CHAPTER TWELVE

Ronan's pov

There was something wrong with me.

I knew it the moment she stepped into this cursed kingdom—soft, broken, timid and filled with secrets. Lyra.

Everything about her set me on edge. Her scent, her silence, the way she at the slightest noise just like a mouse. Like she knew something we didn’t.

She had been through a lot. That much was evident.

And yet…

I couldn’t stay away.

I’d fought in a thousand wars. Faced blood and betrayal. But this girl? This tiny thing from Moonstone with a dull fire in her eyes and something powerful in each step—she unsettled me in a way nothing ever had. She disrupted the order of things.

And I hated it.

“She’s dangerous.”

Alaric’s voice echoed in my head, deep and guttural. He’d been closer to the surface ever since she arrived. Always watching. Always growling. Restless.

“I know,” I muttered, pacing my chambers.

“You’re distracted.”

“She’s a spy. Has to be.”

“She’s ours.”

That silenced me.

Because part of me—something dark and primal—agreed. That same part that hadn’t hesitated when Mira’s sharp voice had lied against lyra and called for Mira's blood. I hadn’t even thought. One second Mira was standing there, lips curled in disgust and the next, her throat was gone, torn open beneath my claws.

There had been no control. Just instinct. Rage. Possession.

And when I turned, Lyra had been staring at me with wide, unreadable eyes.

Alaric had howled that night. Not in victory. In something else.

Need.

Claim.

I ran my hand down my face, trying to shake it. Gods, I was unraveling. And it didn’t help that her scent—gods, her scent—lingered on my pillow like a ghost.

She had only slept in my chambers once. After Mira’s death. The idea of her being tossed back into the servants' quarters made my wolf furious, so I’d had her placed in my wing. I told myself it was strategic. That it was easier to watch her.

But the truth?

That faint, warm scent—soft wildflowers and rain—soothed the storm in my chest more than I’d ever admit. I’d woken that night and just… breathed it in. It made no sense. And that terrified me.

I was still thinking about her scent when I entered the castle earlier, only to see her smile.

Time… slowed.

Lyra's lips curved, her eyes lit up, and I—gods—I stopped breathing. That smile. It wasn't a small one. It wasn’t a polite flicker of amusement. It was full. Bright. Etheral.

And then I saw who it was for.

Garrick.

He was right beside her, close enough to touch, he said something to her that made her smile and stare at him in a way that deep down I wish it was me it was directed at.

I knew that soon they would be lauughing.

A noise ripped through me. Silent. Internal. But savage. My chest burned. My claws pricked the skin of my palms.

“I’ll rip his throat out,” Alaric growled.

“He’s loyal,” I reminded him.

“He’s too close.”

I couldn’t deny it. Not with that look Garrick had given her. Admiring. Soft. Like she was his to protect.

She turned, then.

Our eyes met.

For a brief moment, the world held its breath with us.

And then I turned away.

Coward.

Back in my office, I slammed the door and threw myself into work, but my mind didn’t settle. Not even as I scribbled across scroll after scroll. Not even as the sun dipped past the windows and night swept over the kingdom.

The scent still clung to me. Garrick’s betrayal still played behind my eyes.

The knock came just past twilight.

“Enter,” I bit out, already knowing who it was.

Garrick stepped in, casual, like he hadn’t been the source of my inner torment for hours.

He smelled like her.

Her.

I nearly growled.

He was talking—something about patrols and new rotations, his voice smooth and careless—but I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t. My gaze was locked on the faint shimmer of golden hair stuck to his tunic. The relaxed smile on his lips.

He had no idea how close he was to death.

“Ronan?” he asked, blinking. “Did you hear me?”

“No,” I snapped, rising so fast my chair screeched across the floor. “Get out.”

His brows lifted, mouth parting slightly.

“I said—get out.”

He paused—hesitating just long enough for my fury to crackle in the air—before giving a short nod and leaving.

The moment the door shut, I slammed my fists into the desk. Papers scattered. Ink spilled.

Alaric snarled, pacing.

“We should’ve killed him.”

“He’s my Second.”

“He touched her.”

“I don’t know that.”

“He looked at her like she was his.”

I dragged in a breath. Ragged. Shaking.

I worked. Until the moon had risen high in the night sky and the halls grew quiet. Until I could no longer fight the hunger gnawing at me.

I needed air.

I needed… her.

I left my office.

It was the faintest fint of scent that changed my path, that soft and warm and unmistakable scent.

Lyra.

My feet moved before my mind caught up. I followed it down the west corridor, past the armory, past the old stairwell that led toward the servant wing. But then—

Laughter.

Hers.

And a male voice.

I didn’t need to breathe in to know who it was.

Garrick.

The burn started low in my stomach. It was familiar now. A fuse lit in my blood. My steps slowed as I reached the corner, moving soundlessly, heart pounding.

I saw the glow of firelight spilling from beneath the kitchen door.

I moved closer. Slowly. Carefully.

And then I caught it—his voice, soft and teasing.

She was laughing.

Laughing.

It was the most beautiful melody I had ever heard. It sounded like she was… safe. Happy.

I opened the door.

And there they were.

Sitting far too close. Bread and berries scattered on the table between them. Garrick staring at her like she’d hung the damn moon. And Lyra—

She was smiling.

Again.

My vision narrowed.

Rage. Jealousy. Fire. It all erupted in my chest like a storm.

I cleared my throat.

Loud. Sharp. Cutting whatever was going on between them.

Two heads whipped around.

And I let silence do the rest.