CHAPTER 5: A KING SEEN IN SHADOW AND FIRE

Lyra woke slowly.

Not with pain—though it lingered, dull and sore—but with awareness.

Warmth first.

A steady heat pressed along her side, grounding her before she could open her eyes. Something solid. Alive. Breathing. Her body reacted before her mind did, relaxing into it as if it had always belonged there.

Then memory rushed in.

Forest. Blood. Gold eyes.

Her lashes fluttered open.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint silver glow of moonlight filtering through tall, arched windows. Stone walls surrounded her, dark and ancient, etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. The air smelled like herbs, smoke, and something sharper—pine, iron, night.

Not a healer’s hut.

Not home.

Her breath caught, and she turned her head.

Ares Nightbane sat beside her bed.

Not looming this time. Not feral. Not half-shifted and terrifying.

Just… there.

He was leaning back in the chair, one long arm resting along the mattress near her waist, close enough that she felt his heat even without touching him. His head was bowed slightly, black hair falling loose around his face, catching the moonlight in soft, dangerous lines.

For the first time, Lyra truly saw him.

Not as a legend.

Not as the monster from whispered stories.

But as a man.

Broad shoulders stretched beneath a dark tunic, fabric clinging to muscle earned through war, not vanity. His hands were scarred—knuckles, wrists, faint white lines crossing skin that had healed too many times. Power lived in him even at rest, coiled and quiet, like a blade sheathed only because it chose to be.

His face was sharp in a way that felt deliberate. High cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, lips pressed into a line that suggested restraint rather than cruelty. And his eyes—

Gold.

Not glowing now. Just… watching.

Watching her.

She sucked in a quiet breath.

His gaze lifted instantly.

“You’re awake,” he said.

Not loud. Not gentle either. Controlled. Like everything else about him.

Lyra swallowed. “How long?”

A pause. “Long enough.”

That didn’t answer anything, but she let it go. Her body felt weak, but clearer than before. The fog of fever had receded, leaving soreness in its place.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“My castle,” Ares replied.

Of course it was.

Her fingers curled slightly into the sheets. “So the stories were real.”

A corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “Most of them exaggerate.”

She looked around again, taking in the size of the chamber. The carved stone. The heavy drapes. The faint hum beneath everything, like the walls themselves were alive.

“You live here,” she murmured. It wasn’t a question.

“I rule from here,” he corrected.

She glanced back at him. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “One implies choice.”

Something about that sent a chill down her spine.

Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Lyra shifted slightly, then winced.

Ares was on his feet instantly.

“Don’t,” he said, hand hovering near her ribs but not touching. “You’re still healing.”

“You said the healers finished,” she murmured.

“They stopped the damage,” he corrected. “Your body is doing the rest.”

She studied his hand—how it trembled, just barely, like holding back wasn’t as easy as he pretended.

“You stayed,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“Why?”

The word lingered between them, simple and dangerous.

Ares straightened slowly. “Because leaving wasn’t an option.”

“For a king, you seem to have many of those.”

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp. Assessing. Then something darker slipped beneath it.

“You don’t understand what happened in that forest,” he said.

“Then explain it to me.”

He hesitated.

Just long enough for her to notice.

“That scent,” he finally said. “Your blood. It triggered something ancient. Something I have spent my life suppressing.”

Lyra’s throat tightened. “Inside you?”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

His gaze dropped briefly—to her neck, her pulse, the place where his teeth had hovered.

“Now it knows you exist.”

Her breath faltered.

“You look at me like I’m dangerous,” she whispered.

Ares stepped closer, stopping beside the bed again. “You are.”

Her brows knit. “To you?”

“No,” he said. “To everything that would try to take you from me.”

The words landed heavy. Possessive. Unapologetic.

Lyra should have recoiled.

Instead, heat stirred low in her belly, unfamiliar and frightening.

“You said you didn’t want a mate,” she said softly.

His eyes darkened.

“I didn’t.”

“And now?”

His voice dropped. “Now the Moon has made a mockery of my will.”

Her heart pounded. “I don’t even know what I am to you.”

Ares reached out then—not to claim, not to trap—but to brush his knuckles lightly against her wrist. Barely there. A test. A warning.

“You are the reason I am still standing here instead of tearing my kingdom apart,” he said. “And that terrifies me more than you know.”

Lyra looked at him, really looked, and for the first time saw the truth beneath the legend.

This man wasn’t afraid of war.

He was afraid of wanting.

Outside, the moon climbed higher, silver light spilling across stone and skin alike.

And in that quiet, dangerous space between them, Lyra realized something else too.

The Lycan King wasn’t the monster the world feared.

He was far worse.

He was a man losing control.

And somehow—

She was already part of the reason why.