Bond Of Defiance

Lazy

Hazel spent the rest of the day buried in work, reviewing patrol rotations, drilling new border protocols, interrogating the sentries who had missed a lone rogue’s intrusion. She was relentless, her commands clipped and cold, leaving no room for excuses. The pack felt the chill of her mood and moved like shadows around her.

By nightfall, the compound buzzed with quiet speculation. Whispers followed her everywhere: the rogue who had walked through their defenses like mist, the alpha who had lost her composure in broad daylight, the dungeon cell now holding a wolf no one understood. Hazel ignored it all. But she couldn’t ignore the bond. It thrummed beneath her skin like a second pulse, low and constant, growing sharper whenever her thoughts drifted toward the stone corridors below. Arya paced restlessly, whining for her mate, furious at the silver bars keeping him caged. Hazel refused to sleep, she sat at her desk until the moon climbed high, reports blurring before her eyes.

Deep in the dungeon, Anthony, once heir to one of the most feared betas in the northern packs, sat on the cold stone floor with his back against the wall, legs stretched out, utterly relaxed.

He had been born first, strongest of his litter, his wolf Knight, was a beast that rivaled most alphas in raw power. His father had groomed him for greatness: enforcer, perhaps even future alpha through alliance or conquest. Packs had whispered his name with respect and fear long before he’d reached adulthood.

But Anthony had never wanted it. He thrived on being underestimated, the wide eyes, the dropped jaws when the “scrawny rogue” or “mischievous scoundrel” revealed the steel beneath the grin. He loved the moment people realized his careless words and lazy posture hid a mind sharp enough to cut glass and strength enough to shatter bone.

Anthony never craved the weight of a crown. Power, to him, was just another word for obligation, endless meetings, endless decisions, and endless lives balanced on his shoulders. He watched his father, Beta Richard, carry that burden with grim pride, and decided early it wasn’t for him. Leading meant responsibility and responsibility meant chains.

He was too lazy for that, or so he told himself with a lazy grin whenever anyone asked. Truth was, freedom tasted better than glory. When the time came that whispers turned to expectations, that his strength, his wolf Knight’s raw dominance marked him as the natural successor, Anthony didn’t fight for it.

No dramatic challenge. No bloody coup. No midnight duel under the moon. One dawn, while the pack still slept off the night’s hunt, he simply walked away.

Clothes on his back, boots laced loose, and a stolen strip of jerky in his pocket. He paused at the border long enough to glance back at the watchtower where his father stood silhouette against the rising sun.

Raised a hand, winked then vanished into the mist. Richard Broderick never forgave him for it. The pack spun stories: the lost heir, the ghost in the wild, the wolf who could have ruled them all but chose the wind instead.

Campfire tales grew with every telling.

Some called it cowardice. Others, madness. And a few, the quiet ones who dreamed of open skies, called it bravery.

Anthony didn’t care what they called it.

He slept under stars no alpha ever bowed to. He answered to no one and belonged to nothing. And for years, that was enough. Until he stumbled into Crescent Moon Pack and met a jasmine-scented storm named Hazel Lyon.

ANTHONY

I leaned my head back against the cold stone wall, eyes half-lidded, the faint burn of silver against my skin a familiar, almost comforting sting. The cell was pathetic, really. These bars were close enough to touch without reaching, but they might as well have been made of straw. She actually thought this little box could hold me. I could leave whenever I wanted.

‎A partial shift, just enough to turn my bones to fluid and narrow my shoulders, and I’d slip through those bars like smoke through a keyhole. Sure, the silver would bite. It would sear my skin into something unrecognizable for a few agonizing seconds, but I’d be healed and whole before I even hit the first step of the cellar stairs. I’d endured far worse for far less.

‎I let out a slow, jagged exhale, feeling the sharp twinge in my ribs where she’d kicked me. My own personal souvenirs. A faint smile pulled at my mouth; she was the most beautiful, furious thing I’d ever had the pleasure of seeing.

‎She thinks she’s the one with the leash. Let her keep thinking that for a little longer.

​Hazel Lyon, the name tasted like woodsmoke and iron. The daughter of the very lineage that had tried to bleed my family dry for generations. Iron Fang and Silver Crest are two names synonymous with war, contested borders, and graves too shallow for peace. My father’s enforcers still bore scars from clashes with her parents’ warriors. Old vendettas, older hatreds.

And fate, with its vicious, perfect sense of humor, had knotted me to her. I hadn’t come looking for chains.

