The door to Veyra's private study closed with a low finality, muffling the bustle of the courtyard behind her. The space was dimly lit, as always—early shadows pooled near the eastern wall where maps and pinned notes stretched like a quiet battlefield across parchment. The room smelled faintly of smoke, old ink, and leather.
Captain Lorne and Ryven were already inside, standing by the central table. Kellen entered behind her, closing the door and crossing his arms in silence. The click of the lock echoed louder than expected.
Veyra shed her cloak with a flick of her shoulder, draping it across the nearest chair.
"Report."
It was Lorne who spoke first. "We confirmed which Alpha orchestrated the scent-mark at your door."
She didn't move. "And?"
"Alric Serren."
Veyra's jaw tensed.
Kellen let out a breath beside her—no surprise in it, just confirmation of what he'd likely already suspected. "The same Alric who had access to the east wing?"
Ryven nodded. "His father's quarters are near the Circle hall. And after you left, he stayed behind for two additional meetings Tareth conveniently arranged. We caught traces of his scent along the corridor again—fresh. Likely scouted the timing before acting."
"Coward didn't even leave it himself," Lorne muttered. "Sent someone to mark the door, likely one of the younger Thorne guards. We're still confirming which."
Veyra said nothing.
She crossed to the table instead, planting her hands flat against the map of Fort Dalen and its trade routes—her fingers brushing the edge of the Karsen Vale line, still smudged faintly with dirt from her journey.
"And Councilor Serren?" she asked at last.
"Hasn't spoken openly, but she's grown quiet in the Circle. Merel noticed," Ryven added. "No speeches. No interference. Just… observation. Like she's waiting."
Kellen snorted. "Or buying time."
Veyra nodded once.
"She won't have it."
She straightened, gaze flicking to the pin-studded ledger board where her notes on the ambush, the smuggling, and the Serren heir's intrusion hung in a careful grid.
"We'll document the door mark incident and add it to the charges. If Deyla returns with those envoys, and if they corroborate what we suspect about Tareth's cross-border dealings—"
"Then we'll have enough," Lorne said.
Veyra didn't answer immediately. Her thoughts drifted—unbidden—back to the room upstairs. To the quiet glow of Liora's shoulder in the firelight, to the sound of her laugh in the courtyard.
To the collar she'd dared to wear so openly.
Kellen, watching her, narrowed his eyes slightly.
"You're thinking about her."
Veyra's gaze flicked sideways. "I'm thinking about the trial we're going to force this council into."
He didn't press—yet—but Lorne arched a brow.
Ryven smirked faintly, folding his arms. "We'll keep the gates quiet, Commander. The people saw her ride in beside you. It was enough."
Veyra turned her back to them for a moment, staring out the high window where the banners stirred faintly above the parapet.
"She deserves not to be used for spectacle."
Kellen's voice came gently behind her. "Then show them it wasn't a spectacle. Show them it's the beginning."
Veyra exhaled once through her nose and let the silence settle just long enough.
Then she spoke.
"While you were dealing with the mess inside the walls," she began, voice steady, "we ran straight into the one forming outside it."
Kellen glanced toward her then, but didn't interrupt.
"We crossed Karsen Vale two days past," Veyra continued. "Found the outer patrol dismissed without notice—townsfolk claimed they'd been recalled to Dalen. A courier brought the order. No signature."
There were murmurs at that—tightening postures, a few exchanged glances.
"We discovered the bodies of three Vaereth soldiers outside the town. Two already gone. One dying." Her eyes flicked to Malen, then the others. "No sign of the assailants, but the timing was too precise. It was a setup."
She let that hang a moment before stepping closer to the desk, hand reaching into the inner seam of her breastplate. From it, she withdrew the folded parchment—charred along the edges, the wax seal broken but the courier mark still intact.
She laid it flat on the table.
"This was found on one of the bodies from the second ambush near Ember Hollow."
That got their full attention.
"A second ambush?" one of the younger scribes asked, stunned.
Kellen answered, low: "Ten attackers. No crests. No pheromones."
"Suppressants," Veyra added. "Masking presence. Their strategy was military—precise strikes, tried to flank from both sides. But someone got careless. One carried this letter. A meeting point confirmed with Eldranis envoys… arranged through Tareth's own courier network."
