the foreign script, notes written in a precise, elegant hand.

  I recognize some of the symbols from the carvings at the hot spring.

  When fire wakes beneath the moon’s command,

  And instinct breaks the ties of mortal hand—

  My breath stutters.

  The rest is fragmented. Riddled. Incomplete. But one line is underlined twice.

  …wolf adorned in flame,

  …shake the world’s old name.

  “Adorned in flame?” I whisper.

  A presence fills the cave.

  I startle, and without control, the book launches from my hands.

  Azrael moves faster than thought, catching it just before it slips into the embers.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean to, I was just—”

  He smiles.

  Not sharp. Not angry.

  Amused.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “The book,” I say weakly.

  “If I did not want you to see it, I would have hidden it better.”

  “But I almost tossed it in the fire.”

  “That was my fault. I startled you.”

  I stare at him, uneasy.

  This cannot be the Azrael Black the pack whispered about. The monster. The rogue who left ruin behind him.

  This Azrael has patience. Quiet humor.

  And that realization sends a slow chill through me.

  Looking down at the book, he turns it upright. Recognition flashes across his face as he realizes what page I was reading.

  And then he freezes.

  Not anger.

  Not irritation.

  Fear.

  It flickers across his face so quickly I almost miss it, but it is there. Sharp. Unmistakable.

  “You shouldn’t be reading that,” he says quietly.

  My stomach twists. “Why?”

  He looks at me then, really looks at me, as if seeing me for the first time.

  “That page,” he says, voice low and strained. “It’s just a legend.”

  “No,” I whisper. “It’s something more.”

  His fingers curl around the edge of the book, but he says nothing.

  “There’s one last line,” I say softly. “I didn’t get to finish it.”

  “Lirian,” he says sharply. “Don’t.”

  Too late.

  The words rise in my mind before I can stop them, ancient and heavy, pressing against my tongue until I speak them aloud.

  The world lurches.

  Fire flares. Carvings glow. Gold light burns through stone.

  Azrael grips my shoulders, grounding me.

  “It’s starting,” he breathes.

  And as my vision fades, I know with bone-deep certainty…

  This was never just a story.