Chapter 10

Lyra — Age 16

Blackwood Pack Territory, Alaska

By the time she turned sixteen, Lyra Blackwood had become a wildfire no one could tame. The elders never said it so bluntly. When they were polite, they called her “strong-willed.” When they weren’t, “complicated.” Her father muttered “challenging.” Her mother, with that cool disappointment in her voice, called her “unfinished”—and that cut sharper than any criticism. Lyra called it survival.

High school had carved her edges razor-sharp. She’d grown into her lanky height, found a stance that spoke confidence like armor, even though she’d forced herself into it. In classrooms and halls she moved with the quiet assurance of someone who’d learned to defend every inch of ground she claimed. She could fight now—not enough to best the pack’s elite warriors, but enough to embarrass the boys who still saw “unshifted” as “helpless.”

Her grey eyes missed little. She could read a room’s tension, hold a council elder’s gaze without blinking, endure hours of protocol with her chin raised. She could argue pack policy so clearly the oldest wolves shifted in their seats, uncomfortable under her steady stare.

And still, she had no wolf. Teeth and claws might launch her into the moonlit hunt, but her bond remained silent, a dagger hidden behind every polite smile. The lack of wolf no longer made her feel small—it made her furious. Sometimes she was exhausted, too: Alaska’s tundra felt too cold for the heat she carried, too narrow for a girl who dreamed of crackling city streets, humming traffic lights, crowded lecture halls where no one cared about her bloodline. She longed to hear her own thoughts, unfiltered by pack expectation. She wanted out. More than that—she believed she would get it. Because he had promised. Vaelrion did not make promises lightly.

School droned along in predictable rhythms. Mira—her firebrand best friend—still stomped through hallways reckless and loud; Talia had sharpened into a silent observer, her gaze flicking to details no one else saw; Bradley remained Bradley—taller now, quieter, eyes forever glued to the laptop at his hip. He’d evolved from “socially anxious tech goblin” to “socially anxious tech goblin who could crack any system he fancied.” And he hovered around Lyra in crowded corridors like a guard dog, trusting her with a loyalty that had settled years ago.

This morning, Bradley stalked beside her down the narrow east corridor, his messenger bag bumping against his thigh. Lockers clanged. Students’ voices echoed. The stale tang of cafeteria pizza drifted down the hall.

“They blocked half the student network,” he hissed.

Lyra adjusted her worn canvas bag, its leather trim scuffed at the corners. “By ‘they,’ do you mean you got caught rerouting school security updates through your own server?”

Bradley’s dark brows shot up in feigned offense. “I was optimizing.”

“You were snooping.”

“I was protecting everyone from terrible firewall decisions.”

Mira, striding two steps ahead, snorted. “That sounds illegal.”

Bradley shrugged as if he carried the weight of the world. “It sounds necessary.”

Talia’s quiet voice floated from behind them. “If you ever go evil, Lyra’s the only one who can stop you.”

He paused, considering. “Probably true.”

Lyra couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. A familiar warmth flickered low in her chest.

He remains attached to you like a burr, the bond teased.

She bit back a grin. He’s my friend, she shot back.

He continues to exist near you in ways I find irritating.

You find almost everything about Bradley irritating.

A pause thick with mock indignation.

That is untrue. I also find him unimpressive.

Lyra nearly laughed out loud. Mira glanced her way, eyebrow raised. “What’s that face?”

“Nothing.”

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “That’s your ‘I’m hiding something’ face.”

“Very observant.”

“I hate when you say that like I’m a cat.”

“You do lurk in corners.”

“That’s called pattern recognition.”

Talia laughed softly. Mira playfully shoved Bradley forward. He immediately pressed closer to Lyra, as if her shoulder could shield him from unwanted attention.

Heat flared in Lyra’s ribs.

There—that. He does that.

He’s hiding because Mira touched him.

He should learn not to.

I’m not banning Bradley from existing near me because you’re jealous, she argued inwardly.

Silence answered. Ancient. Offended.

Then: I am not jealous.

Lyra pulled her coat tighter. You absolutely are, the bond insisted.

Bradley sighed behind her. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Winning a conversation no one else can hear.”

Talia blinked. “That is weirdly specific.”

Bradley shrugged. “I know her face.”

The fire inside her stilled—no longer angered, only attentively warm. Bradley had never looked at her like a pawn or a symbol. He looked at her like Lyra. That mattered most of all.

Later that evening, pack politics reminded her how tightly they intended to bind her. After dinner, her father summoned her to the west study—an austere chamber of dark oak bookshelves, heavy damask curtains, the hush of conversations that went nowhere gentle. The scent of burning pine logs drifted from the hearth. Alpha Darius Blackwood stood by the fire, its flickering light painting his stern features in molten gold. Her mother sat by the frosted window, posture perfect, expression carved from ice.

Lyra’s spine stiffened as she entered.

“Sit,” her father commanded without turning.

She stayed leaning against the doorframe. “I’d rather not.”

His brow arched. Selene’s silver gaze sharpened.

“Sit,” he repeated.

Reluctantly, Lyra lowered herself into the leather-upholstered chair.

Darius studied her in the hearth’s glow, shadows dancing across his face. At sixteen, she no longer crouched under such scrutiny. She braced instead.

“There have been inquiries,” he began, voice quiet but heavy.

Her stomach knotted. “Inquiries about what?”

“You,” he said simply.

