Chapter 5: The Deal

Lyra's eyes snapped open to the dim glow of dawn seeping through the tent's rough canvas. Her body hummed with residual fire, the ghost of Torin's release still pulsing in her veins like an unwelcome intruder. She shifted on the hides, thighs sticky, and pressed her palm against her lower belly to quell the insistent throb. The air in the rogue camp carried the scent of damp earth and smoke from distant fires, but it did little to ground her. Malachi's presence loomed even in his absence, his earlier words echoing: Violet Wolf. Mine to wield.

Footsteps crunched outside, heavy and deliberate. The flap lifted, and Malachi ducked inside, his massive frame filling the space. Towering over her at nearly seven feet, his body was a map of scars and sinew, black hair tied back to reveal sharp cheekbones and eyes like polished obsidian. He wore only loose pants of hide, his bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat from whatever predawn exertions he'd been about. In his hand, he held a strip of dried meat and a waterskin.

"Eat," he commanded, tossing the meat onto the pallet beside her. His voice rumbled deep, laced with authority that brooked no argument. "You'll need strength for what's coming."

Lyra sat up slowly, drawing the furs around her like a shield. Her shift clung to her skin, damp from night sweats, and she avoided his gaze as she tore into the meat. It was tough, gamey, but it steadied the tremor in her limbs. "What's coming?" she asked, voice steadier than she felt.

Malachi crouched before her, elbows on knees, his stare pinning her in place. "A deal, little wolf. You have power—raw, untamed. I can shape it into a blade. In return, you serve me. Fight for the rogues. Help us carve out what's ours from packs like your alpha's."

She swallowed hard, the mention of Torin twisting the knot in her gut. "And if I refuse?"

A slow smile curved his lips, revealing fangs that glinted in the low light. "Then you stay chained here until your light fades. But I don't waste potential. You're no ordinary shifter. Those violet eyes? They mark you as something ancient. A weapon the packs fear."

Lyra's fingers tightened on the waterskin. The hypersensitivity from the bond's fracture made every brush of fabric against her skin feel like a spark, but she pushed it down. Freedom meant power, and power meant survival. "Teach me, then. But I fight for myself, not your wars."

Malachi's laugh was a low growl. "We'll see." He stood, offering a hand. She took it reluctantly, his callused palm engulfing hers, sending a jolt through her arm that had nothing to do with attraction—more like static from a storm. He pulled her to her feet, steadying her when she wobbled.

The camp sprawled in a hidden hollow of the Dead Lands, ringed by jagged rocks and twisted, leafless trees that clawed at the gray sky. Rogues moved like shadows—hardened outcasts with brands on their necks marking banishment. They eyed Lyra with a mix of curiosity and hunger as Malachi led her to a cleared circle of packed dirt, weapons racks lining the edges.

"First, control," he said, stripping a wooden staff from the rack. He thrust a second into her hands. "Your power leaks like a cracked dam. Focus it, or it'll drown you."

Training began with basics: stances, strikes, blocks. Malachi moved like liquid shadow, his staff whistling through the air. Lyra parried clumsily at first, her body still weak from the waterfall's toll, but adrenaline sharpened her reflexes. Sweat beaded on her brow, trickling down her neck and between her breasts, the thin shift offering no protection from the chill wind.

He closed the distance on her next swing, his free hand gripping her wrist to adjust her hold. "Grip tighter. Like you're strangling the life from an enemy." His fingers pressed into her skin, firm and unyielding.

Lyra flinched, a sharp gasp escaping as heat bloomed under his touch. Not fear—gods, no—but the raw sensitivity amplified every contact. It raced up her arm, tingling across her collarbone, making her nipples tighten against the fabric. She yanked back, cheeks flushing. "Don't—"

Malachi's brow arched, but he didn't release her. Instead, he stepped closer, his body heat cutting through the morning cold. "Sensitive, are we? The bond's echo, I wager. Your alpha's rejection leaves marks deeper than claws." His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, deliberate now, testing. "Breathe through it. Pain is a teacher."

She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to hold still as he guided her arm into position. His hand slid to her shoulder, correcting her posture, fingers splaying over the curve of her trapezius. The touch ignited sparks, her skin alive and aching, as if every nerve ending screamed for more—or less. Her breath hitched, thighs clenching involuntarily against the unwelcome stir low in her belly.

"Again," he murmured, voice closer to her ear than before. He circled her, staff tapping her calves to widen her stance. When she faltered, his palm flattened against her lower back, pushing her hips forward. The pressure there sent a wave crashing through her, her core tightening with a pulse that made her vision blur. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, stifling the moan that threatened to rise.

Malachi paused, inhaling deeply. His eyes darkened as he caught her scent—arousal mingled with frustration. "The withdrawal makes you fragile. Like a live wire. But it'll pass, or it'll forge you stronger." He stepped back, twirling his staff. "Now, channel it. Strike with intent. Imagine your power flowing from here—" He tapped her chest, right over her racing heart.

Lyra nodded, gripping the staff until her knuckles whitened. She swung, pouring the chaotic energy into the motion. Violet light flickered at her fingertips, faint but growing, humming along the wood. Malachi blocked effortlessly, but the impact reverberated, sending a ripple through the air that rustled nearby tents.

"Good," he approved, circling again. "Deeper. Feel it in your bones."

They drilled for hours, the sun climbing higher, burning off the mist. Lyra's muscles burned, but the hypersensitivity ebbed into something sharper—focus. Each touch from Malachi, now purposeful corrections to her form, fueled her rather than distracted. He gripped her elbow to pivot her, palm sliding down her forearm; adjusted her footwork with a nudge to her thigh, his fingers grazing the sensitive inner skin just above her knee.

By midday, exhaustion clawed at her, but so did a building pressure inside, like a storm gathering in her chest. Malachi sensed it, dropping his staff. "Now, shift. Let it out. Become the wolf they fear."

Lyra dropped to her knees in the dirt, breath ragged. She closed her eyes, reaching for that violet core she'd glimpsed before. It surged, wild and hot, tearing through her veins. Her skin rippled, bones cracking and reforming with agonizing pops. Fur didn't sprout—instead, something darker unfurled.

Pain lanced her back as protrusions burst from her shoulder blades, not feathers or scales, but jagged bone wings, veined with pulsing violet light. They spanned wide, casting shadows over the training circle, the tips sharp enough to slice stone. She cried out, the sound shifting to a guttural howl that echoed off the rocks.

Malachi froze, awe slackening his features for the first time. Rogues gathered at the edges, murmurs rippling through them. Lyra rose unsteadily, her body a hybrid horror—human form intact but for the wings, claws extending from her fingers, eyes blazing violet.

"Hybrid," Malachi breathed, stepping forward. "Not just wolf. Something more. The old bloodlines." His hand reached out, tracing the edge of one wing, the touch sending fresh shivers through her oversensitive frame.

But as the power settled, a vision flashed unbidden: Torin's face, twisted in pain from the Oracle's warning. If another claimed her... And here she stood, teetering on the edge of something irreversible.