Page 26

LYRA

L yra’s heels clapped hard against the stone path, each step charged with the kind of fury that made lamplight flicker in her wake. The music from the Moonlight Festival faded behind her, replaced by the rush of wind and her own heartbeat thundering like a war drum.

She wasn’t crying.

She refused.

This wasn’t heartbreak.

This was rage.

Pure, raw, blistering rage wrapped in silk and swallowed down past a throat aching from too many things unsaid.

The moment she hit her street, her fingers reached up, yanking the glittering pin from her curls, letting them fall wild and tangled. The protective charm Calla had sewn into the hem of her gown pulsed once with warmth, then dulled as she crossed the threshold of her loft.

She didn’t bother with the lights. Didn’t need them.

The moon spilled across the floor, pale and honest. Unlike the alpha she’d just left behind.

Lyra kicked off her heels, tore at the laces of her dress, and muttered under her breath, “If he knocks on my door now, I swear I’ll hex his mouth shut.”

But part of her didn’t believe it.

Part of her… hoped.

Her fingers had just slipped the final clasp free, the gown sliding down her arms, when three slow, measured knocks.

She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. But she didn’t need to.

“Lyra,” came the voice.

Rough. Hoarse.

Him.

She clenched her jaw. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“I know.”

“You kiss me, walk away, and then show up at my door again like I’m just?—”

The door creaked open.

She forgot she hadn’t warded it.

Forgot everything when she saw him standing there.

Jace filled her doorway like a stormcloud—his eyes darker than she’d ever seen, his jaw clenched, hands fisted like he was holding back a hundred reasons to leave and just one to stay.

“You left,” she whispered, chest tight.

“That wasn’t the place.”

She didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe him.

Maybe her.

But the next second, they collided. Mouths meeting in the space between anger and desperation. Fingers pulling, clutching, tearing at layers of tension that had been building for days.

Her dress hit the floor. His shirt followed.

The air crackled with the ozone tang of uncontrolled magic.

Lyra’s back hit the wall, Jace’s mouth hot and punishing against hers.

His hands—calloused, possessive—dug into her hips, lifting her as her legs locked around him.

Fabric ripped. A button pinged against the floorboards.

She didn’t care. Couldn’t. Not when his teeth grazed her throat, not when the low growl in his chest vibrated through her ribs like a drumbeat.

“Still angry?” he rasped, breath scorching her collarbone.

She bit his shoulder hard enough to taste iron. “Furious.”

A dark laugh rumbled against her skin. “Good.”

He carried her through the loft without breaking contact—kisses like accusations, hands mapping her spine as if memorizing fault lines.

Moonlight caught the silver streaks in her hair, casting fractured light across his face when he laid her down.

For a heartbeat, he hovered above her, storm-grey eyes unguarded.

Raw. Her fingers twitched toward his jaw.

He caught her wrist, pressed it into the mattress. “Look at me.”

“I am .”

“No.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “ Look. ”

Magic flared, golden threads spiraling from her fingertips, indigo sparks leaping from his.

The bond between them hummed, a chord struck deep in her bones.

She gasped as the connection snapped taut, every nerve alight.

His control frayed first. A shudder tore through Jace as he sank into Lyra, slow and deliberate, his forehead dropping to hers.

The contact was electric, a searing connection that fused them.

His storm-grey eyes, usually so guarded, were wide open, revealing the tempest within.

"Lyra—" Her name escaped his lips, fracturing in his throat, a testament to the tumultuous emotions he could no longer contain.

She arched beneath him, her nails scoring him, threatening to break skin. "More," she demanded, her voice a sultry whisper that wrapped around him like a spell.

He gave it, each thrust a testament to his restraint, precise and relentless, as if he were carving a vow into her flesh. Her magic, a chaotic storm of wild, untamed energy, surged to meet his—a counterpoint of primal certainty that resonated with the ancient power of his wolf.

The room around them blurred, becoming a backdrop to the elemental force of their union.

Candles flared to life of their own accord, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls, while books tumbled from shelves, their pages rustling like the leaves of an enchanted forest. But neither Jace nor Lyra noticed these manifestations of their combined powers.

Not when her breath hitched in her throat, not when his hips stuttered with the effort of holding back, not when the world narrowed to the singular, all-consuming point where they fused together in a maelstrom of passion and power.

In that moment, the bond between them hummed with a resonance that transcended the physical realm.

It was as if the very fabric of their beings had intertwined, weaving a tapestry of desire and need that neither time nor tide could put asunder.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and campfire, mingling with the sweet aroma of Lyra's enchanted rings.

“Jace, I’m?—”

“I know.” His hand slid beneath her, angling deeper. “Let go.”

She shattered. He followed, a ragged groan muffled against her neck as their magic erupted—a supernova of gold and violet light that left scorch marks on the ceiling.

Panting, he collapsed beside her, fingers still tangled in her curls. “Your coven ever teach you to control that?”

She traced the bite mark on his shoulder. “Control’s overrated.”

A snort. “Chaos witch.”

“Control freak alpha.”

Silence stretched, their breathing syncing. Jace’s thumb brushed the pulse point at her wrist—once, twice—before he rolled upright.

Lyra snagged his arm. “Running again?”

He stilled. Turned. The look he gave her could’ve leveled cities. “Not this time. I'm just getting started."

When Lyra woke the next morning, sunlight painted lazy lines across her sheets, and the space beside her was empty.

She sat up fast, heart already dropping.

“Relax,” Milo said from his perch on the windowsill, licking a paw. “He left early. Not mad. Not sulking. Just… had business.”

She blinked, curls a halo around her face. “He didn’t seem upset?”

“Not even a little.”

Her chest tightened. “He said anything before he left?”

“Something about not waking you. Said you looked peaceful.” Milo paused. “Smelled like peace, too.”

She bit her lip, hope flickering to life.

Maybe he hadn’t run this time. Maybe he meant it .

She slid out of bed, wrapped herself in her robe, and padded toward the closet. “I need to get dressed.”

“Where you going?”

She looked over her shoulder, eyes clearer than they’d been in days.

“To the Keep,” she said. “He’s working, right?”

Milo yawned. “Looks like someone’s finally ready to fight for her happy ending.”

Lyra smiled faintly. “I’m not fighting. I’m just… going to talk .”

But deep down she already felt the pull again. And this time, she was walking toward it and she hoped that he was too.