(Raven's POV)
Raven didn't stop walking until the sounds of the pack faded behind her.
She kept her pace steady, her back straight, her expression calm—because that was what leaders did. They didn't falter. They didn't show weakness. They certainly didn't let anyone see when something clawed its way into their chest and refused to let go.
Not even him.
Her boots crunched against the gravel path as she moved deeper into the quieter part of the grounds, toward the old watchtower near the forest's edge. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, sharp enough to sting her lungs. She welcomed it. Pain was grounding.
Pain made sense.
Unlike this.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms as the image replayed itself without mercy.
Ronan. Lyra. Standing too close. Talking too easily. Her hand on his arm.
Raven swallowed hard.
It means nothing, she told herself for the hundredth time. He's allowed to have friends. Allies. Anyone he wants.
So why did it feel like something had been ripped open inside her?
She reached the base of the tower and stopped, pressing her forehead briefly against the cold stone. The chill seeped into her skin, but it wasn't enough to numb the ache in her chest.
"Get a grip," she whispered.
Her wolf stirred uneasily, pacing, restless, radiating irritation and something dangerously close to jealousy. Raven forced it down, the way she always did. Wolves were simple creatures. They felt first and thought later. She couldn't afford that luxury.
She pushed away from the stone and climbed the narrow steps inside the tower. Each step echoed, too loud in the silence, until she reached the top and stepped out onto the open platform.
The view stretched endlessly—trees, hills, sky. Distance. Space.
Good.
She rested her hands on the railing, staring out without really seeing anything.
She hated that she'd noticed every detail earlier.
The way Ronan had leaned slightly toward Lyra. The ease in his posture. The faint curve of his mouth when she spoke.
He never smiled like that with her
The thought stabbed deep, sharp and unexpected.
"No," Raven muttered, shaking her head. "You don't get to think that."
She straightened, forcing her shoulders back. This was ridiculous.
She'd chosen distance. She'd drawn the line. If Ronan had decided to move on—or pretend to—then that was on her.
So why did her throat feel tight?
She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse. Memory rushed in—unwanted and vivid.
His voice saying her name. The way his gaze darkened when he looked at her. That moment in Chapter 26—too close, too intense, too dangerous.
Her breath hitched.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat racing like she'd been running. "You don't want this," she told herself firmly.
"You don't want him."
But her body betrayed her, heat curling low in her stomach at the lie.
Anger flared suddenly, hot and sharp.
How dare he?
How dare he look at someone else like that after everything? After the tension, the pull, the things he'd made her feel without ever saying a word. How dare he make her feel like this—confused, shaken, exposed—while he stood there so calm, so composed.
A bitter laugh slipped out.
"Of course," she said softly. "Why wouldn't he?"
She'd been the one pushing him away. The one building walls. The one refusing to cross the line.
He was Alpha. He didn't wait forever.
That truth hurt more than she expected.
Her grip tightened on the railing until her knuckles went white. She forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly, the way she'd learned long ago when emotions threatened to overwhelm her.
This is nothing, she told herself. Just pride. Just surprise.
But deep down, something fragile cracked.
Because pride didn't ache like this. Surprise didn't make her chest feel hollow.
She stayed there for a long time, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, until the heat behind her eyes finally faded into something duller, heavier. By the time she descended the tower, her face was carefully blank again.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
As she walked back toward the pack house, she spotted them again in the distance—Ronan and Lyra, standing near the training grounds. This time, she didn't slow. Didn't look twice.
She lifted her chin and walked past without acknowledging them.
If Ronan noticed the stiffness in her stride, the way her scent sharpened as she passed, he gave no sign.
Good.
That night, alone in her room, the control finally shattered.
The door barely closed before Raven sagged against it, breath coming uneven. Her chest hurt—actually hurt—as if something inside her had been squeezed too tight.
She slid down slowly until she was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself.
"I don't care," she whispered fiercely into the empty room. "I don't."
But the silence didn't agree.
Her wolf curled inward, restless and wounded, and for the first time, Raven didn't immediately shut it down. She let herself feel it—the pull, the longing, the anger twisted with want.
Tears burned, but she refused to let them fall.
She wouldn't cry over Ronan. She wouldn't chase him. She wouldn't beg for something she wasn't even sure she wanted.
Yet as she lay back on the cool floor, staring at the ceiling, one truth echoed relentlessly in her mind, no matter how hard she fought it:
Seeing him with Lyra hadn't made her angry because she didn't want him.
It had made her angry because she did.
And that terrified her more than anything else ever had.