Lyra POV*
The dining hall was a crucible of tension, the air heavy with the mingled scents of roasted venison, its herb-crusted surface still glistening, and the sharp tang of red wine in crystal glasses, their ruby glow catching the flickering lantern light. The oak table, polished to a warm sheen, bore the weight of our conflict, its surface scarred from years of pack gatherings now a battleground for words that cut deeper than claws.
Darius’s earlier vow—“I’ve come to take you home”—still reverberated in my skull, a relentless echo that set my heart pounding, each beat a frantic plea to hold my world together. I clung to Jaxon, my fingers digging into his arm, the corded muscle a lifeline, my body pressed so tightly against his that I felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a bulwar
