LIRA
The first few days in Grimhowl territory had been a test of wills.
Caius, the infuriating Alpha, had made it clear that I was under his protection—which was just another way of saying I was trapped.
The northern lands were colder, harsher than home. Snow blanketed the forests, ice clung to the rivers, and the air stung my skin like tiny needles. The Grimhowl wolves were different too—tough, battle-worn, but fiercely loyal to their Alpha.
And Caius never left me alone.
At first, I thought he wanted to keep an eye on me to prevent escape. But then I noticed the little things—how he always walked beside me, not ahead; how he made sure I had extra furs to keep warm; how he brought me food himself instead of letting his warriors serve me.
It was unsettling.
It was infuriating.
And worse, it was working.
Every time I caught his scent—smoky, rich, intoxicating—I felt my resolve waver. Every time his piercing silver eyes met mine, something inside me itched to surrender.
I hated it.
So, I did the only thing I could think of to fight back.
I ignored him.
I kept my head down. I spoke as little as possible. Every time his shadow loomed near, I pretended he didn’t exist. I told myself, 'He doesn’t exist. He doesn’t exist. He doesn’t—'
“Lira.”
I tensed at the sound of his deep voice behind me. It had the same effect as it always did—like a spark to dry tinder. It ignited something inside me, made my pulse quicken, made me want to turn and face him, to demand that he stop playing this game.
I didn’t turn around.
“Lira,” he repeated, his tone more firm this time, an edge of authority lacing his words.
I kept walking, my footsteps steady, ignoring him as if he were nothing more than a gust of wind. But the silence stretched between us, heavy and thick. His presence loomed at my back, like a shadow I couldn’t escape, no matter how much I wanted to.
Then, out of nowhere, something landed on my shoulders—soft, thick, and warm. The weight was immediate and comforting, but I knew, even before I touched it, that it was his cloak. The scent of him—smoky and rich, like the forest after a storm—surrounded me.
I stiffened, my spine straightening as if the warmth was a physical weight, pressing down on me. I could feel the thickness of the fur against my skin, the scent of him wrapping around me like a vine, tightening its grip.
I whirled around, ready to shove the cloak back at him, to tell him I didn’t need his help, that I didn’t need him to do anything for me. But when I looked up, he was already walking away, his broad back disappearing into the distance. He wasn’t demanding a thank you. He wasn’t waiting for any acknowledgment from me. He was simply… giving it to me.
And leaving.
I stood there, frozen for a moment, my hand gripping the edges of the fur, my fingers curling into the thick material like a lifeline. The warmth of the cloak seemed to seep into me, and I wanted to shake it off, to rid myself of the strange, fluttering feeling that had settled in my chest.
I hated him.
I hated the way he made me feel. Hated the way he could give me something I didn’t ask for, and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it back at him. I hated that I felt a pang of something that could only be described as gratitude—though I would never admit it.
I pulled the cloak tighter around my shoulders, wrapping it around myself in a futile attempt to block out everything I was feeling. It smelled like him. It felt like him. And I couldn’t escape it.
'Damn him.'
