Silencing the Bond

That.

That is exactly why I cannot allow the pack to see what she truly is.

Rumors will spread about her saving the western edge from the fire. I can dismiss those as exaggerations. Panic makes wolves dramatic.

But if more members of my pack—elders, ranked warriors, those who hold influence—witness her power up close?

If they sense even a fraction of her dominance and begin whispering that she stands above their Alpha—

The entire hierarchy fractures.

My pack is built on order.

On strength.

On the unshakable image that I am the strongest thing walking within these borders.

If that image cracks, even slightly, challengers will rise.

That is why she is staying in the old family house—my father’s former residence.

It is practically hidden. Abandoned. Forsaken. No one goes there willingly. Too many memories. Too much blood soaked into the foundation.

Years ago, I built a new home for my mother so she could breathe without the ghosts of the past lingering in every corridor. The old house became nothing more than empty space.

And now it is the perfect place to keep Ravelle hidden.

No one questions me stepping into that part of the territory. No one will look twice if they see a woman entering or leaving. They will assume she is an omega maid or a housekeeper.

Soon enough, the necklace will rest around her throat. Its power will suppress hers until it is little more than a residue beneath the surface.

Until she is tamed—until she learns her place—I will not bring her to the larger house I built for myself at the heart of the pack.

“I know,” I answer Keal finally. “And speaking of which—it’s almost dawn. The necklace should be ready. Go to Arven and collect it immediately.”

“Yes, Alpha.” His response is immediate. Obedient.

At least something in my life still listens.

The mindlink fades, and I begin walking through the pack.

The air is cooler now, tinged with smoke and rebuilding effort. My steps carry me toward the western edge before I consciously decide to go there.

The fire damage is still visible, but something else catches my attention.

Warriors and families are working side by side. Men lifting timers. Women hauling supplies. Youths passing tools from hand to hand.

I slow.

Even the females—young girls included—are working relentlessly. Sleeves rolled up. Dirt streaking their hands and faces. Some even giving instructions where needed.

A few of them straighten when they see me, but none stop.

They keep working because they are needed. Because survival does not care about tradition.

For a moment, Ravelle’s face flashes in my mind—along with Keal’s earlier complaint when she threatened him.

Women should learn to defend themselves. Men should learn to clean up after themselves.

I grind my teeth and turn away.

It is not her place to change laws that have stood for thousands of years.

Only I hold that authority.

Only I decide what changes.

With that thought, I make my way toward my office in the Northern Ridge.

Once inside, I close the door and pour myself a glass of the strongest liquor I have. The scent alone burns.

I take a long swallow. It scorches my throat—exactly as I intended.

I need the pain because the mate bond is calling me back to her. The pull is relentless. It is not a gentle tug—it is a command.

My wolf wants to go to her. To stand behind her again. To breathe her in. To mark her throat and remind the world she is claimed.

I close my eyes and immediately, I see her. Her head thrown back. Her lips parted. The sound she made when she unraveled beneath my touch.

My grip tightens involuntarily around the glass. It shatters in my hand.

The crack echoes through the office as shards bite into my palm. Blood trickles steadily down my wrist onto the wooden floor, but I barely feel it and don't bother to cleaning the wound.

I inhale sharply through my nose, fighting for control.

This is worse than any injury.

Worse than any battle. Because I cannot dominate it.

And for the first time in years—

I am not entirely certain I am the strongest force in my own life anymore.

My palm is still bleeding when a knock sounds at the door.

I don’t answer, but it opens anyway.

Keal walks in without waiting for permission—only he dares to do that—and closes the door carefully behind him.

His eyes drop to the shattered glass in my hand and the blood staining my skin before lifting back to my face.

He pretends not to notice.

Smart.

“The necklace is perfect,” he says immediately, a strange excitement in his voice. “Arven really outdid himself this time. I’m telling you, brother, the man is wasted as a blacksmith. He should be designing royal artifacts.”

He holds up a small velvet pouch as if it contains the crown jewels.

I don’t respond. I remain seated behind my desk, staring at the wall, blood drying slowly against my skin.

Keal continues anyway.

