Chained To An Enemy Alpha

8. Chapter

Zane

Around the fire, movement slowly faded as my people disappeared toward their tents and guard posts. The orange red light of the flames illuminated the trunks of the trees, and when the embers flared now and then, long, twisted shadows slid across the ground. The silence was not complete. The forest never truly sleeps. Yet now the air carried a strange weight, as if every living thing were holding its breath.

So was I.

Because she sat there in front of me. Elariana.

Or, as my wolf had begun to murmur more and more often inside my mind: Lyra.

The meaning of the word vibrated within me. My beloved. Something I had no right to feel. And yet. This raw instinct asked no permission.

I watched as the girl slowly, with a trembling hand, lifted another bite to her mouth. Every movement was soaked in fear, uncertainty, the reflex that at any moment someone might seize her wrist, yank the bowl away, or strike her for daring to take something for herself.

That instinct, that knowledge burned into a life of bondage, wounded me far more deeply than I had expected. And it filled me with shame. Not for what she had done. But for what others had done to her.

My wolf growled inside me, a deep, dull sound only I could hear, yet I felt it vibrating through my chest. It was not aimed at her. Never at her. It was aimed at the entire world that had brought her to this point.

And she, even now, sat as if every breath required permission. When she turned her head away, as if ashamed that I might see her eat, something clenched painfully inside me.

“Enough,” I said softly, and even I was struck by the depth of my own voice. It was not an order. Not a rebuke. Something else entirely. She flinched. The bowl nearly slipped from her hands.

Again, too deep. Too loud. Too much me.

I forced myself to breathe slowly, to draw my aura back, to stop crushing her with it. But an alpha presence is not a switch I can simply turn off when it becomes inconvenient. And she was too weak to bear it. Too broken.

“I did not mean that badly,” I said again, quietly, perhaps more gently than I had ever spoken to anyone before. “I only mean that you should think about whether you have eaten enough. You should not eat too much at first either, or your stomach will cramp, Lyra.”

She looked up at me. Gods. That look. It was not fear. Not only fear. There was something else there too. A cautious, aching hope. As if she still could not believe I would not hurt her, and as if she were most ashamed of that thought.

My wolf dug its claws into my ribs, desperate to break free, to lie beside her and protect her. The urge was so powerful I had to tense my arms to keep from moving. My voice grew rough, dragged from me by instinct.

“Lyra.”

The word escaped on its own. My mind did not choose it. It was the language of the wolf, instinctive, unapologetic, unconcerned with whether the other deserved it. And yet the name fit her perfectly.

For a moment, she did not flinch. She only froze, startled.

In her eyes, something small and fragile flickered. As if a part of her soul recognized the meaning of the word. As if an unfamiliar warmth had brushed against her. That realization hurt. Because it struck me then that this was probably the first time in her life anyone had called her that.

She lowered her head again and murmured softly.

“I am sorry, sir. I am just not used to this.”

Her hand trembled again, but this tremor was different. It did not come from fear, but from the stunned realization that here, she was not beaten for eating. My chest tightened. Harder than in any battle. Harder than when I think of losing my brother.

I sat down across from her, on the other side of the fire, far enough not to smother her, but close enough to hear every breath she took.

“You do not need to apologize for anything,” I said slowly, as if each word slid over a swallowed shard of metal. “But you will have to get used to eating. To receiving. To things not being taken from you.”

She did not look up. But her shoulders shook, and something constricted painfully in my throat. My people murmured softly as they arranged the camp in the background, but I heard only her. Every shallow breath. Every restrained tear she tried to hide.

“Elariana,” I said quietly, barely above a whisper. “Look at me.”

Hesitantly, slowly, she raised her gaze. I had not shouted, had not raised my voice, yet to her it was as binding as a command. Her reflexes ran too deep to respond otherwise. Her face did not ask the question, but her eyes did.

What does he want?

What did I do wrong?

What does he expect of me?

Gods. This girl does not long for freedom. She longs not to be hurt.

“Your tent is ready,” I said in a slow, controlled voice. “In a place where I can see you, hear you, and where no one can touch you except me. Not because I want to touch you. But because I need to know you are safe.”

She nodded slowly, gently, as if afraid the movement itself might be too loud.

“Thank you, sir.”

Then she walked toward the tent. Her movements were so careful, as if she feared even the air might grow angry with her if she passed through it too quickly. I remained by the fire, watching as her slender form disappeared behind the canvas. Only then did I release the breath I had been holding.

My wolf rumbled inside me. Not with anger. With hunger. With the oldest instinct that has ever moved our blood.

Lyra.

My beloved.

Mine.

The one I do not even dare to touch, because she would shatter beneath me.

And there, in the stillness of the night, the realization struck me, tightening my chest and closing my throat.

How do I protect her, when she is frightened even by the sound of my breathing?