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The fire of victory meant nothing. The taste of revenge, the triumph of blood spilled across old lands—it had dulled to ash the moment I touched her.

I turned back to Garrick with murder in my breath and steel in my hands. Our swords met again with a snarl of metal, and I pressed him hard—faster, more brutal, every strike meant to punish, not train.

He grunted as he blocked, then shouted, “Is that all it is?” Another blow. He barely deflected. “You keep her close because she’s dangerous?”

I lunged, our blades locking, faces inches apart.

“I keep her close,” I hissed, “because I need to know what kind ofblasphemyshe carries in that cursed body.”

My balance spiled. I shoved him back, my eyes dark with something far deeper than anger.

“That process she’s bound to—those runes, that filthy magic—it silences awolf. Binds it. Chains it.” I spit on the snow. “Do you understand what that means, Garrick? If it can be done to her, it can be done to any of us. A leash for our kind. A way to kill the wolf without shedding a drop of blood.”

He circled me slowly, blade lowered now, watching with narrowed eyes.

“And the worst part?” I laughed bitterly. “She did it to herself. Not for survival. Not to infiltrate. But out of defiance.” Another swing. He caught it, barely, the impact shuddering through both our arms.

“Why?” I growled, voice barely human. “Because she hates us? Because she couldn’t stand the fate that was handed to her?” I stepped in, voice dropping to something low and furious. “Orbecause she looked at the gift of her blood and spat on it, just to saynoto what she was born to be?”

Garrick stopped cold. His brows furrowed. He took a slow breath.

“She’s… an Omega?” he asked.

There it was. The silence that followed wasn't just quiet. It was revelation. The kind of quiet that came before a storm levelled a kingdom.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to.

He saw the answer in my face, in my clenched jaw, in the pulse of rage flickering just under my skin. And then his expression shifted—slowly, like he was putting all the pieces together.

“That’s why you can’t stop thinking about her.” His voice dropped. “That’s why you’re watching her like she’s already yours. You don’t want to study her. Youwanther. You want to see what she looks like when she breaks. You want to be the one who undoes her.”

The words cut deep. Too deep.

My fist slammed into his jaw with a sickening crack, sending him spinning, blood arcing through the air. He hit the ground with a grunt, half-stunned, pain flickering across his features.

He looked up at me, breathing hard, the weight of truth between us like a blade to the throat. I turned and walked away, snow crunching under my boots, fury pulsing through every vein like wildfire.

Let the pack whisper. Let them wonder. I owed them no explanations.

CHAPTER 9

Lexa

The dungeon stench still clung to my skin, like rot soaked into the bone, but now there were silks on the bed and a fire in the hearth.

The guards moved us at dusk, silent and grim, as if they were handling something fragile—or dangerous. We were brought through winding halls and up narrow stairs, the cold stone giving way to carved wood and iron sconces that burned clean oil, not soot.

And then they opened the door.

The room wasn’t extravagant. But it was…soft.

Thick wool rugs over cold stone. A modest bed with real feather-stuffed pillows and a wool quilt that smelled of cedar. A washbasin. A window—small, barred, but real. To Dain, it was a palace.

His eyes had lit up like lanterns, darting from the fire to thebed to the tiny shelf with a few worn books. He ran his hands over the quilt, grinning as he sank into the mattress with a groan of delight.

“This is the best bed I’ve ever seen, Lexi,” he said, half-laughing as he flopped back, arms wide. “You think they made this just for kings?”

I smiled for him. I even let my fingers brush the edge of the mattress.