The heavy iron crown sat on Cassian’s head for less than five minutes before he ripped it off, tossing it onto the center of the oak map table with a hollow, metallic clatter.
The safe house beneath the treasury was exactly as they had left it—cold, smelling of old paper, and entirely insulated from the thousands of lords currently getting drunk on the King’s celebratory mead upstairs.
“The silver nitrate in the chalice was a targeted strike,” Ryker said, slamming his gauntlets down beside the crown.
He was pacing the length of the room, his chest heaving under his leather armor.
“Vance didn’t prepare that cup.
The ritual staff does.
Someone changed the formulation to trigger a reaction in our blood, Jaxon.
If Lyra hadn’t stepped up to that railing when she did—” “I know,” Jaxon interrupted.
He was standing by the hearth, staring into the dying embers.
His left forearm was bare again, and the crimson veins beneath his skin were visibly pulsing, the raw color threatening to spill over the edges of the mark.
He looked completely drained, the cold precision he had maintained on the cathedral floor cracking just enough to show the terrifying strain beneath.
He turned his head slowly, his amber eyes locking onto Lyra, who was standing near the door.
She had already shed the heavy velvet cloak, but the crimson silk gown still clung to her, a constant reminder that she no longer belonged to the shadows.
“How did you know what to do?” Jaxon asked, his voice low, gravelly, and stripped of all royal pretense.
“I didn’t,” Lyra said, keeping her voice level despite the exhaustion threatening to buckle her knees.
“You told me in the safe house that if the bond acted up, I should use the iron in the foundation to ground the heat.
When you took the chalice, the wire between us tightened so hard I could feel the silver burning in your veins.
I just…
held onto the railing and forced myself to breathe.
I didn’t want you to drop the cup.” Cassian poured a drink, his gray eyes catching the light of the fire as he took a slow sip.
“You didn’t just save the coronation, little mouse.
You publically humiliated Elowen without saying a single word.
The northern lords saw you step to the edge.
They saw the heirs stabilize the exact second you anchored the room.
By tomorrow morning, the entire territory will know the Triad has a human weapon.” “I’m not a weapon,” Lyra shot back, her jaw tightening.
“And I’m not an anchor.
I did what I had to do to keep this palace from turning into a war zone while my mother is still in the servant quarters.” “Your mother is already moving,” Jaxon said flatly.
Lyra’s breath hitched.
She took a step forward, her fingers curling into fists within the wide sleeves of her gown.
“What did you do to her?” “Nothing,” Jaxon said, his tone perfectly calm, though his eyes never left hers.
“She was moved to a private cottage on the southern edge of the royal valley two hours ago.
She has two personal guards from Ryker’s vanguard stationed at the perimeter.
She has been told you were promoted to the High Court’s administrative council and that you cannot be disturbed during the transition rites.
She is safe, Lyra.
But she is also leverage.” “You bastard,” Lyra whispered, the heat of the bond flaring under her skin, sparked by pure, unadulterated anger.
“You said you’d keep her safe.
You didn’t say you’d turn her into a hostage.” “In our world, those two things are exactly the same,” Ryker growled, stepping between Lyra and his brother.
He didn’t look angry at her; he looked brutally realistic.
“If Elowen’s spies find out who your mother is before the new moon, they won’t use her for leverage.
They will hang her from the city gates to drag you out of this room.
Locking her down in that valley is the only reason she’s still breathing.” Lyra stared at the three brothers, her chest heaving.
The velvet noose was tightening with every hour that passed.
They were offering her protection, luxury, and three times her mother’s salary, but the price was her absolute compliance.
She was locked in a cage with three apex predators, and the walls were closing in.
“So what is the first decree?” Lyra asked, her voice dropping into a cold, hard register that made Cassian’s smirk widen with genuine appreciation.
“Now that you have the iron on your heads, how do we survive the next eleven days?” Jaxon walked over to the table, his fingers tracing the edge of the map showing the northern borders.
“The first decree is isolation.
Tomorrow, I will issue a royal mandate restricting all High Council assemblies for the next fortnight, citing the official mourning period for the King.
No lords on the palace grounds.
No unexpected sweeps.” “And Elowen?” Cassian asked.