The silence was thicker now.
"And the blade," Kellen added, stepping forward. "One of them carried a dagger marked with an old lion insignia. Border regiment issue. Tareth's, years ago."
Several at the table stiffened. One muttered a curse under his breath.
Veyra folded her arms. "They didn't expect us to take that route. We reversed the trade path to catch the pattern. It worked—but it cost us."
Her gaze flicked to Malen again. A subtle gesture. They all knew what that meant.
"Liora was injured. Shallow wound, but badly placed. Fever set in."
No one dared comment, though a few faces shifted with the realization of how close it must've been. How costly this evidence nearly became.
"She's stable now. Resting."
Veyra's voice cooled again, falling back into the rhythm of strategy.
"Deyla is on the road south as we speak. Her orders are to find the envoys named in the letter. If they're real—and willing—we'll bring them north. If not, I want to know why this meeting was being staged near Ember Hollow without Circle approval."
Kellen nodded once, jaw tight. "She'll bring them. Or find out what's waiting."
The flame from the hearth guttered low, casting shadows over the table.
Veyra's tone sharpened.
"We have a courier seal, a traitor's mark, and the blood of soldiers on our side of the border. This wasn't an opportunistic raid. It was calculated. Coordinated."
She paused.
"And it implicates Tareth directly."
There it was—laid cleanly, without flourish. The point to which everything had led.
No one in the room spoke right away.
Then the eldest among them, a weathered woman who'd served her father in quieter reform efforts, leaned forward, voice soft but iron-spined.
"Do you intend to bring this before the Circle?"
Veyra met her gaze.
"Yes."
Her silver eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight. The weight of her final words lingered in the room like smoke.
But Veyra wasn't finished.
She lifted her chin slightly, the command in her posture settling like iron into the bones of the room. "There's one more thing."
She glanced to her left, toward the lean Beta operative in dark uniform seated nearest the hearth—a sharp-eyed scout who'd worked discreetly under her father during the border unrest. She'd once seen him stand unflinching in a standoff with an Alpha twice his size, only to dismantle the man's arrogance with a few clipped words and a drawn blade he never had to use. For a task as delicate as locating the younger Thorne guard and Alric Serren—without alerting the Circle or tipping their hand—Cynel was the obvious choice.
"Cynel. I want you and Rhea to begin combing the barracks. Quietly. There are two guards I want pulled aside before dusk."
Cynel's brow arched, but he only nodded. "Names?"
"Castian Thorne," she said plainly. "And Alric Serren. I want them both brought in. Quietly. No escort, no weapons. I'll speak to them myself."
A few in the room shifted uncomfortably at the names.
"I'd like to have a word with them both. Privately."
Kellen exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly unsurprised. "You think they knew about the ambush?"
"I think they've been playing games on Tareth's behalf since before I left for the border," Veyra said flatly. "And they've gotten comfortable thinking I wouldn't confront them. That ends now."
She turned her eyes back to the scout. "No confrontation. Just get them here. Unarmed, preferably. Bring them to the auxiliary meeting chamber near the war room—not my study. I want it quiet, but not too familiar."
Cynel rose with crisp efficiency, already halfway to the door.
"And if they resist?" he asked coolly.
Veyra's silver gaze didn't waver.
"Tell them the Lion's Heir is done waiting."
He dipped his head once and vanished into the hall, boots echoing softly against the stone.
She turned back to the others. "Begin preparing the evidence. The dagger and the courier note will be presented within two days. I want our case airtight before it reaches the Circle. Until then—nothing leaves this room."
There was a murmur of agreement, loyal and grim.
Veyra finally stepped back, her breath settling—shoulders relaxing just enough to mark the weight of decision. She had a confrontation to prepare for.
And two young men to corner.
—
The door closed behind her with a quiet finality.
Liora stood still for a moment, alone in Veyra's quarters. The space hadn't changed—it was still orderly, shadowed in warm lamplight, faintly scented of pine and smoke—but something about it felt unfamiliar now. Not threatening. Just… different. She wasn't here as a prisoner, or a secret, or someone barely clinging to her own name. She had walked through the east gate upright, unchained, her head unbowed. No one had stopped her.
