Later, alone in the library, Sena's eyes traced the words on the page, but nothing stuck. Her body hummed, restless, every shift too sharp, every breath too shallow. The quiet only made it worse. She had always loved books—the smell of old paper, the whisper of pages turning—but tonight even that comfort failed her.
In her old pack, the library had been her sanctuary, a secret place she could slip away to under the cover of night when no one knew where she had gone. Here, it felt like something was missing—like the words themselves were a cage she couldn't escape.
She flipped through a volume at random, not reading so much as searching. Somewhere in these pages, she told herself, there might be a sign. A clue. A thread connecting her to the parents she had barely known. Her mind lingered on the symbols her mother and father had worn—dark, intricate marks across their necks that she had never fully understood. They were more than decoration, she knew; they were a secret meant to be uncovered, a language she had yet to learn.
Somehow, she felt those symbols held more than memory—they hinted at something larger, a power or destiny entwined with her own path, something she had yet to grasp. She needed anything, some fragment of meaning to connect her to the self she was still figuring out.
Finally, surrendering to restlessness, she lowered herself onto the carpet, folding her legs beneath her. She held the book upside down in her lap, pretending to read, but her mind kept drifting. Her thighs pressed tightly together, every small motion sending sparks of heat through her veins. Fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of a page as if touching it might reveal the secret she craved. The quiet library became a crucible for her hunger, and her breath grew shallow, catching as her pulse quickened.
Minutes stretched, dragging her deeper into frustration. Words blurred, images danced, and she finally gave up with a soft, frustrated exhale. Leaning back against the shelves, she rested her forehead against the book's spine. Nothing. The answers she sought refused to surface, leaving her both achingly empty and impossibly alive with anticipation.
The door opened. Two figures appeared, framed by shadows and moonlight. Their eyes locked on hers, dark, wild, barely restrained, and the air between them throbbed with heat. Sena's breath caught, but she didn't flinch. Slowly, deliberately, she rose, brushing hair from her face, her body humming with tension she could no longer contain.
She didn't look back. Bare feet whispered over the polished floor as she walked, head held high, her pulse echoing in her ears. The two alphas followed silently, not rushing, not touching—just shadows in step behind her, their presence pressing like a tide she couldn't resist. It wasn't a chase. It wasn't pursuit. It was inevitability, and she was the one in command.
By the time she reached her room, her hand rested on the carved handle, calm despite the fire threading through her veins. Beyond it, the French doors framed the blood moon, casting crimson light across the floor. The room itself seemed to hold its breath. Heavy furs draped the bed, shadows rippling in the glow. Sena's chest tightened with awe and a touch of fear, but mostly with certainty.
This room, this night, had been waiting for her.
And so had they.