At the library

By three in the afternoon, the temperature inside the Keep had dropped so low that thin needles of ice were forming along the rims of the cellar wash buckets.

Mrs Hallowell called Selene to her desk shortly after the noon meal had been cleared.

"The lower galleries are done," the housekeeper said, dipping her quill into a dark inkwell. She didn't look up. Her voice was lower than usual, clipped and cautious. "Take the sheepskin duster and the oil rag up to the high library on the fifth floor. It hasn't been aired since the autumn equinox."

Selene hesitated.

"The fifth floor, ma'am? Human staff aren't usually permitted above the third gallery."

Mrs Hallowell paused, her quill hovering above the parchment. She looked up, her tired eyes settling on Selene with an unreadable expression.

"The Alpha gave the order directly to Torin an hour ago," she said. "He wants the southern shelves dusted and the draft screens oiled. He specifically asked for someone who doesn't track mud or drop iron kettles. Go."

Selene took the duster and the jar of neat's-foot oil without another word.

The fifth floor was unlike the rest of the Keep.

There were no guards in the corridors, no clatter of armour and no smell of roasting mutton. High, vaulted arches of dark grey granite soared overhead, their ribs curving like the underside of a great beast. The air was cold and smelled of old vellum, beeswax and centuries of undisturbed dust.

Selene pushed open the heavy double doors.

Tall, narrow windows allowed shafts of pale winter light into the library, cutting through the shadows between rows of massive timber shelves. Thousands of leather-bound books, rolled treaties and iron-banded ledgers climbed towards the ceiling, accessible by rolling ladders fixed to brass tracks.

The room was silent except for the faint whistle of wind through the cracks in the stonework.

Selene placed the oil jar on a low reading table and began with the lower shelves near the southern window. She wiped the dust from the leather spines, working quietly and methodically.

The rhythm of her hands helped settle the unease that had followed her since the incident in the corridor.

Her arm was completely fine. There wasn't even a trace of redness.

The thought sat like a stone in her throat.

"You move very quietly for someone who wears iron-heeled boots."

Selene spun around, her heart jumping.

Orion sat at a massive dark oak desk in the shadowed alcove at the far end of the library.

He hadn't made a sound.

A single tallow candle burned beside an unrolled parchment map, weighted down by two bronze daggers. He had removed his leather coat and wore a dark wool tunic, its sleeves rolled to his forearms. He leaned back in his high-backed chair, watching her.

Selene lowered her eyes immediately.

"Alpha. I apologise. Mrs Hallowell said the room would be empty until evening."

"It was," Orion replied. His voice was quiet, smooth and edged with the same dangerous calm she remembered from the morning. "Until I decided I no longer wanted to listen to Lady Rebecca argue with the council elders about grain tariffs."

He didn't tell her to leave.

One hand rested on the arm of his chair. His long fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the leather.

Selene remained beside the shelf, clutching the duster.

"Should I return downstairs, sir?"

"The shelves are dirty," he said. "Clean them."

Selene swallowed, turned back to the shelf and resumed her work.

Every nerve along her back felt exposed. The silence was thick, broken only by the brush of the duster against the leather bindings and the steady tapping of Orion's fingers.

She could feel his attention on her.

Not with cruelty, but with the intense focus of a wolf watching something it couldn't quite identify.

"Your father," Orion said suddenly. "Was he from Lowfell?"

Selene kept her hands moving, though her knuckles tightened around the duster.

"I never knew my father, sir. He died before I was born."

"And your mother?"

"She died when I was small. Aunt Martha raised me on Mill Street."

"Martha," he repeated. "The old woman who runs the herb stall. The one who spent two weeks in the apothecary cellar last winter, coughing blood."

"Yes, sir."

"She doesn't look like you."

Selene turned slowly, keeping her head bowed.

"She's my mother's sister, sir. Family often looks different."

Orion rose from his chair.

He moved with the fluid, predatory grace of the highborn wolves. His broad shoulders cast a long shadow across the shelves as he approached.

He stopped a few paces away.

The cold scent of crushed hemlock and mountain frost reached her, so strong that the bitter oil beneath her collar seemed to sting.

He pointed towards the third shelf, just above her head.

"Reach that ledger down. The one with the black binding."

Selene stretched onto her toes and reached up with her left arm. As her sleeve slipped back, her forearm and wrist came fully into the pale daylight streaming through the arched window.

The skin was smooth. Pristine. Unmarked.

Orion's gaze settled on her wrist.

He stepped closer. Near enough for her to feel the warmth of his body through her thin wool dress.

He didn't touch her.

But his amber-flecked eyes had darkened with something that sent a cold shudder down her spine.

"A wolf heals fast," he murmured. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. "A high-ranking warrior could close a boiling burn in three hours, though a faint pink mark might remain until dawn."

His gaze lifted from her arm to her face.

"A human maid blisters, bleeds and loses skin. It takes weeks to heal."

Selene froze, her hand still resting against the leather-bound book.

"I don't know what you mean, Alpha," she whispered.

Orion leaned closer by a fraction.

"You didn't heal fast, Selene."

His words were quiet, but there was no mistaking their weight.

"The water never burned you at all."