That, in itself, felt impossible.
She exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders drop. Then, finally, she stepped forward.
Her legs ached from the ride, and her side still burned where the bandage pressed tight beneath her tunic. She should have gone to the cot—collapsed, curled, buried her face into the worn blanket and let the exhaustion take her. But instead, she drifted slowly across the room, trailing a hand along the edge of the desk, her fingers brushing the familiar clutter: the lion figurine, a folded map, a frayed scrap of ribbon tied at the corner of a scabbard.
She had slept here before. Nestled in Veyra's old traveling cloak, half-drugged from fever and silence withdrawal, tucked into the bed while the scent of pine lingered around her like armor. But that had been necessity—survival. This was something else. This time, she had come back by choice.
Her gaze lifted to the narrow window above the bed, where early evening light slanted in gold across the stone floor. She didn't move for a long time. Just breathed. Counted. Tried to ignore the slow, rhythmic throb beneath her ribs where the wound still whispered its complaint. It wasn't deep—not compared to what it could've been. Not compared to what she'd seen Veyra take without flinching.
The memory flickered, unbidden—Veyra's blade rising in a silver arc, the blood-slick glint of steel, the roar she'd loosed into the trees like the war cry of something ancient and sovereign. Her eyes had burned then. Not with rage. But with something desperate, protective, and unmistakably hers.
Liora swallowed and leaned her weight slowly against the edge of the cot. She remembered the way Veyra had reached her after the fighting—how her voice had shaken when she gave orders. How she'd nearly lost control. And how Kellen had slapped her for it, because she had asked him to.
Why had that moment stayed with her?
Because no one—no one—had ever come for her like that.
She exhaled shakily, then tugged the dark cloak from the wall hook, the same one Veyra had tossed over her that first night. She sank down onto the cot and wrapped it around her shoulders, burying her nose into the fabric before she could stop herself. It smelled faintly of pinesmoke and leather—but the faint scent of white musk clung to it, a scent she knew all too well now. She shouldn't have let it comfort her—but it did.
She must have dozed—lightly, not fully asleep. Just enough for the weight of her limbs to go slack and her cheek to sink into the crook of Veyra's traveling cloak—kind of half-rest where breath slows but the world never quite lets go. The wool cloak wrapped around her that held Veyra's scent had been enough to ease her pulse.
Until the door slammed open.
The sharp crack of it startled her upright. Her hand flew instinctively to her side—pain flaring in a hot line through the bandages—and she braced against the cot frame, breath ragged.
He filled the doorway like he expected applause.
"Well," came the voice, familiar in that cold, leering way, "so this is where Veyra keeps her little pet."
Liora went very still.
Her breath stopped in her throat, like it always did when a nightmare arrived while she was still awake.
Alric Serren stepped into the room without pause, without permission. Sunlight caught on the red velvet of his coat, tailored too tightly around his shoulders to be practical, embroidered with cheap gold that tried far too hard to look like wealth. He was dressed like a man playing at power—his house might be minor, but no one could accuse him of dressing modestly. Every inch of him shouted for attention.
But it wasn't the clothes that made Liora's chest tighten.
It was him.
The memory—fingers at her throat, the sharp scrape of cold metal. The scentless weight of him in the garden, grinning as he latched the collar shut while she flinched like an animal.
She thought she was past it.
Apparently not.
He glanced around the room, smug and slow. "She's not here?" he asked, as though disappointed. "Shame. I thought maybe I'd see the great Commander playing house with her little stray."
Liora didn't move. Didn't speak. She sat straighter, pulling the cloak tighter around her frame, her heartbeat loud behind her ribs. But her face—her face was still.
He turned his gaze on her, and that smirk returned.
"I must say," he went on, "you clean up nicely. Even for a mutt."
That word hit harder than she expected. It echoed. Her jaw ached from how tightly she bit down on a reply.
Still, she managed it.
"Bit bold," she said, voice dry, "for someone who can't win a fight without shackles."
He chuckled, stepping farther into the room.
"You know what I think?" he said, pacing slowly toward her. "I think you like it. The collar. The attention. The way she stares at you like a starving beast. You wear it now like it's yours—but I remember how you shook when I put it on."
