Bound To The North

Chapter 7

The west wing is quiet now. Empty. Still. The light through the tall windows is sharp, pale, cutting across the floor in thin, deliberate beams. The warmth seeps from the marble beneath me, coaxing my muscles awake, but it cannot touch the fire coiling in my chest.

The bond lingers, tight and teasing, as if he’s still here. My pulse surges at the memory of his fingers brushing along my spine, the way he tested me — tested my wolf, tested me — and lost. That morning, the first part of me to wake isn’t human, isn’t me. It’s her, my wolf, clawing, hissing, restless.

I glance at it, the small, black box sitting almost casually in the corner of the room. My heartbeat jumps. I don’t know why he left it, or what it means. And yet I can smell him on it — metallic, predatory, impossibly sharp. My wolf growls at the scent, pressing at my mind, alert, hungry.

I flex my fingers against the cool marble beneath me. My pulse still echoes in my ears. The box calls to me, and I refuse. Defiance tastes sweet, sharper than blood. I will not give him anything more than I have.

I scoff, sarcasm curling like smoke in the quiet room. “What could he possibly give me? Chocolates? A scented candle? A note reminding me I’m his property?”

I stare. My wolf snarls. Curiosity claws at me.

I can’t help it. I push myself upright and approach the box, circling it like a predator myself, wary, calculating. Every instinct screams at me to destroy it, or open it — to know, to dominate.

Finally, hands trembling just slightly, I lift the lid.

Inside lies a ring. Not simple, not cheap — a piece of art. Intricate filigree, small but unmistakably regal, catching the sunlight in fiery sparks. I freeze, breath catching, senses exploding. The metallic tang of him clings to it. The bond flares inside me, stirring her, my wolf, into a frenzy. Desire, anger, something hot and dangerous I’ve never felt before coils through me.

Beneath it, a note:

You are mine, Lyla.

You always have been.

You belong with me.

Every word hits me like a whip. Pulse surges. Heat blooms where his fingers brushed, where his scent lingers in the bond. My wolf thrashes, claws sinking into awareness, furious, frustrated. The bond wraps around me, teasing, pulling, whispering that I want him — that I need him, whether I admit it or not.

I press my fists into the floor. I will not give in. Not yet. Not ever. My wolf snarls, tense and desperate, and I match her growl, keeping upright, keeping control.

“Not mine,” I murmur under my breath, teeth clenched. “Never.”

The bond flares again, a pulse of heat and tension that drags at the edges of my resolve. Every fiber of me — wolf and human alike — wants to give in, wants to lean into the warmth, the desire, the connection. My pulse is a drum in my ears. I taste it. I feel it. I want him.

And then it breaks me.

Not fully, not willingly. But enough.

The first shift rips through me like wildfire. Heat and pain, claws slicing through skin, teeth elongating, senses exploding in brilliance and terror. My wolf bursts into full awareness inside me, roaring, hissing, muscles rippling beneath skin I barely recognize as my own. Every breath is sharp, wild, burning. My limbs stretch, lengthen, twist. My senses — every single one — is a weapon. My eyes catch every detail of the west wing, the sunlight, the scent of the snow outside, the faint trace of him that lingers in the room.

The ring falls from my hand with a soft clink. I barely notice. The note flutters to the floor. The bond thrums, pulsing against my senses, tugging, demanding, whispering that he’s here even when he isn’t.

I roar. I snarl. My claws dig into the marble. My wolf thrashes, trying to take over, trying to claim me entirely. My mind is a storm — exhilaration, fear, lust, anger — and for the first time, I understand what it is to be a weapon unleashed.

And yet, even as the fire rages, the heat burns hotter than anything the shift has given me, a thought anchors me: I will not be tamed. Not by him. Not by the bond. Not yet.

I stagger to my knees, claws retracting slightly, muscles trembling, fur smoothing into place beneath my skin as I regain a fragile control. My chest heaves. My wolf snarls inside, furious, triumphant, aware that we’ve crossed a line — one the Alpha will notice when he returns.

I glance at the box again. My fingers itch, my wolf growls, curiosity and defiance warring in tandem.

And yet, for now, I do nothing.

I am Lyla Vale. I am my father’s daughter. I am not his to claim, not even in part.

The ring gleams in the morning sun. A promise. A warning. And I will decide when and if I acknowledge it.

For now, I remain untamed.