Bound To The North

Chapter 14

I watch him stride across the hall, long, precise steps that echo softly against the stone. He stops at a set of drawers, hands moving over the handles with a calm certainty that only makes my wolf bristle.

“Some clothes,” he murmurs, pulling them free. A soft scent of linen and faint soap wafts up, clashing with the metallic tang of him still lingering in the air.

“Get these from your last purchased girl?” I taunt, unable to help myself.

His head tilts, slow, deliberate. The slightest tightening of his jaw betrays that he didn’t take kindly to the barb. “I’ve never purchased anyone before,” he replies, flat, measured.

I smirk despite myself. “Oh. So I’m a test subject, then?”

He ignores the jab. Pulling more pieces from the drawer, he folds them with meticulous care, then hands them to me. The fabric brushes my fingers, and I feel the ghost of his presence in the movement, in the deliberate precision of it.

“You’ve shifted,” he says, voice low, almost approving, almost warning. “For the first time. You must be famished. Get dressed. We can talk over dinner.”

My pulse quickens at the words, the tone, the quiet command behind them. Not an order, exactly, but impossible to ignore. The clothes in my hands feel suddenly heavy, charged — a reminder of what I’ve become, of what he’s seen, of the bond humming just beneath the surface.

I glance at him, sharp, defiant, still daring him to step over the line. And for a moment, the hall feels smaller, the air tighter, the game between us more dangerous than any fight I’ve known.

I bite back a retort, shoving the edge of fear and desire down into the corners of my mind. My wolf snarls beneath the surface, restless, urgent. I turn to the clothes, letting the quiet tension build between us — a simmering, potent charge that promises this is far from over.

I don’t move right away.

The clothes rest in my hands, warm from his touch, carrying a scent that makes my wolf restless again. Hunger coils in my stomach now that he’s named it, sharp and undeniable, but I refuse to rush just because he’s decided the moment is over.

He turns slightly, giving me his back without truly turning away — a calculated courtesy. Not trust. Control.

“I’ll have the guards bring you down when you’re ready,” he says evenly.

Guards.

The word snaps something tight in my chest. A reminder that no matter how powerful I feel in this moment, how close my wolf still prowls beneath my skin, I am not free to wander this place on my own terms.

I lift my chin. “I don’t need an escort.”

A pause. Subtle. Dangerous.

“I know,” he replies. “They do.”

His gaze flicks back to me then — brief, assessing, lingering just long enough that my breath stutters despite myself. There’s something unreadable there. Not dominance. Not hunger. Something closer to restraint stretched thin.

Then he steps away, boots echoing softly as he moves toward the doors. The bond tugs as he puts distance between us, not painful, but insistent — like a hand slipping from mine before I’ve decided whether to hold on.

“I’ll be waiting,” he adds, without turning.

The doors close behind him.

Silence settles.

I look down at the clothes again, then at the empty space he left behind. My wolf circles restlessly, still aware of him somewhere below, still pulled toward what waits.

Dinner.

Answers.

And whatever this thing is between us that feels far more dangerous than teeth or claws.