Her fingers twitched under the cloak.
She looked up at him then—really looked. Let him see that she hadn't forgotten a single second of what he'd done.
"I remember something too," she said, softly. "I remember your hand trembling. Like you knew, even then, that touching me would cost you more than you had to give."
He stilled at that.
Just a flicker.
But she saw it.
"You're braver now," he said, stepping closer. "She must've filled your head with all kinds of ideas."
The door slammed open behind him before Liora could fully exhale.
"You there—step away from her."
The voice was sharp, slicing the quiet like a blade. A Beta guard in fresh armor stood in the threshold, eyes locked on Alric Serren with open disgust. He must have just arrived to relieve the previous patrol—late, likely, due to the ongoing festival. But he was armed, awake, and already furious.
Alric turned with lazy arrogance, barely blinking. "You're late. I knocked," he said dryly, brushing a speck of lint from his embroidered sleeve. "No one answered."
"You are not permitted inside the commander's quarters—especially not alone with her." The guard's hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, posture tense. "Do you understand what kind of breach this is?"
"I'm sure your commander will forgive me." Alric gave a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Eventually."
"I doubt it," the guard snapped. "She gave strict orders regarding her guest. You will leave, immediately."
For a beat, the two locked eyes—Alpha and Beta. Alric looked as though he might test the moment. Then something in the guard's stance shifted—just enough to suggest he was ready to act, not posture.
Alric scoffed and turned toward the door without looking at Liora again.
"This isn't over," he said.
Liora's voice didn't waver.
"I hope not."
The guard didn't intervene to answer—he stepped aside just enough to let Alric pass, eyes still burning into the noble heir's back as he vanished down the corridor.
Then the door clicked shut again.
And only then did Liora allow her breath to shake.
He had tried to unmake her.
But he hadn't finished the job.
—
Veyra had just taken the folded map from Cynel's hand when the knock came at her study door—three brisk raps. She glanced up, expecting the usual patrol update.
But the guard who stepped in looked uneasy. He bowed slightly, breath tight.
"Commander. I—I thought you should know. Lord Alric Serren… entered your quarters."
Veyra froze.
The stillness in the room went razor-sharp. For a heartbeat, no one moved—not even Cynel, who sensed the shift in air like a stormfront rolling in.
Veyra's fingers curled slowly, deliberately, around the edge of her desk.
"He what?"
The guard swallowed. "He… entered unescorted. During the patrol change. The Omega was inside. I detained him as soon as the watch rotated back—I have him held with the Thorne boy like you asked—"
"Then keep him there," Veyra snapped, her voice cutting like a drawn blade. "If he so much as speaks, gag him. I'll deal with them both later."
She didn't wait for acknowledgment. Her chair scraped violently as she stood. A pulse of raw fury shot through her, so visceral her men flinched at the sudden force of it. The map fell forgotten to the floor.
She didn't walk to her quarters.
She stormed—cloak swept behind her, boots striking the stone with sharp, uneven force. The hallways blurred past, banners and oil lamps nothing but flickers of color in her periphery. The very idea of him—of that smug, leering whelp stepping foot into the space where Liora slept, where her scent still lingered on the blankets—gnawed at every instinct she had.
She should've gone to him first. Should've ripped that self-satisfied smirk off his face with her own hands.
But no.
Liora came first.
That was what clouded her now—not just rage, but something heavier. Possessiveness. Panic. The need to see her. To make sure she was still whole. Still safe.
By the time she reached her door, she didn't bother with subtlety. Her hand slammed the handle down and she pushed through—eyes immediately scanning the room.
"Liora."
Her voice, low and rough, cracked around the edges. Not angry. Not yet. But urgent. Searching.
—
The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to embers, leaving only a faint glow flickering along the stone walls. Outside, the wind sighed against the high windows, stirring the crimson banners in the hall. Inside Veyra's quarters, it was quiet—too quiet.
Liora had tried to return to sleep, curling in the bed beneath Veyra's old wool cloak, but the scene earlier had riled her too far. The air felt heavy, pressed at her chest, made her feel too aware of her heartbeat.
