Bound To The North

Chapter 6

The light hits me first. Sharp, pale shafts of sun cutting through the high west wing windows, dust motes floating like tiny, indifferent stars. My eyes sting, but I don’t move under the soft blankets of the bed.

Because I’m not on the bed.

I’m on the floor. Heated, yes, but hard and unyielding beneath me. Cold marble pressed against my spine. Most people would never choose this over comfort. I choose it because it’s mine. I refuse to give him anything more than I already have.

The warmth seeps into my muscles, coaxing them awake, but it cannot touch the tension coiling through me. My wolf stirs, low and restless. A nudge at the edge of my mind — an alert I can’t ignore.

I freeze.

Not fear. Awareness. Every hair on my skin prickles as the scent hits me first — unmistakable, impossible to misread. Metallic, sharp, predatory. Alpha. My wolf growls, low, insistent, warning me that he is in the room. Not close enough to touch, but near enough that I can feel the rhythm of him through the bond, feel the heat in my chest, the subtle pull against my own wolf’s edge.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe louder than necessary. Let him watch. Let him wait. I’ve survived worse than this. My wolf presses close, sharp and trembling, aware of him as much as I am. She’s tense, ready, alive — ready to leap, to fight, to resist.

I curl slightly, arms beneath my head. The smell of stone, of snow, of him, lingers. I can feel him observing me, noting my posture, my choice to lie on the hard floor rather than a bed meant to comfort. A quiet defiance. A silent message: I am not yours to tame.

It’s my birthday. Eighteen years. And the first morning of my life as something more, something stronger, something that refuses to bend.

The sun moves higher. The room warms. I stay on the floor. Not stubborn. Not scared. Ready. Watching. Waiting.

Because I already know. He is here. And he will not be ignored.

And then I feel it: a brush against my shoulder. Light. Almost casual. But my body reacts anyway — heat pooling where his touch lingers, a pulse running through my veins.

“You’re awake,” his voice murmurs, low, curling around me. Calm. Controlled. Testing.

I tense, refusing to respond. The bond stirs, the heat intensifying. He brushes my back now, fingertips ghosting across my spine, and I grit my teeth. My wolf huffs, sharp and furious, pushing back.

He places a gift beside me “Happy Birthday Lyla” he groans deeply. I eye the box — wrapped carefully, a thin black ribbon holding it closed. I make a point of glancing at it and choosing to Ignore it. Refuse it. A small act of defiance.

“You like testing me,” he says, words slow, deliberate, tracing over my mind as much as my body. “Careful, Lyla… you might not like what happens when you yield.”

I stiffen. My breath hitches. Every inch of me knows exactly where his fingers linger, the subtle pressure, the heat, the way he’s claiming a sliver of my attention without even touching fully. Desire rises — sharp, hot, impossible to ignore — and for the first time, I want him.

I clench my teeth. My body coils, muscles tight. My wolf presses against the stirrings, snarling, restraining, reminding me of who I am, what I’ve been trained to survive. I will not give in.

He senses it. I can feel it in the way the pressure of the bond tightens, teasing, demanding, daring me to falter. And I almost do.

A shiver races down my spine. Heat pools in places that make my cheeks flush, my body hum with the tension between instinct and restraint. My wolf growls, claws sinking into the edge of awareness, keeping me upright. I take a deep, steadying breath. Not yet. Not now. I resist.

He miscalculates. He can see it — the tiniest bend in my resistance, the small tremor in my muscles. His control snaps, sharp and dangerous, frustration threading the air. “Enough,” he growls, voice low and lethal.

I freeze. My wolf growls, warning me to hold my ground. My body hums with heat I don’t want, want I refuse.

“Do not forget this, Lyla,” he murmurs, just a breath away from me. “I can feel everything. Your pulse, your wolf, your stubbornness… and I will break you if you let me. One slip, one falter, and the consequences are yours to bear.”

I swallow hard, heart hammering, but I do not move. My wolf snarls, quivering in fury and frustration. I am not afraid. Not yet.

He leans back just enough to release the pressure, his hand dropping from hovering to idle at his side. His eyes — sharp, dangerous, blazing — scan me. “But I do not want to break you,” he says, voice low, almost intimate, almost cruel. “Not yet.”

Then he is gone. The warmth fades, the bond slackens. Silence presses against me, thick and suffocating, leaving me trembling. My wolf presses against the edges of my control, both exultant and furious.

I curl my fingers into fists, pressing them into the cool marble beneath me. The heat of his touch still slightly lingers, insistent, teasing, and I hate that it does. My wolf thrashes beneath my skin, claws sinking into instinct, urging me to surrender.

But I don’t. I will not.

A part of me wants to give in, to lean into the warmth, to let the bond claim me — just a little. It whispers that it would be easier, that the tension would ease. That part of me falters.

But I remember.

The chains. The snow. The ride. The cold that bit into my toes. The way he underestimated me. The way I refused to bow, even for a moment. That part of me — the part that has survived everything my father could throw at me, the part that has been trained to fight, to endure, to resist — it snarls inside, fierce and unbroken.

I will not be tamed. Not now. Not by him. Not by the bond.

I rise, pushing myself off the floor, muscles trembling but steady. I am Lyla Vale. I am my father’s daughter. I am a weapon. And I will remain that way, no matter how tempting the bond becomes.

I know he will test me again. And I will meet it.

Because surrender is not an option. I curl my knees up in my arms and sat quietly with my thoughts. And yet… my eyes flick toward the small black box on the marble floor, sitting untouched. I don’t move closer. I don’t reach. I simply glance, once, letting it sit in my awareness. Curiosity fumbles at the edges of my mind — what could he possibly give? — but I push it down. A quiet challenge, a reminder that some things are his to offer, but not mine to take.