I’d spent my entire life making sure no one could pin me down. Not a pack, not a rank, and certainly not a mate. I’d walked away from power that would have been mine for the taking. Knight, my wolf, was raw, unrivaled force; he could have shattered any challenger in Iron Fang and claimed alpha without breaking stride. I could have ruled. Should have, by some accounts. But I’d watched power rot good men from the inside out. Watched freedom calcify into obligation.

So I drifted. Slept beneath open skies, and answered to the wind and nothing else.

Love? Commitment? Those are just fancy names for pretty prisons.

Then the rumors reached me: a female alpha who refused to bend, who crushed armies and suitors alike. Campfire tales, I thought, exaggerated stories to spook scouts. But curiosity is a cruel mistress. When Willow Moon mustered their pathetic raid on gala night, I shadowed them through the treeline, silent, unseen, just to glimpse the legend for myself.

I never intended to cross her borders. I never intended to find my mate. But there she was: a storm in moonlight and jasmine, dismantling invaders with lethal grace. Magnificent, terrifying. Everything I’d never allowed myself to want. The bond struck like lightning, sudden, searing, impossible to ignore.

I needed her to reject me. Needed the tie severed before it rooted too deep. Walking in as Iron Fang blood was suicide; I’d shed that scent years ago, and now I carried only the wild mark of a rogue.

So I crafted a reason to get close, one harmless enough not to raise immediate alarm. I slipped into their pantry like a ghost, helped myself to bread and cheese… and waited.

Her wolves found me first, when they called her over, she was furious, with aura radiant, and crackling, I couldn’t resist pointing out the gaps in her security. The truth stung her pride, and the next thing I knew, her fists were singing against my ribs. I’m still not sure which enraged her more: the breach… or the bond. Either way, it was the most alive I’d ever felt.

I took every blow with a grin because watching her unrivaled was totally worth the pain. I let her win because I would never raise a hand against someone I could break without trying… and because, like it or not, she was my mate. The thought of truly harming her felt like a sin.

We’ll reject each other. We have to. I’ll speak the words, sever the thread, and vanish before it can pull me under. Back to the open road. Back to starlit silence and the sweet emptiness of belonging to no one. I told myself that was still what I wanted.

****

The next morning broke clear and cold, frost silvering the grass beyond the packhouse windows. Hazel rose before dawn, as always, but sleep had evaded her entirely. The bond had kept her awake, restless, humming, pulling eastward toward the dungeon like an invisible thread tied around her sternum.

She dressed in simple training leathers, hair braided tight, and went straight to the training yards. She pushed the warriors harder than usual, sparring until her muscles screamed, running drills until exhaustion dulled the ache in her chest. It helped. Marginally.

By midday, the reports came in: borders reinforced, new patrol patterns implemented, no further signs of intrusion. Good. The pack was responding to her command, not to yesterday’s spectacle. But the whispers hadn’t stopped. Jason found her in the armory, sharpening a set of silver-tipped claws that didn’t need sharpening.

“He hasn’t said a word,” Jason reported quietly. “Not to the guards, not to the healer who checked his injuries. Just sits there, calm as you please. Eats what’s brought to him. Watches the door like he’s waiting for someone specific.”

Hazel’s hand stilled on the whetstone.

Isabelle appeared in the doorway a moment later, arms crossed. “The pack wants to know how long he stays down there. Some think mercy. Others think you’re planning something worse.”

“Let them wonder,” Hazel said, resuming her strokes with deliberate calm. “Fear and curiosity keep discipline sharp.”

Jason hesitated. “And you? How long do you plan to leave him?”

Hazel set the claw down with a soft clink.

“Until I’m ready.”

But she wasn’t ready that day, or the next. Three days passed in a tense standoff. Hazel buried herself in pack business, meetings with allies, trade negotiations, preparations for the next full moon. She avoided the eastern watchtower entirely, but the bond made sure she never forgot its existence. Every night, Arya grew more agitated. Every night, Hazel’s dreams filled with storm-gray eyes and the scent of rain-soaked earth.

On the fourth morning, she snapped.

She descended the dungeon stairs alone, boots echoing against stone. The guards snapped to attention, surprise flickering, across their faces. No one had visited the prisoner except to deliver meals.

The silver-laced cell door stood at the end of the corridor.

Anthony sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, hands resting loosely on his knees, eyes closed as if meditating. The bruises from her fists were gone. His rags had been replaced with a clean black tunic and trousers, but he still looked dangerously at ease in captivity.

He opened his eyes the moment her scent reached him. That half-smirk returned instantly.

“Took you long enough, Alpha.”