She rose, barefoot, wrapped in one of Veyra's spare tunics again—navy blue, frayed at the edges, soft with wear. It slipped from one shoulder, collar too wide, the scent of pine and spice stronger near the seams. She moved to the window, tracing the edge of the glass with her fingertips, but her anxious restlessness stayed with her.
Behind her, she heard the door open.
"Liora."
Veyra stepped in, posture rigid with restraint but eyes already on Liora. She looked exhausted—jacket draped over one shoulder, gauntlet half-unclasped. Her silver eyes glinted faintly in the low light. She closed the door behind her with a soft click.
A pause. Then a shift of footsteps. Heavy. Intentional.
Liora felt it—the way the air shifted with Veyra's approach, how her scent strengthened in the stillness. Pine, yes, but sharper now. Less restrained. Less masked by control. Something deeper pulled at it, as if instinct had started to surface. Her breath, though controlled, was just a little too fast.
She turned, just slightly. Enough to meet Veyra's gaze. Enough to see the flicker of something rawer beneath that steel composure.
"Veyra?" She froze. She knew that look… "Don't." Her voice was barely above breath.
But Veyra was already close. Her breath was warm against Liora's cheek, and Liora could feel the way her presence coiled—protective, but something else too. That invisible thread between them tugged taut.
The weight of Veyra's gaze was different tonight.
Furious. Hungry.
Veyra stepped forward—deliberate. Her scent had changed—still pine, still that grounding spice, but… stronger now. It held a sharp musk that Liora recognized.
Liora's throat tightened. She took a step back. "You heard."
"Yes." There was a heavy strain in the alpha's voice.
Liora flinched and stepped back again—too quickly. Her heel caught on the edge of the blanket. She stumbled.
The bed caught her.
A startled breath punched from her lungs as she landed hard on the furs, one knee collapsing beneath her and her elbow jarring into the mattress. The worn tunic she wore rode up her thighs, twisted against her ribs. She moved to right herself, heart hammering.
But Veyra moved first.
Too fast.
Her body was over Liora's in an instant. One hand planted beside her head, the other bracing hard on the edge of the bedframe. Her torso stayed suspended above her, taut with control—but too close. Far too close.
Liora's lungs seized. Her blood surged like panic trying to become something else. Her instinct screamed one thing, her memory another.
"Don't," she snapped again, sharper than she meant to.
Veyra didn't speak. But her breath—shallow, strained—shivered out through her nose. Her arms were trembling. Not from weakness, but from something else entirely.
"You…" Liora stared up at her, pulse visibly ticking at her neck. A visible flush took over her cheeks, but her voice stayed hard.
"You don't get to hang over me like this and call it restraint."
The words cut straight through her. Veyra's body tensed like a pulled wire. Guilt swelled fast, thick and hot behind her ribs. She hadn't realized—hadn't thought—how much pressure she'd put on the moment.
"I didn't mean to pin you," she said, but the words sounded weak even to her own ears.
"You did," Liora shot back. "You just didn't think it through."
"I needed to be close."
Veyra's jaw flexed hard. A ripple moved through her shoulders, like she meant to pull back—then didn't.
The honesty of it made Liora's breath catch.
Her chest rose, then fell in one tight motion. She could feel her body reacting before her mind caught up—heat gathering under her skin, something low in her belly pulling tight.
She shook her head, jaw tightening.
"This is not how you ask."
Veyra's gaze flicked downward, just for a second—lips, throat, clavicle—then snapped back to Liora's eyes. She didn't lean further. But she didn't move away.
Liora neck was flushed now. Veyra could feel the heat rising off her skin. The scent blooming around them—lavender, shaken loose by adrenaline and something more electric.
She couldn't help it. Her eyes flicked to the curve of Liora's throat, the loose collar of her tunic, her exposed shoulder—the color rising in her skin.
She didn't move closer. She didn't touch her.
But she wanted to.
"I needed to make sure you're okay" Veyra said under her breath. Like she was trying to believe that as her true reason.
Liora's laugh was dry, humorless.
"That's a loaded question," she said.
A quiet settled. Not peace—pressure.
Veyra's shoulders rose slightly, a breath drawn in through her teeth. One of her hands lifted an inch, fingers curling as if to reach—then paused. Hovered. Shook.
