Bound by the shadows

Behind closed doors

The pounding on her door didn’t stop.

Lyra froze where she stood, her chest rising and falling too fast, her eyes darting between the oak door and the shadowed window. Two presences pressed against her at once: Darius’s voice, sharp and commanding on the other side of the door, and the rogue’s silver gaze gleaming from the treeline.

It was suffocating. She couldn’t breathe.

“Lyra.” Darius’s tone cut through her panic, colder now. “Open this door or I’ll break it down.”

Her wolf snarled inside her, torn. One heartbeat urged her toward the Alpha who had once been her mate, the other dragged her toward the stranger who should have been her enemy.

“Please,” Lyra whispered, though to whom, she wasn’t sure.

The pounding stopped. Silence stretched for one terrifying second—then the door creaked open.

Of course Darius had the key. Of course he would come in whether she wanted him to or not.

He stepped inside, tall and rigid, his storm-grey eyes sweeping the room. They landed on her in an instant, narrowing. Lyra’s pulse skittered as she realized how damning she must look—flushed cheeks, trembling hands, standing far too close to the window.

“What’s going on?” His voice was calm, but the undercurrent of suspicion cut sharp.

Lyra’s throat dried. “Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

Darius’s gaze flicked toward the open curtains. For a heartbeat she thought he might see what she had seen, that silver glint in the darkness. But when he stepped forward and peered out, there was nothing there but shadows and trees.

Her chest squeezed painfully. The rogue was gone.

Darius turned back to her, his jaw tight. “You’ve been acting strange since last night.”

Lyra forced her chin up, though her legs trembled. “I told you. I was attacked by rogues. I’m still shaken, that’s all.”

He studied her, eyes unreadable. For a moment, she thought she glimpsed something behind the hardness—concern, maybe, or guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it came.

“You should have reported it properly.”

Her laugh was hollow. “Would you have cared?”

Darius’s expression didn’t change, but the air between them thickened. “Don’t test me, Lyra. You’re lucky you survived.”

Lucky.

Her stomach turned. She thought of the rogue’s hand gripping her wrist, of the bond that had exploded inside her veins. Lucky wasn’t the word for it. Cursed, maybe. Marked.

She hugged her arms around herself and turned away, staring at the floorboards so he couldn’t see the tears brimming in her eyes. “I’m tired,” she murmured. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

Silence stretched. For once, Darius didn’t argue. He lingered a moment longer, then said, “Clean yourself up. Training resumes at noon. Don’t embarrass me in front of the others.”

The words cut sharper than any blade. He left without another glance, the door clicking shut behind him.

Lyra sank onto her bed, shaking so hard she could barely breathe.

Through the thin window, the forest loomed silent and dark.

But she could still feel him.

The rogue.

Waiting.

Watching.

And the bond inside her chest thrummed like a chain pulled taut, promising this wasn’t over.

Lyra stripped her training clothes from her body as if they were burning her skin. The moment Darius’s footsteps faded down the hall, she bolted to the washroom, locking the door behind her.

Her reflection in the cracked mirror was wild-eyed, haunted. She hated the way she looked—like prey. Like a liar.

You’re marked, her wolf murmured.

Lyra ignored her. She turned the water as hot as it would go and stepped under the spray. Steam rose instantly, curling around her as she scrubbed at her skin until it burned.

Her wrists. Her throat. Her chest.

Anywhere his touch had lingered.

But no matter how hard she scrubbed, the phantom sensation remained—the warmth of his hand, the weight of his gaze, the way her entire soul had shifted when their eyes had met.

She slammed her palms against the tile, chest heaving. “Get out of my head!” she choked.

Her wolf only growled softly in return. You can’t wash away a bond.

Tears mingled with the water as she slid down to her knees, curling into herself. She hated that she felt… alive. That in the chaos of fear and forbidden longing, a part of her had woken up for the first time in months.

And she hated that she wanted more.

By the time she forced herself out of the shower, her skin was red and raw, but the mark lingered inside her chest. A weight she couldn’t shake.

Whispers followed her when she arrived at the training grounds. She felt every stare prick against her like needles.

“That’s her—the rejected one.”

“Did you see how she broke down yesterday?”

“She’s weak. If she really fought rogues, how is she still breathing?”

Lyra’s fists curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She kept her chin high, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break again.

But their words dug deep.

When the warriors paired off to spar, no one stepped toward her. Even the young trainees avoided her like she carried disease.

Darius watched from the edge of the field, arms folded, expression hard. He didn’t intervene. Didn’t speak. Didn’t defend her.

For a moment, Lyra’s vision blurred with rage. She wanted to scream at him, to demand why he would let his pack tear her apart piece by piece. But instead she threw herself into drills alone, striking at the training post until her knuckles bled.

With each blow, she whispered silently to herself. I won’t break. I won’t break.

But when the bond tugged again, sharp and insistent, her knees nearly buckled.

The rogue.

He was close.

Her wolf howled inside her. He’s near, Lyra. Watching again.

Lyra’s head snapped toward the treeline, heart hammering, but all she saw were shifting shadows and leaves stirred by the wind. No silver eyes this time. Just the ache in her chest, relentless and consuming.

“Pathetic,” one of the warriors muttered loud enough for her to hear.

Heat burned behind her eyes. She spun back to the post and drove her fist into it until the wood cracked. Blood slicked her knuckles, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Because if she did, the whispers would drown her. The bond would consume her.

And she wasn’t ready to admit, even to herself, which one scared her more.

That night, she dreamed of him.

The rogue stood in the center of a moonlit clearing, silver eyes locked onto hers. His presence was a tidal wave crashing over her, overwhelming and intoxicating.

“You feel it too,” he said, voice low, raw. “Don’t deny it.”

Lyra’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her wolf surged forward, pressing against him, desperate.

Her heart screamed something else entirely—terror, fury, betrayal.

She woke with a strangled cry, sweat slicking her skin, the phantom heat of his touch still clinging to her.

And the worst part?

She already knew she would dream of him again.