Hazel stopped in front of the bars, arms folded, voice cold. “Enjoying your vacation?”

“Immensely,” he replied, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. He approached the bars but stopped just short of the silver, close enough that the bond flared hot between them. “Good food. Quiet neighbors. Excellent company when the guards change shifts.”

His gaze swept over her slowly, appreciatively, lingering on the tight braid, the leathers hugging her frame.

“You look tired,” Anthony added softly, his voice a low rumble that seemed to stroke along her nerves. “Not sleeping well?”

Arya lunged forward inside her, frantic and feral, desperate to erase the space between them.

Hazel’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Don’t pretend concern. You’re here because you earned it.”

Anthony tilted his head, studying her with that maddening calm. “Did I? For feeding myself… or for pointing out your borders need work?”

“Both,” she snapped, the word sharp enough to cut. “And for mocking me in front of my pack.”

His smirk softened, slowly, deliberately, into something warmer, almost genuine. “I mocked your security, not you. There’s a difference.”

Hazel stepped closer, close enough now that his scent flooded her senses again, wrapping around her like smoke. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“You were in my room two nights ago. How exactly did you get out?”

Anthony placed a hand over his chest in theatrical innocence, eyes widening with exaggerated shock. “Me? I have no recollection of any daring jailbreak. You really should stop slinging accusations without evidence, Alpha.”

Hazel stared, incredulous. The shamelessness of it, the way he all but confessed while cloaking it in denial, was infuriating. Heat flared in her chest, part rage, part something far more treacherous.

He watched her reaction with quiet amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching upward again. The bond pulled taut between them, humming with unspoken challenge.

“Who are you, really? No rogue is that calm in silver. No ordinary wolf slips through my patrols like smoke. Start talking.”

Anthony held her gaze for a long, weighted moment, his storm-gray eyes unreadable, as if weighing how much truth she could handle.

“Name’s Anthony Broderick,” he said finally. “Son of Beta Richard of Iron Fang Pack, northern ridge.” He shrugged, the motion deceptively casual, as if confessing legendary bloodlines was no different from commenting on the weather.

Hazel’s eyes narrowed to slits. She knew Iron Fang intimately, old enemies, brutal and unrelenting. Their beta’s line bred monsters who carved their names into battlefield legends.

“And you expect me to believe the heir to that bloodline just… wandered into my pantry by accident, smelling like a rogue?”

“No,” he admitted, voice dropping to a rough murmur, gaze locking onto hers with sudden intensity. “I told you, something dragged me here. Something I couldn’t name or outrun.”

The bond surged between them, hot, electric, undeniable, stealing the air from her lungs. Hazel regarded him curiously. Anthony leaned forward until the silver bars were the only thing keeping them apart, his voice a gravel whisper meant for her alone.

“I’m not your enemy, Alpha. I’m not here for your throne, your pack, or your pride. Truth is, I want none of it. So let’s save us both the trouble, reject each other, clean and quick. I’ll be on my way, and you can forget I ever existed. Win-win.”

He paused, watching the shock ripple across her face, the way her eyes flickered between fury and something rawer.

“I’ll start,” he continued, straightening with quiet resolve. “I, Anthony Michael Broderick, reject you—”

He stopped, eyes burning into hers. “What’s your full name, Alpha? Need it to cut the bond properly.”

“You… you want to reject me?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, sharp with disbelief.

She had decided that very morning to sever it herself, Arya had raged against the idea but hearing him offer it first, so matter-of-fact, lit a fire of pure affront in her chest. He had no right. No right to beat her to it. That infuriating smirk ghosted across his lips again, small, knowing, utterly maddening.

“Of course,” he said, tone almost innocent. “Wasn’t that the whole point of locking me in here? I’m just making it easier.”

Hazel’s aura erupted, raw alpha power flooding outward in furious waves. Every lower-ranking wolf within ten meters staggered under the pressure, breaths shortening, instincts screaming submission.

But Anthony didn’t flinch. He stood calm as deep water, completely untouched, the smirk softening into something almost tender. The immunity, the sheer ease of it, poured fuel on her rage.

Her heart thundered, blood roaring in her ears. For a long moment she stood frozen, staring at him through the bars, insult, pride, and the bond’s treacherous heat warring behind her eyes. Then, without a single word, she turned on her heel and strode away, boots striking stone like hammer blows. The heavy door slammed behind her, echoing down the corridor.

Down in the cell, Anthony exhaled slowly, forehead resting against the cool silver.

Knight whined, low, mournful, refusing to be silenced. He told himself the ache blooming in his chest was relief. But it felt far too much like regret.