The heavy oak doors of the princes’ private wing didn’t slam; they clicked shut with a terrifying, muffled finality.
Ryker didn’t shove Lyra, but his hand remained flat against the small of her back, a heavy, unyielding weight pushing her into the center of the room.
Her knees gave out the moment the pressure released.
She hit the thick, dark velvet rug, her hands digging into the plush fabric just to keep herself upright.
The room was vast, suffocatingly dark, and smelled of cedar, leather, and the heavy, lingering heat of the three men who inhabited it.
“Lock the outer grate,” Jaxon ordered.
He hadn’t stopped pacing since they left the corridor.
He pulled off his leather coat, tossing it onto a chair, his movements tense and uncharacteristically erratic.
“If anyone from the High Council asks why the third-floor corridor is being scrubbed by the guards instead of the staff, tell them a decorative urn shattered.” “Already handled,” Cassian said.
He closed the double doors, sliding the heavy brass bolt into place.
He didn’t look amused anymore.
The lazy smirk from the corridor was entirely gone, replaced by a sharp, hyper-focused stare that never left Lyra.
Lyra tucked her legs beneath her, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The air in her lungs still burned with the residual heat of that bizarre, electric shock.
Every time one of them breathed out, the scent of midnight flora and winter frost flared in the room, thick enough to choke her.
“Look at me,” Jaxon command.
Lyra hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs, before slowly lifting her chin.
Jaxon stood three paces away, his arms crossed over his chest.
In the dim light of the single fireplace, his amber eyes looked almost blood-red.
“What is your name?” “Lyra,” she whispered, her voice raw.
“Lyra Vance.” “Are you full human?” Ryker barked from the shadows near the balcony.
He was leaning against the stone archway, his arms folded, his eyes tracking the pulse jumping in her throat.
“No hidden lineage?
No grandmother from the northern packs?
No diluted bloodline?” “No,” Lyra said, her voice growing stronger out of sheer desperation.
“My mother was a seamstress from the southern villages.
My father died in the silver mines before I was born.
There is nothing else in me.
I’m human.” “Then explain that,” Cassian stepped closer, pointing the tip of his dagger toward her throat—not to threaten, but to emphasize.
“Explain why my wolf is clawing at my ribs to get to you.
Explain why the heat under my skin didn’t stop until we put ten inches of wood between you and the rest of the palace.” “I don’t know,” Lyra gasped, a tear finally slipping down her cheek, though she angrily wiped it away with the back of her hand.
She refused to let them see her completely break.
“I don’t know anything about your bonds.
I was just trying to do my job.
If you’re going to kill me, just…
do it.
Don’t play games with me.” A heavy silence settled over the room.
Ryker let out a sharp, mocking breath.
“Kill her?
We can’t even touch her without our own skin catching fire, Cass.
If I snap her neck right now, the backlash from a broken fated bond will tear our own wolves apart from the inside.
We’d be crippled before the Council even calls for the vote.” Jaxon rubbed his temples, a gesture of rare frustration.
“He’s right.
The timing is catastrophic.
The King has hours left, at best.
The Shadowtooth Clan is already pushing against the eastern border because they think we’re weak.
If the court finds out the three heirs to the throne are tied to a human maid…” He paused, his gaze dropping to Lyra, cold and assessing.
“…they won’t just challenge us.
They’ll slaughter us.” Lyra watched them, her mind racing.
She was a liability to them.
A weakness.
In the werewolf world, a weakness was something you eradicated, but because of this twisted magic, they couldn’t touch her.
“So we keep her here,” Cassian said quietly, walking over to the massive four-poster bed in the corner of the room.
He leaned against the carved wooden post, his eyes darkening.
“Nobody comes into this wing without our permission anyway.
She stays in the private quarters.
We feed her, we keep her breathing, and we figure out how to break this thing.” “And if the bond triggers again?” Ryker asked, stepping out of the shadows.
He walked over to Lyra, stopping just inches from where she sat on the floor.
The sheer physical presence of him made her want to crawl backward, but she forced herself to sit still.
He leaned down, his face level with hers.
“If she shifts or breathes too hard and it sets us off in the middle of a Council meeting?” “We control it,” Jaxon said firmly.
“We have to.” He walked over, extending a hand toward Lyra.
His fingers were steady, but she could see the slight tension in his jaw.
“Stand up, Lyra.” Lyra looked at his hand, then up at his face.
“If I stay here, my mother will look for me.
The head housekeeper will notice I’m missing from the roster.” “Your mother will be told you’ve been reassigned to the royal archives on the upper levels,” Jaxon said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Your pay will be tripled and sent to her directly.
She will think you’re safe.
But if you try to slip past that door, if you try to whisper a single word of what you saw tonight to anyone…
I don’t care what the bond does to my wolf.
I will personally ensure your family disappears from this city.” The threat was quiet.
It wasn’t theatrical; it was delivered with the calm certainty of a man who owned the ground she stood on.
Lyra swallowed the lump in her throat.
She didn’t take his hand.
Instead, she pushed herself up from the floor using her own strength, her legs shaking slightly but holding her weight.
She stood before the three princes, her chin up, her gaze steady despite the terror humming in her veins.
“I won’t say anything,” Lyra said, her voice dropping to a low, hard whisper.
“But I am not your pet.
If I’m staying in this room, you stay on your side of it.” Cassian let out a low, genuine laugh—a sound that sent a chill straight down her spine.
“A mouse with teeth.
I like her, Jax.
This might actually be fun.” “It’s not a game, Cassian,” Jaxon muttered, turning his back to her as he walked toward the map desk against the wall.
“Go to the washroom, Lyra.
Clean the blood off your shoes.
Your life as a servant ended ten minutes ago.”