“It’s subtle. Elegant. It doesn’t look like a restraint at all. If Ravelle sees it, she won’t be able to resist wearing it. It looks like something a queen would—” He pauses, coughs lightly. “—something powerful women like her would wear and won’t suspect a thing.”

That earns my attention.

My eyes shift to the pouch as he steps closer, opening it carefully and turning it toward me.

The necklace gleams under the low light. The chain appears delicate at first glance—but I know better.

It is not decoration.

It is control disguised as elegance.

I close my eyes briefly while Keal continues rambling.

“The craftsmanship is incredible. The runes are hidden beneath the gold threading, and the moonstone at the center glows faintly if you tilt it toward the light. The clasp sits perfectly—it would rest right against her throat. She’ll think it’s a symbol of romance.”

Romance.

If only he knew how that word tastes in my mouth right now.

Keal finally falls silent, noticing my lack of reaction.

“You don’t look too excited,” he says slowly, his brows drawing together. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.”

The word comes out flat.

He studies me a moment longer. “You look tense, brother.”

I lift my gaze and fix him with a look that would silence most wolves.

He sighs and places the necklace box on my desk. “The mate bond must be hectic.”

That word again.

Bond.

“I read somewhere,” he continues, lowering himself into the chair across from me, “that the pull between fated mates is as intense as the bond between a mother and her child. Instinctive. Unbreakable. It rewires the mind. Consuming. Irrational.”

I say nothing, though my jaw tightens slightly.

“Yes,” he adds knowingly, “I can imagine it’s… distracting.”

Distracting doesn’t begin to cover it.

It is suffocating.

It claws at my thoughts. It drags my attention back to her no matter how far I try to walk.

Keal reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small pouch of dried herbs wrapped in cloth.

“That’s why I brought this,” he says, holding it out. “I got some for Mother when her nerves were bad. It helped calm her.”

I finally lift my gaze to meet his.

“Take it,” he urges. “It dulls… intensity.”

I hesitate.

Dulling the bond sounds dangerous. But right now, the bond feels like it is dragging me by the throat.

My thoughts are not clear.

Every plan tangles with images of Ravelle’s lips, her defiance, her body responding to me despite her pride.

I need distance.

Control.

I take the pouch from him.

“You’re sure this works?” I ask quietly.

“It helped Mother,” he says. “It will help you.”

I do not trust herbs. But I am desperate—desperate to silence the constant pull and to think without feeling her presence at the edge of my consciousness like a flame against my skin.

And desperation makes men try what they otherwise would not.

I pour a measure of liquor into a glass, empty the crushed herbs into it, and swirl the mixture. The liquid darkens slightly.

For a moment, I hesitate again before drinking it in one swallow.

It tastes bitter. Earthy. Unpleasant.

I set the glass down and wait.

At first, nothing happens, then the pull lessens. Not gradually but abruptly like it's fading.

The constant tug in my chest loosens, as if a rope has been cut. My wolf, who has been pacing and snarling for hours, suddenly grows still.

The silence inside my head is deafening.

I inhale slowly. For the first time since she came into my life, I do not feel her.

I can think without her face forcing its way into every corner of my mind.

No heat.

No hum.

No demand.

Just silence.

Relief washes through me so suddenly that my shoulders sag. My limbs feel warm.

Keal stands and steps behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders in a firm grip. He begins massaging the tension from the muscles at the base of my neck, just as he used to after brutal training sessions.

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

My body grows heavier by the second.

The exhaustion I have been ignoring crashes into me all at once. My head dips forward slightly.

The silence where the bond once hummed feels… peaceful.

Too peaceful.

But I do not question it.

Sleep drags at me harder than I expect.

My last coherent thought is that I can finally breathe without wanting her.

Without needing her.

As darkness pulls me under, the last thing I hear is Keal’s voice, low and steady near my ear.

“Sleep well, brother.”

His fingers press firmly into my shoulders.

“When you wake up,” he continues softly, “you won’t see her as your mate.”

My consciousness flickers.

“You’ll see her as your rival.”

The words feel distant.

Blurry.

“And then,” he finishes quietly, “you’ll tame her and claim your place.”

Darkness swallows me whole.

And for the first night since Ravelle stepped into my life—

I do not dream of her.