The first thing Lyra felt was pain.
Her throat burned, a raw ache that spread with every shallow breath. She tried to move, but her wrists were bound—not with silver, but with leather straps tied loosely to a carved post. The restraint wasn’t meant to hold her. It was meant to remind her.
Her eyes snapped open.
The den was carved from stone, lit by torches that hissed against damp air. Furs lined the floor, too rich, too deliberate for a wild pack. She wasn’t in Kael’s territory anymore.
“Awake at last.”
His voice slid through the chamber like smoke.
Darius leaned in the shadows, shirtless, blood streaking across his chest from the fight. His silver eyes gleamed in the firelight as though they were forged from the moon itself.
Lyra’s pulse skittered. “Let me go.”
He pushed off the