Liora's cheeks had gone red. Her breath was coming faster now, no matter how still she held herself. The flush along her throat rose in waves.
"Back off," she said, lower now. Controlled. "I don't want this."
Veyra's voice came quieter still.
"Then say stop."
"I just did."
Neither of them moved. Then:
Veyra's head dropped slightly—her forehead lowering toward the side of Liora's neck. She didn't touch bare skin. But she got close. Too close.
The damp heat of her breath skimmed the place just under Liora's jaw. Not marking. Just brushing there. Breathing her in.
Liora stiffened.
"Stop hovering like you're about to bite…"
Veyra's breath hitched. Her voice cracked. "I wasn't—"
"You were," Liora snapped. "And you are."
That landed hard.
Veyra froze. Her hands dug into the bedding.
"You think if you don't touch, it doesn't count?"
Silence. Heavy. Unbearable.
Liora turned her head, jaw locked, eyes burning.
"You're already too close," she said quietly. "Whether you mean to be or not."
Veyra meant to pull back. She truly did.
But before she could, Liora moved.
Something had snapped in Liora—not loud, not visible. Just a sharp shift beneath her skin. The heat, the pressure, the helplessness she had felt, carried in her chest like a smoldering coal for weeks—it flared.
Her pulse surged.
She sucked in a breath, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. And then, before Veyra could so much as blink—
Liora moved.
She surged up, her left hand bracing hard on Veyra's shoulder while the other slid beneath, gripping at the crook of her arm. Veyra, caught by surprise, lost her balance and tipped back with a quiet grunt. The bed rocked beneath them.
Liora followed.
She straddled Veyra's waist, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side, her hands now firm on Veyra's shoulders. The shift had startled both of them. Her breathing was high in her throat, hard and fast, her cheeks burning.
—
The switch had happened so fast—raw and unpolished. Veyra's balance slipping as Liora had shoved, bracing on her shoulder and hip. The bed still shaking beneath them.
Veyra was on her back. It took her a moment to register.
She'd been pinned.
Her breath caught. Her whole body stilled.
Liora had straddled her, one knee pressing into the mattress beside her hip, her weight pressing and intentional. Her hands gripped into Veyra's shoulders. She could feel the heat of her, the tension shaking just beneath the surface.
It was the first time in her life an Omega had ever put her down like this. Or anyone for that matter.
Veyra didn't move.
Not because she couldn't—but because something in her stilled with a strange, startled reverence.
"Still feeling like the one in control?" Liora's voice was low, sharp, but Veyra barely heard it. Her heart pounded against the back of her ribs. Not from fear. From awe.
She looked up at the flush high on Liora's cheeks, the firelight catching in her hair. Her tunic had slipped again, revealing skin along her breast that Veyra hadn't earned the right to look at, and yet—
"You think because I smell sweet," Liora said, "you can lean in and take? That I won't fight?"
Veyra didn't move.
Didn't blink.
The breath in her lungs was stuck somewhere between want and restraint, crushed tight beneath the weight of the Omega who now straddled her.
Liora didn't pull away.
In fact, she pressed harder.
Her hands, braced against Veyra's shoulders—hot through the thin wool—slipped down over Veyra's chest. Her eyes searched the other woman's face, bright with adrenaline; with something unspoken. With fire.
"Is this what you wanted?" she asked. Her voice was low, almost calm—but the kind of calm that came before storms.
Veyra's stomach tightened. She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. Her arms stayed at her sides, body wound taut as a wire.
"You think want gives you permission," Liora continued. "It doesn't."
She leaned in slowly, deliberately, until her mouth hovered inches from Veyra's. "But it does give me a choice."
Her copper eyes bore into the cool silver of Veyra's like small pools of fire.
Then she kissed her.
There was no softness in it.
Her mouth met Veyra's in a sudden, bruising press—more defiance than tenderness. Her fingers curled into Veyra's shirt, lifting and holding her there. Not pinning now, but possessing. She kissed her like she was proving something. Like she was the one with the teeth.
And Veyra—gods.
Every instinct in her body howled.
Her blood burned. Her scent spiked, sharp and sweet with rut. Still, she forced herself to retain control. Her hips tried not to move. Her hands didn't rise—she didn't dare. If she so much as touched her, it would tip her over the line she swore she wouldn't cross. That she already almost had.