Selene folded her hands in her lap. “Several allied families have sons nearing adulthood.”

Lyra’s pulse pounded against her ribs. “I’m sixteen,” she said flatly.

“No one is making immediate arrangements,” Selene added smoothly.

Not yet. The ember in Lyra’s chest roared to life. “What exactly are you discussing?”

“Awareness,” Darius said, voice even. “Possibility. Your future matters beyond this pack.”

Lyra’s jaw clenched. “I told you I’m not interested.”

“You are not required to be interested,” he replied. “Only sensible.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Selene interjected, “that refusing reality will not change it.”

Lyra snapped to her feet so quickly her chair scraped the stone floor. “My reality,” she said, voice sharp, “is that every time you speak of my future, it sounds like you’re negotiating land.”

“Mind your tone,” Darius warned, stepping forward.

“Then stop talking about me like I’m territory.”

She whirled and marched from the study, decisions humming beneath her skin. No one stopped her.

Outside, the night wind bit through her shirt as she climbed to the back steps. The moon shone pale on the snowdrifts. Lyra sat on the top step, arms wrapped around her knees, teeth chattering.

“They already think I’m a problem,” she whispered to the empty air. “Now I’m a political one.”

Warmth pulsed through her, gentle as a caress. You are not a problem.

Her breath caught.

Look at me.

She raised her head. Nothing but moonlit snow and skeletal trees—but she felt him anyway.

You are surrounded by people who believe duty gives them the right to speak over your will, the bond murmured.

“They’re my parents,” she said, voice cracking.

Reguardless.

“They think they’re doing what’s right.”

A low anger rippled through the connection.

And still they are wrong.

Lyra laughed, bitter as the wind. “You make that sound easy.”

No. I make it sound clear.

Her hands flew to her face. “I hate this place.”

A long pause. Then: No. You hate what they would make of you if you stayed too still.

She dropped her hands, breath catching. That was worse. Because it was true.

She rose and crossed the terrace threshold. Blue-gold flames leapt around her, smoke coiling like living spirits up the dark pillars. Stars glinted overhead. In the center of the terrace, Vaelrion waited—human in shape, regal in posture, still as a mountain peak.

The moment she appeared, the flames danced higher. Smoke swirled aside. His gaze sharpened.

Lyra moved toward him in a single, sure stride. He caught her at once: one arm curled around her waist, the other braced across her back, lifting her as though the world might not dare touch her tonight.

She pressed her cheek to his chest for a breathless instant. His hold tightened, solid and protective.

Tell me.

His voice was low, fierce.

She pulled back into his arms and met his storm-grey eyes. “My parents had inquiries.”

The fire at his side flared. His jaw clenched. From whom?

“Allied families. Sons nearing adulthood. Future possibilities.” Her words felt thin in the heated air. “Same story—only louder.”

He stilled, statuesque under the firelight. Then his hand rose, cupping her face with equal measures of possession and reverence.

No male will be chosen for you.

Lyra leaned into his palm, warmth flooding through her. “You said that before.”

And I meant it before. I mean it now.

He pressed his forehead to hers. When the time comes, I will stand before them—before your parents, before your pack—and make it known.

Her pulse fluttered. “You say that like they’ll have a choice.”

His eyes darkened. They will have understanding. Choice is another matter.

She didn’t flinch. “Ok”

Something fierce broke through his restraint. He drew her closer, voice urgent in her ear: You should not have had to hear such things before I could stop them.

“You can’t stop everything.”

His grip tightened around her. Watch me.

She laughed softly, heart pounding at the promise woven through his words. His features softened into the reverent expression she alone had earned.

“Tell me something true,” she whispered.

His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingertips warm against her skin. You are loved beyond reason.

Her breath caught—never had he said it like that. The fire in the terrace settled into gentle embers.

You are mine in every way that matters, and I will still wait. He kissed her temple.

He drew back just enough for his voice to brush her ear: You will leave Alaska. You will learn the world. You will become more fully yourself than they can imagine. And when you are twenty-one—

His voice roughened. —I will wake.

Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. “And if I’m not ready?”

Vaelrion met her gaze with unyielding seriousness. Then I will wait longer.

Lyra’s heart stilled. “Vaelrion…”

Your will matters to me. Your choice matters to me. He brushed a thumb along her jaw. Do not mistake my certainty for disregard of what you want.

She stared at him, breathless. Because that—That was the thing no one else understood. Everyone spoke of her future as though it demanded obedience. He spoke of it as though it demanded her—fully, willingly, herself.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him. Not tentative. Certain.

He froze for a heartbeat—then swept her up into a kiss born of hunger long restrained. Around them, the flames leapt higher, smoke spiraled upward, the mountain seemed to tremble.

When he finally drew back, forehead resting against hers, breath uneven, his hold unyielding, he whispered, You do not know what you do to me.

“Then tell me.”

A raw sound escaped him. You make patience feel like cruelty.

The honesty burned through her. He kissed her again—slower, reverent—then released her, eyes bright.

But I will keep my word. Twenty-one. No sooner.

She nodded, breathless. “Okay.”

He studied her with fierce pride. Then softer: You will claim every throne meant for you, Lyra—the one your pack demands and the one my people await. I will guide you through both, if you let me.

Her throat tightened. “Both sounds exhausting.”

A crooked smile curved his lips. It will be.

She laughed softly into the night, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t look like a trap. It felt like something she might one day claim.