The Nightfang pack leader’s cabin was oppressively quiet. Lyra had been anchored to the Oracle Chamber for six hours, the single-minded focus on tactical support having kept the ghosts of her past at bay. She had used her sight sparingly, confirming Ronan's route was secure and the assassin, Sasha, was still tracking towards the Alpha’s Den.
The sun had set completely, and the long, silent night stretched ahead.
Lyra rose from the Alpha's chair, stretching muscles stiff from tension. She walked to the bolted door of the Chamber and placed her hand over the cold iron. Ronan's physical guarantee of safety was comforting, yet his absence was a gaping wound in the golden current of the bond.
She missed the heavy, constant weight of his presence, the simple, undeniable truth of his heartbeat
