CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1624 Words
LYRA
I was flying.
The sky stretched endlessly above me, a suffocating canvas of black threaded with blood-red clouds. The wind howled like a beast beneath my wings—wings I didn’t remember having, yet moved like they had always been a part of me. Each beat echoed through the silence like war drums.
Heavy. Purposeful.
Below, the earth was nothing but shadow. Twisted trees clawed at the sky. Rivers ran black. Nothing alive dared move under my gaze.
Up here, I was something else. Something feared. I felt it in the way the night bowed around me. I was no longer running. No longer prey. I was the storm circling above the hunt.
And I wanted the fear.
I dove, slicing through the air like a blade. The world screamed as I passed, wind screaming, shadows shuddering. My cry shattered the silence, raw and ancient and full of something I couldn’t name.
But it wasn’t freedom. Not really.
It was hunger.
Something in me craved the chase, the violence—the power. Something primal and broken.
Lightning split the sky.
And that was when I saw it.
A single figure standing on the edge of a cliff, cloaked in shadow. Watching me. Waiting. No face, no form—just presence. It called to me. Pulled me down.
Faster.
Faster.
I spiraled toward it, wings tucked, heart pounding like a warning. I didn’t know if I was the predator or the prey anymore.
The moment I was close enough to see its eyes—green and cruel, so much like his—I felt the sky rupture beneath me.
Everything shattered.
The wind was gone. The power disappeared.
And I was falling.
Falling through a sky made of screams.
Through smoke.
Through fire.
Through blood.
I jolted upright, gasping.
Sweat clung to my skin and I breathed out in relief. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.
The first thing I noticed was the bed.
Soft. Too soft. It cradled my body in a way that felt completely foreign—luxurious, almost deceitful. My bed wasn’t like this. The one in my room was thin, lumpy, stiff in all the wrong places. Meant to keep someone alive, not comfortable.
This? This was… indulgent.
And that was my first warning.
Then the memories hit me—sharp and fast, like shards of broken glass. Wolves. Growls. The blur of fur and claws. Pain searing through my body. The sound of my scream swallowed by the forest. The heavy weight of something dragging me down, darkness closing in like a tide.
My breathing quickened as I sat upright in a panic, heart thundering against my ribs.
But…
There was no pain.
No tearing in my shoulder. No deep ache in my muscles. No broken skin or blood crusted across my body. I moved my fingers. Flexed my legs. My body felt whole—rested, even. Like I hadn’t been ripped apart just hours ago. Or how long had it been?
Like the fight was a lie, or a dream that ended too clean.
But it wasn’t a dream.
I remembered every second of it. Every bite. Every breathless second of trying not to die.
And yet… I felt untouched.
I looked around slowly, my eyes adjusting to the dim glow bleeding through heavy curtains. The room was cloaked in deep shadows and silence. Stone walls loomed around me, cool and familiar. The scent hit me next—parchment and cedarwood.
A chill settled in my bones.
Because I knew this place.
Ronan’s room.
I didn’t remember how I got here.
I didn’t remember being brought in.
One minute, I was drowning in pain and darkness—the next, I was swaddled in softness that felt entirely wrong. And now… this.
My eyes swept across the room, slow and cautious.
There—at the far end, seated at a heavy wooden desk, was Ronan.
Shit.
He sat rigidly, his broad back to me, the firelight playing off his dark shirt and casting sharp shadows across the stone floor. One hand moved in smooth, fluid strokes, scribbling something into a leather-bound journal with the kind of focused intensity that suggested the fate of the world might be trapped inside those pages.
He hadn’t noticed I was awake.
Good.
Whatever he was writing seemed to require every ounce of his attention, and the scratch of pen on parchment was the only sound in the room aside from the quiet crackle of the fire.
This was my chance.
I could sneak out. Slip through the door. Pretend I’d never been here and avoid whatever fresh hell he had waiting next.
Yes. I could do this.
Carefully, I shifted one leg out from under the blanket.
The mattress sighed under my weight.
I froze.
He didn’t move.
Good.
Okay. One leg down. Other leg next. I inched off the bed like it was made of glass, biting back a wince as the cold stone floor met the soles of my feet.
I took a step.
Then another.
You’re doing it, I told myself. You’re basically a ninja. He doesn’t suspect a thing.
I was halfway to the door when—
“I’d suggest fewer dramatic pauses between steps next time,” Ronan said without turning. His voice was maddeningly calm, laced with amusement. “And perhaps a little less… breathing.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Of course he noticed.
Of course he did.
I turned slowly, shoulders stiff with defeat. “How long have you known I was awake?”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Since you realized the bed was too soft.”
Gods.
“Right,” I muttered.
I straightened and folded my arms, trying to salvage whatever was left of my dignity. “Well, now that I’m up. I’ll just—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off as he turned fully in his chair. “Sit.”
I blinked at him. “I—”
“You heard me,” Ronan said, voice like cut glass. “Sit.”
He didn’t raise it. Didn’t have to. There was something in the way he said it, in the way the air seemed to still when he looked at me like that—like I was a problem he hadn’t quite decided how to solve yet.
Still, I didn’t move. Not right away. I held his gaze for a moment too long, just to be difficult. Just to remind him that I wasn’t his.
Then, slowly, I sank back onto the edge of the bed. Not because he told me to. At least, that’s what I told myself.
Ronan studied me in silence. Then, finally—
“How are you feeling?”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “After being nearly ripped to pieces by a pack of wolves? After getting thrown into your little gladiator show like bait?” I leaned back on my palms, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I’m great. Never better. Maybe we should do it again sometime. Bring snacks. Make it an event.”
His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker of guilt.
Bastard.
“I wasn’t asking for your theatrics,” he said. “I was asking if you’re hurt.”
I stared at him, then down at my body. My skin was clean, unmarred. No blood. No bruises. No broken ribs or shredded shoulders. Not even a scratch.
That was almost more terrifying.
“I was,” I muttered. “I remember the pain. The blood. One of them nearly crushed my ribs—”
“Cracked,” Ronan said, interrupting. “Not broken.”
“Oh, good,” I deadpanned. “That’s a relief.”
He stood then, slow and deliberate. “Your body was healed.”
“I figured that much out myself, thanks.”
He started walking toward me, and every muscle in my body tensed. I didn’t care that I’d survived the fight. Didn’t care that I could breathe without pain. His presence alone felt like pressure on my chest.
“I didn’t do it out of kindness,” he said. “You’re only alive because you’re still useful. Don’t confuse that with mercy.”
My jaw clenched. “You think I’m confused?”
“I think you’re stupid enough to try and sneak out of a room you were never going to escape from,” he said, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “And arrogant enough to believe you still have a choice.”
I shot to my feet, fists clenched at my sides. “You want me dead, Ronan? You should’ve let them finish it.”
His smirk vanished like it had never existed. He stepped toward me slowly, deliberately, each movement like a warning. “And let you die like that?” he said, voice low and cold. “Weak. Bloodied. Curled up in the dirt, begging for it to stop?”
I said nothing, just glared at him.
He stopped inches away from me, towering over me, his gaze sharp enough to slice skin.
“That would’ve been a mercy,” he murmured.
The words hit harder than claws ever could.
I blinked, breath catching, chest tight.
“A clean death, quick and forgettable,” Ronan continued, almost thoughtful. “But mercy isn’t what you’re owed. And I don’t believe in wasting valuable things.”
I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to scream. But instead, I straightened, swallowing every ounce of fury that burned in my throat.
“I hate you,” I said softly.
His voice was even lower when he replied, “Good. That’ll keep you alive”
- Writer
