Lyra didn't sleep.
The pain in her body had dulled to a throb, but the ache in her chest kept her restless. The events of the trial, the tension in the war council, and the simmering heat in Alaric's eyes replayed in her mind on a maddening loop.
She was winning battles, yes. But at what cost?
At some point in the night, she gave up pretending she could rest and slipped into the corridor. The packhouse was quiet, moonlight casting long shadows on the wooden floors. It was peaceful, but not safe. Not for her.
She was alone in enemy territory, even if she'd earned a place at their table.
Even if her heart had started to betray her.
She ended up in the training yard, pacing, stretching, anything to distract herself. Her body begged for stillness, but her mind was a battlefield. When she turned toward the armory to grab a practice blade just to hold something solid she froze.
Alaric was already there.
He stood shirtless under the moon, his back glistening with sweat from a solo training session. Sword in hand, feet planted with deadly precision, he moved through a series of fluid, brutal strikes clean, controlled, and effortless.
Lyra didn't mean to watch. But she couldn't look away.
He moved like a predator. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
His strength had always intimidated her, but now it fascinated her. Not because she was drawn to it though, God help her, she was but because it mirrored something in her. Something raw and fierce that refused to be tamed.
He noticed her, but didn't stop.
Only when he finished the final swing and dropped the blade to the dirt did he speak.
"Couldn't sleep?"
She shrugged. "Didn't think you could either."
He walked toward her, slow and deliberate. His chest rose and fell with exertion, and when he stopped a few feet away, Lyra noticed a faint scar over his right shoulder. Old. Deep. A mark of survival.
"Training helps," he said. "Keeps the mind quiet."
"I've tried," she replied. "My mind doesn't like to listen."
A hint of a smirk touched his lips fleeting, but real.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he added. "Not after the trial. You're still healing."
"And if I waited to be healed before moving, I'd never get anywhere."
There it was again that electric tension. Not anger. Not even a challenge.
Something... dangerous.
Something she didn't want to name.
Alaric stepped closer. "You pushed yourself too far yesterday."
"I had no choice."
"There's always a choice."
"No," Lyra said, voice tightening. "There's never been a choice. Not since you bound me with blood."
Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Uneasy.
"I didn't do it to control you," he said finally.
"Then why?" she demanded. "Why force a bond that neither of us wanted?"
His jaw flexed. "Because I thought it was the only way to keep you alive."
Lyra swallowed hard. That answer wasn't cruel. It wasn't manipulative.
It was honest.
"That bond may have saved me," she whispered, "but it's also suffocating me."
Alaric's gaze dropped to her lips, then lifted slowly to her eyes. "Then why haven't you tried to break it?"
She faltered. The truth swirled in her gut like a storm.
Because she didn't want to.
Because part of her despite every reason not to wanted to know what it would feel like if he touched her with intention. If he looked at her not out of duty or frustration… but desire.
Because her heart was reckless. And her body didn't care about pride or politics.
Alaric stepped even closer. Now they were inches apart.
His breath was warm on her cheek. His scent, pine, musk, something uniquely him invaded her senses.
"I can feel it too," he murmured. "This... pull."
Lyra's lips parted, her breath catching in her throat.
"Every time you're near me," he continued, "it gets harder to pretend I don't want more."
Her pulse pounded in her ears. "Then stop pretending."
In a blur, his hand was at her waist, firm and possessive. She gasped but didn't pull away. His other hand lifted to her jaw, fingers tracing her cheek gently, as if trying not to break something already cracked.
He leaned in slowly, cautiously and their lips brushed.
Just once.
Soft. Tentative. Electric.
And then again deeper this time, full of pent-up frustration, hunger, and emotion neither of them had permission to feel.
Lyra melted against him, her hands gripping his shoulders. The kiss was fire and fury. It was dangerously wrapped in tenderness. It was every contradiction they'd tried to suppress, bursting free.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Lyra's heart thundered in her chest.
"That was a mistake," she whispered, though her body screamed otherwise.
"Maybe," Alaric said. "But I don't regret it."
She stepped back, needing space before she lost all sense of herself.
"This changes nothing," she said.
"It changes everything."
And they both knew he was right.
Later, alone in her room, Lyra stood at the window staring into the darkness beyond the packhouse.
Her lips still tingled from the kiss.
Her heart was at war.
Not with Alaric but with herself.
Because now, it wasn't just blood that bound them.
It was something far more dangerous.
Something that couldn't be fought with claws or pride.
Affection.