But her lips moved.
Just once. Slowly. In return.
It was involuntary. Desperate. And far too late to take back.
Liora pulled away first, breath catching. As though that tiny movement of Veyra's consent had drawn her back to reality of the situation.
They stayed like that—close, panting, eyes locked. Veyra's mouth was slightly parted, flushed from the heat and the shame of it. Her chest rose and fell in shallow waves, trying to calm a body that no longer obeyed her.
Liora studied her for a beat more. Her pupils were wide now. Her scent—honey, thickened by anger and arousal—wrapped around them both.
"I'm not yours," she growled. Quiet. Certain. "But if I want you—you'll know."
And then she stood.
Not running. Not ashamed.
She stood and stepped down from the bed like it was her right. Her spine straightened. Her mouth was still swollen from the kiss.
"Every time you try something like that," She spoke quietly, her voice low and hard, "I'll make sure you're the one on your back…"
And then she walked out.
She didn't look back.
But Veyra couldn't stop staring.
Her whole body ached. Her mouth tingled. Her heart beat like war drums in her ribs. And still—she hadn't touched her.
She couldn't.
She wouldn't.
She stayed on her back, scent wild and curling like smoke around her, and finally let out the sound she'd been holding since the moment Liora pinned her down.
The heat of Liora's body still lingered across her skin. Her scent had become electric, defiant—and hung in the air like smoke after a fire.
And Veyra lay there, heart pounding, unsure if what just happened had undone her completely—or stitched something vital back together.
A faint whisper came as she heard the door latch shut behind the omega.
"I don't want to want you."
——
The stone corridor was cold against her bare feet.
Liora didn't remember leaving the room. She didn't remember the door opening or closing, only the rush of air and heat in her lungs and the echo of her own voice pounding in her ears.
Her heartbeat hadn't slowed.
She walked too quickly down the narrow side hall, arms crossed over her chest like she could trap the heat still radiating off her skin. Her tunic stuck to the small of her back. Her hands—still tingling from where they'd braced on Veyra's chest—wouldn't stop shaking.
Gods.
She kissed her.
She didn't mean to kiss her.
No—That wasn't even true. She did mean to—but not like that. Not bruising. Not breathless. Not with her thighs around the waist of an Alpha she'd spent weeks trying not to and refusing to want.
She reached the end of the corridor and stopped. A torch flickered in the sconce nearby, casting golden light against the pale granite. Her shadow swayed faintly.
She pressed her hand to her mouth.
It was still warm.
Her lips still tingled.
She turned sharply, back pressed to the wall, breathing hard like she'd just run from something—and in a way, she had.
What had she done?
She wasn't the one who kissed first. She wasn't the one who took. Omegas didn't get to be bold. They didn't get to challenge heat or instinct. And yet she'd straddled Veyra Halvarin—the Lion's Heir—and kissed her like she had the right to.
Like she was the one who got to choose.
Liora shut her eyes, jaw clenched.
She'd said she didn't want to want her.
But in that moment, with Veyra beneath her, scent burning like pine and hunger in the air, lips barely parted and muscles drawn tight with restraint—it had felt inevitable.
Not safe.
Not soft.
Just real.
Her breath hitched. Her legs weakened slightly.
She dropped onto the stone bench tucked into the wall, fingers curling into the edge like it might anchor her to something. The cold bit into her thighs through the hem of the tunic, but she didn't care.
She felt raw.
Exposed.
And worse—she didn't regret it.
She should regret it.
Veyra hadn't stopped her. Veyra could've rolled her off, pinned her down, reminded her what they were.
But she hadn't.
She'd just… looked at her. Breathed her in. Let her burn.
Liora leaned forward, burying her face in her hands.
"Idiot," she whispered to herself. "What did you just do?"
The silence offered no answer—just the faint creak of distant training wheels, the muffled clang of a weapon from the lower court. Life in the fortress carried on, unaware that her entire body still pulsed with the memory of Veyra's mouth moving once against hers.
A challenge. A response. The edge of something unspeakable.
Liora swallowed and stood again, slower this time. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself and walked on—not toward their shared quarters, but deeper into the stone halls.
Anywhere but back.