The next morning, Lyra woke up smiling.
It was disconcerting.
Her default had always been neutral bordering on defensive, with the occasional spike into pissed‑off. Waking with her face already soft felt like someone else’s life.
The bed was warm where Cassian had been. He’d slipped out earlier for patrol or paperwork—or both—leaving the faint smell of him on the pillow, the dents of his weight in the mattress, and her wolf in an unreasonably smug mood.
“Traitor,” she muttered at herself, but she didn’t stop the small curl at the corner of her mouth.
By the time she made it to the main house, the big room was in full breakfast chaos. Pups underfoot, teens arguing over cereal, Atlas pretending his coffee was enough sustenance, Elara pretending not to notice he hadn’t eaten yet.
Cassia