“Elowen is already moving her forces toward the Red River pass,” Jaxon said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the map.
“She knows she can’t touch us inside the capital while our battalions are on high alert.
She will try to choke our supply lines to force a economic collapse before the winter.
Ryker, you take the vanguard.
Establish a perimeter at the pass.
Do not engage unless they cross the marker, but make sure she knows your wolves are watching.” “Consider it done,” Ryker said, his hand dropping to his blade.
He looked at Lyra, a strange, lingering intensity in his amber eyes.
“Keep her inside the room, Jax.
If she steps onto a balcony again without a guard, I’ll execute the entire roster myself.” “She won’t be stepping anywhere,” Jaxon said quietly.
Ryker nodded once before turning on his heel, his heavy combat boots clicking sharply against the stone as he pushed through the iron door, disappearing into the dark corridor to mobilize his troops.
The room grew noticeably quieter with Ryker gone, but the pressure didn’t lift.
The bond was still humming, a low, electric frequency that connected Lyra to the two remaining brothers in the room.
Cassian set his glass down, stretching his arms behind his head with a lazy, cat-like grace.
“Well, if the vanguard is heading to the border, I suppose I should go find out which minister sold the silver nitrate to the ritual staff.
It’s going to be a long, bloody night in the dungeons.” He walked toward the door, but as he passed Lyra, he paused.
He didn’t touch her, but he leaned down just enough that his breath brushed against the hair near her ear.
“Sleep well, little mouse.
The real monsters don’t come out until the sun goes down.” He slipped through the door, leaving Lyra alone in the room with Jaxon.
The fire in the hearth snapped, a single spark flying up the chimney before dying into gray ash.
Jaxon didn’t move from the table.
He stood with his head bowed over the maps, his shoulders rigid, the crimson veins on his arm looking like open fire in the dim light.
“You’re shaking,” Lyra said quietly, crossing her arms over her chest.
Jaxon let out a slow, ragged breath.
He didn’t look up.
“The feedback from the coronation is…
heavy.
The silver nitrate didn’t just burn my skin, Lyra.
It introduced a toxin to the link.
My wolf is trying to purge it, but because the bond is anchored to a human, the magic is looping.” Lyra hesitated.
Every instinct her mother had beaten into her told her to stay away from a wounded alpha.
A wounded wolf was unpredictable, lethal, and driven entirely by survival metrics.
But the heat beneath her own collarbone was pulling at her, a heavy, agonizing ache that told her that if Jaxon collapsed right now, her own heart would stop matching the rhythm.
She walked slowly across the stone floor, her steps silent on the velvet rug, until she was standing right beside him at the map desk.
She looked at his bare forearm.
The skin was blistering around the crimson mark, the blood beneath the surface dark and static.
Without thinking, she reached out, her small, pale hand hovering over his skin before she finally pressed her palm flat against the center of the burning veins.
Jaxon gasped, his entire body going rigid as steel.
The electric shock that snapped through the room was so violent that the papers on the desk rustled.
But it wasn’t the heat of a burn.
The moment her human skin made direct contact with the wound, the frantic, looping energy in his blood found an exit.
The crimson veins stopped pulsing, the deep, angry red softening into a manageable, dull glow as her human biology absorbed the excess pressure, grounding it through her own steady, forced breaths.
Jaxon slowly lifted his head, his eyes fully black, his face just inches from hers.
His breathing was heavy, ragged, his chest expanding against her sleeve.
“You shouldn’t have touched me,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low, his fangs extending slightly over his lower lip.
“You were dying,” Lyra said, her voice shaking but her gaze remaining rock-solid as she looked into the void of his eyes.
“And I told you before, Jaxon…
I don’t intend to die in your bedroom.” Jaxon’s hand came up, his long fingers closing around her wrist—not to pull her away, but to keep her palm pinned against his skin, holding onto the only anchor that could keep his world from spinning into darkness.
Eleven days remained until the new moon, and the cage had never felt smaller.
Direct skin contact stabilizes the bond, but it’s clear that touching each other is becoming highly addictive for the triplets’ wolves.
With Ryker at the border and Cassian in the dungeons, Jaxon and Lyra are left alone in the dark.