Bound To The North

Chapter 3

The silence stretches.

Not empty — watchful.

The Alpha studies me like a blade laid bare on a table. Not admiring. Assessing. Measuring weight, balance, damage.

“Remove the chains,” he says calmly.

My head snaps up. Suspicion flares sharp and immediate.

The guards hesitate.

“Now.”

Metal scrapes against stone. Slow. Reluctant. Each link loosening feels wrong — not relieving, but exposing. The cuffs fall from my wrists first, then my ankles. Blood rushes back into my hands and feet, pain blooming hot and furious beneath my skin.

I don’t thank him.

I don’t move.

I wait.

The guards retreat to the edges of the hall, weapons lowered but ready. He remains where he is — far enough to strike, far enough to withdraw. Still. Certain.

“Why?” I demand.

“Because you’re not a prisoner,” he replies.

I bark a short, bitter laugh. “You dragged me across half the country in chains.”

“Yes.”

“You blindfolded me.”

“Yes.”

“You bought me.”

“No.”

The word lands hard.

I step forward before I can stop myself. The marble is freezing beneath my bare feet, but the heat in my chest drowns it out. “You don’t get to rewrite this.”

“I’m not rewriting anything,” he says. “I’m correcting it.”

I tilt my head, mockery sharp. “Then correct this.”

I launch myself at him.

It isn’t reckless. It’s precise — knee driving for his center, elbow rising, fingers hooked to rake if I get close enough. I don’t hesitate. I don’t pull back.

He moves.

Not fast.

Effortlessly.

One hand catches my wrist mid-strike. The other closes around my forearm, turning my momentum against me. He pivots, guides, redirects — and suddenly my back hits his chest, breath knocked from my lungs as he pins my arms without crushing them.

Contained.

Not hurt.

My wolf explodes.

LET ME—

I snarl and slam my head back. He leans away just in time, breath brushing my ear, heat searing down my spine. The bond flares violently — not pleasure. Fury. Recognition. Resistance.

“Enough,” he says lowly. Not a command.

A warning.

I thrash anyway. “Get your hands off me!”

He tightens his hold just enough to stop my movement. Not enough to bruise.

“You’re not strong enough yet,” he murmurs near my ear.

The words are quiet.

They cut deeper than any insult.

I freeze.

Slowly, he releases me and steps back at once, giving space immediately — like he’s correcting himself, as if there’s a line he refuses to cross.

My chest heaves. My hands shake. I want to hit him again. I want to run. I want to tear the bond out of my ribs with my teeth.

“You don’t touch me,” I snarl. “Ever again.”

A pause.

Then, “Agreed.”

I blink. That wasn’t what I expected.

He turns slightly, addressing the room without looking at me. “Prepare the west wing. Heated floors. No guards inside. One outside the door.”

The guards exchange looks, then obey.

I stare at him. “You think warmth buys compliance?”

“No,” he replies. “I think frostbite buys resentment.”

I scoff. “You don’t know me.”

He finally meets my gaze.

“I know you were meant to shift in the sun,” he says quietly. “I know the cold is fighting you. I know your wolf is awake — furious and afraid.”

My breath catches despite myself.

“And,” he continues, voice lowering, “I know if you don’t rest soon, your first shift will come whether you want it or not.”

Ice slides down my spine.

“That’s impossible,” I snap. “I’m not ready.”

His jaw tightens.

“Neither was I,” he says.

For the first time since I arrived, something fractures the control in his eyes.

Just for a second.

Fear.

The bond stirs again — not pulling.

Warning.

He steps back, authority snapping into place. “You’ll be given food. Clean clothes. A room that locks from the inside.”

I lift my chin. “And after that?”

His gaze hardens.

“After that,” he says, “we survive each other.”

He turns away.

As the guards approach, my wolf presses close inside me, trembling and sharp.

He is dangerous, she growls.

He is not lying.

And for the first time since the trunk opened and snow burned my skin —

I don’t know which thought frightens me more.

I inwardly sigh a relief. The chains are gone.

Not because he couldn’t keep me bound. Because he chose to let me move — within limits, in his carefully constructed world.

The guards retreat to the edges of the hall, weapons lowered but ready. I step forward cautiously, the cold marble biting beneath my bare feet, snow-stiffened muscles protesting with every move. My wolf snarls softly inside me, sensing the subtle shift in the air — the Alpha’s eyes still on me, calculating, measuring, waiting.

The west wing looms ahead, doors heavy, polished, and precise. My every instinct warns me to stay alert. I map the corridor as we move: the flicker of torchlight, the cold drafts curling along the edges of the walls, the subtle sounds of boots on marble that echo far too clearly.

“Careful where you step,” one of the guards mutters behind me. Smoke from a cigarette curls lazily into the hall. “We wouldn’t want to damage anything… especially for the master.”

I suppress a laugh, though it tastes bitter. Damage is irrelevant. Survival is everything.

Each step is a negotiation — between pain and defiance, between instinct and strategy. My feet are raw from snow and frost, but I keep moving. My eyes scan, noting guard placement, the slight give of the floors, the patterns of the torches. He thinks he’s giving me space. He’s not. Every detail is deliberate.

The door to the west wing closes behind me with a soft click. Heat seeps from the floor into my frozen toes, a small mercy that does nothing to erase the weight of what just happened. One guard waits outside, eyes alert, posture rigid. I sense his vigilance like a physical pressure, and my wolf presses close, restless, sharp.

I kneel briefly, letting the warmth seep into my aching muscles. The bond thrums beneath my skin — low, insistent, warning. The snow, the chains, the forced march, the confrontation — all of it pulses through me, sharpening my senses, feeding my fury.

I trace the scratches from the chains on my wrists. Pain blooms beneath my fingertips, hot and fierce. I flex my hands, feeling the burn in my muscles, and let my wolf stir freely, claws dragging along the edges of my awareness. He is strong, calculated. But he is not the only predator in this game. I am Lyla Vale. I survive. I endure. I fight.

And I watch.

The west wing is not just a room. It is a statement. Heated floors, minimal furniture, a single guard posted outside. Space carefully given — but not freedom. Every detail screams control, strategy, calculation. Every line of the keep, every torch, every frozen corridor, is a silent message: I am aware of you. I see you. You are being measured.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the warmth of the floor, my breath steadying. My wolf paces inside my mind, restless, aware, dangerous. I can feel his influence — the bond pulsing like a warning, an invitation, a tether.

The events of the day replay in my mind: the chains, the snow, the blindfold, the bond flare, the fight, his eyes — those eyes that I will never forget. I survived it all. But every instinct screams that this is only the beginning. That he is three moves ahead. And that my survival — my defiance — will have a cost.

I close my eyes briefly, letting the room, the guard, the heat, and the cold sink in. I breathe through the pain, through the fire in my chest, through the pulse of the bond. I know one thing: I am not broken.

And I will not be.