Page 17

JACE

J ace didn’t flinch when Calla Monroe slammed his office door open so hard the stained-glass wardstone above it buzzed in protest.

He didn’t look up, either.

He just kept scanning the patrol notes in front of him, even though the words might as well have been scribbles in some dead tongue because the only thing echoing in his mind was the feel of Lyra’s skin , soft and warm under his hands.

And the memory of her face when he walked out.

Calla’s sandals thudded across the stone floor, her energy storming into the room like a summer squall with no interest in waiting for an invitation.

“You,” she said, voice flat.

He finally glanced up. “Afternoon.”

“Don’t start with me,” she snapped. “I’m not here for pleasantries, Alpha.”

The word was loaded. Mocking.

Jace set his pen down and folded his hands on the desk. “Then by all means, say what you came to say.”

Calla stared at him for a beat, eyes sharp, braid swinging over one shoulder like a banner of war. “Lyra cried. You made her cry.”

Jace swallowed, but didn’t speak.

She snorted. “Nothing? No denial? No pathetic excuse?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Calla leaned in, hands braced on the desk. “But you did.”

“I know.”

“That’s not enough.”

He met her gaze. “It’s all I’ve got right now.”

Calla’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to run hot and cold and leave someone you clearly care about twisted up in knots because you’re afraid of feelings.”

He bristled. “This isn’t about?—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t lie to me. You think you’re protecting her? From what? Yourself? The bond? Fate?”

Jace didn’t answer.

“You’ve had every chance to step up,” Calla continued, voice rising. “But every time she reaches for you, you shove her back. And I don’t care how noble you think your reasons are—pain is still pain.”

Jace stood then, slow and measured. “I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

“Good,” she shot back. “Because I’m not offering it.”

The air crackled between them, thick with unsaid things. Old grief. New rage.

And then Calla’s voice shifted, still sharp, but cool now. Calculated.

“You should know,” she said, turning toward the door. “Ezra stopped by the shop yesterday.”

Jace froze.

Calla glanced back. “Complimented her voice. Told her she deserved to be wanted without apology.”

Jace’s jaw flexed.

“He was polite,” Calla added lightly. “Charming, even. Stayed a little longer than necessary.”

“He what ?”

Calla opened the door slowly. “She didn’t go with him. But she didn’t stop him from getting close, either.”

Jace’s wolf surged under his skin, snarling.

Calla looked over her shoulder, eyebrow arched. “If you won’t claim what’s yours, Jace... don’t be surprised when someone else does.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

And Jace stood there, fists clenched, pulse roaring in his ears.

Ezra.

Of course.

The bastard was always circling. Always waiting for a crack to slide through.

And Jace had handed him one on a silver damn platter.

He turned and slammed his hand against the wall—just once—but it echoed like a cannon through the stone.

His breathing came hard and fast.

He’d known it the moment he left Lyra’s bed—that she would think the worst of him. That she would ache. But he’d told himself it was safer. Smarter. Necessary .

Now?

Now Ezra knew where to dig.

And Lyra, his mate, whether she knew it or not—was right in the line of fire.

He dropped into his chair like it had betrayed him.

What was it about that family?

Calla with her righteous fury and sharp tongue. Lyra with her soft strength and devastating vulnerability.

They didn’t back down. Not from pain. Not from alphas.

And it shook something in him. Something he wasn’t sure he could put back.

He didn’t know what scared him more: that Ezra might win her...

Or that he might deserve to.