Chapter 7~Neutral Ground
1280 Words
LYRA POV
The truck rumbled to a stop in front of the neutral-zone residence just as the sun dipped below the ridge. The mansion rose from the clearing like something carved out of the forest itself, dark timber beams, wide stone terraces, windows that caught the last red light and threw it back bloody. Neutral ground. A place built decades ago to signify unity between packs. But now it's used for uneasy truces, forced negotiations, and this forced marriage.
I stepped out first, boots hitting gravel. Dad and Ryker followed, but I waved them off.
“I’ve got this.”
Ryker frowned. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I didn’t want witnesses when I walked into the house I’d have to share with Draven Voss.
A neutral steward, hired by both packs, meets me at the wide double doors. He bows slightly. “Miss Thorne. Your wing is the east side. Mr. Voss has the west. Common areas are the dining hall, library, and sitting room. The staff will bring your bags.”
I nod once and step inside.
The foyer smelled of cedar and wax polish. High ceilings, exposed rafters, a massive stone fireplace that hadn’t been lit yet. Two wide hallways branched left and right. East wing. West wing. Separate and safe.
I enter my East wing. My chamber is at the end of the very long corridor. I open the door, it's spacious, simple, with a four-poster bed, a writing desk, and a balcony that overlooks the forest. I drop my duffel on the floor and walk to the balcony, taking a deep breath. I listen to the quiet which is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every small sound louder.
I unbuttoned my jacket. The heat under my scarf had been dulled since yesterday, but the moment I crossed this house threshold it woke again. A warm pressure beneath the skin of my neck, spreading down my collarbone in a slow burn that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with him being forty feet away on the other side of this house
I yanked the scarf off and crossed to the mirror above the dresser.
The rose-colored patch had darkened slightly, the edges more defined, almost like the faint outline of a crescent moon. I stared at it. My reflection stared back, eyes too wide, cheeks flushed.
This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t anger or stress.
This was him.
I turned away fast, heart slamming against my ribs. The thrum in my chest answered, deep, rolling, like a wave I couldn’t outrun.
A soft knock at the door.
“Dinner in thirty minutes, miss,” the steward called. “It will be in the main hall.”
I closed my eyes. “I’ll be there.”
Thirty minutes later I walked into the dining hall wearing a simple black turtleneck sweater and jeans, hair pulled back tight. The long table had been set for two, both settings placed across from each other at the center rather than at opposite ends. Candles flickered in iron holders between them. Someone on the staff had decided proximity was appropriate. I did not agree.
Draven was already seated.
He looked up when I entered. Our eyes met.
The thrum increased into something sharper, electric, racing down my spine. My breath caught. His did too—I saw the quick rise of his chest, the way his fingers tightened around the stem of his water glass.
He looked away first. Dropping his gaze to his plate. Deliberate. Controlled.
I took my seat at the opposite end. The table felt too short.
A server appeared silently and efficiently placed soup in front of us, then retreated.
Neither of us spoke. I stared at the bowl, steam curling up. My spoon stayed on the napkin.
Across from me, Draven lifted his spoon, set it down, lifted it again. He wasn’t eating either. He was staring at his plate like it had personally offended him.
The silence stretched very thick. It's becoming suffocating.
I reached for my water glass. So did he.
Our fingers brushed the same spot on the stem.
The contact lasted less than a second but it felt like lightning striking bone.
The heat exploded under my collarbone, raced up my neck and flooded my face. My breath snagged in my throat. For one blinding instant I swore I heard his heartbeat, fast, uneven, echoing inside my own chest. Then the sensation doubled, tripled, became unbearable.
I jerked my hand back so fast the glass tipped. Water sloshed onto the tablecloth.
Draven pulled away at the same instant. His chair scraped back an inch.
We stared at each other across the spilled water.
His eyes were darker than before, pupils blown wide. His jaw clenched so tight I saw the muscle jump. He looked like a man fighting not to move.
I shoved my chair back and stood.
“I’m done,” I said. Voice hoarse.
He didn’t speak. Just watched me go.
I walked out fast, too fast, down the east hallway, into my room, and slammed the door.
I started to pace.
Three steps to the window. Three steps back. Again and again.
The heat under my skin didn’t fade. It burned brighter now, pulsing in waves that matched the frantic rhythm inside my chest. Every beat felt like a question I didn’t want to answer.
I stopped at the window, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. The forest outside was black and still glowing silver under the moon. Peaceful as if it's mocking how chaotic I am now.
My reflection stared back at me—my cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, scarf discarded on the floor behind me. The patch on my neck still glowed faintly in the moonlight, a soft rose crescent that hadn’t been there yesterday.
I lifted my fingers to it. The skin was fever-hot.
My body was reacting to him. Without permission. Without reason.
I squeezed my eyes shut so hard white sparks danced behind my lids.
"I hate you," I hissed into the dark, the words scraping my throat raw. "I hate what you did. I hate what you're doing to me now. I hate that I can still feel you even when you're across the house."
I pressed the back of my wrist to my mouth. Breathed through it. The anger was real. I needed it to stay real.
"I won't break for you again," I said, quieter, steadier, as if keeping my voice level would keep everything else level too. "I won't let you in. I won't let this thing, this pull, win."
The words sat in the air. Then the warmth answered.
Not with heat this time. Something slower. Deeper. It rolled through my collarbone and down my ribs like a tide coming in, unhurried, like it had all the time in the world and knew it. Like it had heard every word I'd said and was entirely unmoved by any of them.
Like arms, I couldn't see, settling around me with almost tender patience.
My throat tightened. I held it. I held it for another breath and then another.
One tear escaped anyway. Hot, traitorous, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it.
I didn't wipe it away. Wiping it away would mean acknowledging it.
I stared at my reflection, at the girl who looked ready to fight the moon itself.
The crescent on my neck pulsed once more, soft, almost tender, like a promise I hadn’t asked for.
And in that moment, I understood, with sick, sinking certainty. This wasn’t something I could outrun. It was already inside me.
- Writer
