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What the Bond Knows

Author: S.A Akinola
last update Huling Na-update: 2025-11-06 05:49:03

Cain POV

The moment her body went slack in my arms, the world narrowed to a single, brutal truth:

She shouldn’t feel this.

Not from a bond that shouldn’t exist.

Lyra’s pulse flickered weakly against my wrist, her breaths shallow and uneven, like her lungs were fighting for permission to keep going. I pushed through the corridors in silence, every wolf who saw us stepping back fast, heads bowing as if they could feel the storm curdling off my skin.

They didn’t need words to understand one thing:

I was one second away from tearing apart anyone who looked at her wrong.

Bloodveil had seen me angry. They hadn’t seen me like this.

I kicked open the infirmary doors.

“Out,” I growled.

A handful of healers froze, wide-eyed, then scattered without a single protest. All except one.

Maeve.

She didn’t bow. Didn’t flinch. She just stared at Lyra—really stared, like she wasn’t looking at a wounded omega, but a puzzle the rest of the world had been too stupid to solve.

“Lay her there,” Maeve said, vo
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  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   What the Hollow Demands

    LYRAThe Hollow does not celebrate.That’s the first thing I understand as the council’s voices fracture behind us and the city exhales like something wounded but not yet dead.There is no triumph in the ground beneath my feet. No warmth. No reassurance.Only gravity.The Hollow pulls—not forward, not down, but inward. Toward a center that has nothing to do with geography and everything to do with cost.Cain feels it too. I know by the way his steps slow. By the way his shoulders square, not in dominance, but in readiness.“It’s not finished,” he says quietly.“No,” I agree. “It’s just done hiding.”We stop at the edge of the city where stone gives way to root and ash. Where the land stops pretending it was ever neutral.The Forgotten Kin are already there.Waiting.Not assembled like an army.Positioned like punctuation.CAINI am keenly aware of what I no longer have.No insignia.No authority.No shield of inherited command.What I have instead is worse—and better.Attention.The s

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Council Remembers Too Late

    LYRAThe council chamber was never meant to remember.Stone walls. High ceilings. Seats carved to elevate voices that expected never to be contradicted. The kind of architecture that assumes permanence simply because it has not yet been challenged.The Hollow disagrees.I feel it before we cross the threshold—roots threading beneath polished floors, listening. Waiting. The Forgotten Kin are already here. Not seated. Not standing in defiance.Present.That alone fractures the room.Conversation dies mid-breath. Elders stiffen. A few councilors rise instinctively, as if dominance alone might erase what has surfaced.It doesn’t.Because the Forgotten Kin do not bow.And Cain does not take the Alpha’s seat.That—that—lands harder than any accusation.CAINI feel every eye on me the moment I stop short of the dais.Habit screams at me to ascend. To claim height. Authority. Control.I don’t.I remain on the floor.Level.Human.Murmurs ripple through the chamber—confusion first, then irrita

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Ones Who Remember

    LYRAThey don’t arrive like enemies.That’s the first mistake the world makes.There is no tearing of sky, no violent announcement, no predatory heat crawling up my spine the way it does when the Devourer leans too close. The forest simply… yields.Space loosens.Roots withdraw.Ash stirs where no fire burns.And they step out of the Hollow like something long expected.The Forgotten Kin are not monstrous.They are scarred.Some wear their age openly, bodies bent by time, eyes clouded with memory too heavy to hold alone. Others look young in the way immortality sometimes lies, faces smooth but expressions ancient, mouths shaped by silence rather than speech.All of them carry the same mark.Not the Bloodveil crest.The older one beneath it.The name that was never meant to surface.The land recognizes them instantly.So do I.Cain stiffens beside me.The bond doesn’t flare.It tightens—controlled, alert, braced.“They’re real,” he murmurs.“Yes,” I say. “And they didn’t come to be for

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Name Beneath the Curse

    LYRAThe Hollow does not ask.That’s how I know this isn’t the Devourer.There’s no pressure in the bond. No probing curiosity. No calculated patience waiting for permission to be granted or refused.The ground simply remembers.It happens while I’m awake.Standing.Breathing.Cain’s hand still warm around mine.The world tilts, not violently, not disorienting, but inward, as if the land beneath my feet has decided depth matters more than surface.My vision doesn’t blur.It layers.The forest remains, but beneath it, another image presses forward, insistent and sharp.Stone.Ash.A child kneeling.I gasp.Cain turns instantly. “Lyra?”I don’t answer.Because the child looks up—And he has Cain’s eyes.CAINI feel it the moment Lyra leaves me.Not physically.Internally.The bond doesn’t stretch or strain—it empties, like a held breath released somewhere I can’t follow.“Lyra,” I say again, sharper now.Her grip tightens reflexively, knuckles white, but her gaze isn’t on me anymore. It

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   The Memory It Can’t Touch

    LYRAIt goes for the space between us next.Not my memories.Not Cain’s.Ours.The Devourer presses gently at first, testing the seam where our histories overlap. The moments shaped by proximity. By repetition. By choice.The first time Cain laughed with me.The night we almost didn’t survive.The quiet understanding that formed before either of us named it.The pressure is subtle, invasive in the way only intimacy can be. It doesn’t try to pull the memories free. It tries to inhabit them. To stand inside them like a room and see how they were built.I stiffen.This is worse than before.Because these aren’t just recollections.They’re agreements.I feel Cain register it the same instant I do. The bond hums, alert but not panicked.“This is different,” I whisper.“Yes,” he says softly. “It’s not asking.”The Devourer speaks, measured and careful.Shared history stabilizes bonds.Understanding it would improve efficiency.My hands curl into fists.“You don’t get to audit our past,” I s

  • Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me   Consent Is a Weapon

    LYRAThe Devourer learns quickly what refusal feels like.Not denial—refusal.Denial is passive. A door left closed.Refusal is active. A hand on the frame. A voice saying no with intent behind it.The first time it tests memory, it’s almost polite.A pressure brushes the back of my thoughts, not pulling, not forcing. Just… requesting. An offer shaped like curiosity.A moment surfaces unbidden: my mother’s voice, low and steady, humming while she worked. A memory so old it still smells like smoke and warm earth.My breath catches.Cain feels it instantly. His grip tightens, not panicked. Alert.“Lyra,” he murmurs. “That’s not yours right now.”“I know,” I whisper.The Devourer speaks softly, as if adjusting its tone to match the intimacy of the offering.You are defined by what formed you.Understanding requires access.I feel the temptation, not to give it, but to let it look. To share without surrender.That’s the trick.“No,” I say clearly.The word lands like a blade.The memory

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