Chapter 8

I woke to the scent of cedarwood. A bed—an actual bed—cradled my aching body, its plush mattress so foreign after the cold stone floor that for a moment, I wasn’t sure I was still alive. The light was soft, golden, filtered through heavy curtains. Warmth radiated from somewhere near, wrapping me in comfort I didn’t trust.

Then I noticed the walls. Dark wood. Framed photographs. A hunter’s rifle mounted above the doorway. This wasn’t a dungeon anymore. This was a bedroom. And not just any bedroom.

I turned my head slowly, trying not to jar my stiff neck. On the nightstand beside me sat a small framed photo. Four figures stared back at me from the picture—two men, a woman, and a large hunting dog, all caught mid-laughter in some happier time. The woman had warm, honey-blonde hair that curled at the ends and the same piercing silver eyes as Lucian. The man looked strong and calm, with a broad hand resting gently on one boy’s shoulder.

Kieran.

Even as a boy, his smile had been wide, open. Joyful. It softened his whole face, made him look almost… gentle. Not like the man who had pinned me to the wall. Not like the one who had left me cold and starving for three days to prove a point.

Lucian, of course, looked exactly the same. Grim. Steady. Unsmiling.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips. At least some things never changed.

The scent of food hit me next. Hearty, rich, and warm. My stomach growled like a feral beast. I blinked and turned toward the bedside table again. A tray had been left for me. Eggs, toast, sliced fruit. Not the watery broth from before. This was real food. The kind meant to nourish. The kind meant to tempt.

I waited a moment, heart thudding. Was this a trap? Silence. No movement from the shadows. No footsteps. No scent of wolves nearby.

I reached for the plate with cautious hands and took a bite of toast. I didn’t moan, but my eyes closed automatically, my whole body sighing in gratitude. I was halfway through the eggs when a voice cut through the air like a blade.

“You’re like a starving wild dog.”

My spine snapped straight. Kieran stood in the doorway, arms casually crossed, leaning as though he had all the time in the world. His voice was lazy, but his eyes weren’t. They were watching me far too closely.

He looked different than before—less battle-worn. Clean. His damp hair clung to his forehead in soft waves, still dripping slightly. The scent of blood was gone, replaced by soap and something deeper, like pine needles after a storm. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and I hated the way my eyes lingered on the sharp cut of his forearms.

Damn the moon. Damn the mate bond. And damn him for smelling like something I wanted to trust.

“You should talk to Lucian,” I said, grabbing another bite of toast. “He’ll love the dog comparison.”

Kieran’s mouth quirked into something resembling amusement. “Lucian doesn’t like dogs. Too unpredictable.”

I gave him a sweet, unbothered smile. “Then he must absolutely hate me.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something between amusement and something darker, hungrier. But he didn’t press me right away. Instead, he strolled across the room, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to unravel me.

He stepped inside, and I tensed immediately, every part of me tightening in anticipation of what—who—he might try to be this time.

“You slept well?” he asked, as if we were acquaintances at brunch and not prisoner and captor.

“Like the dead,” I said, refusing to meet his gaze. “You should’ve just let me stay that way.”

He chuckled softly. “Tempting. But I haven’t figured you out yet.”

I pushed the plate away, suddenly no longer hungry. I didn’t like the way he watched me like a puzzle. Like a game he intended to win.

He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped just in front of me. I tried to stand, but he was already reaching for me. I stepped back. He caught my waist.

His grip wasn’t bruising, but it was firm—assertive in the way wolves always were when they wanted dominance without declaring war. He pulled me against him, and my breath hitched involuntarily. My traitorous body remembered what strength felt like. What warmth felt like. What male energy—powerful and focused—felt like wrapped around you.

His fingers brushed my side, lifting the hem of my shirt.

“Kieran,” I warned, voice low.

He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “I want you.”

“You’ll have to settle for dying disappointed.”

He chuckled again, low and velvety. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, his lips drifting toward my neck.

I struggled, twisting, but he held me easily. Too easily. His hand slipped along the curve of my waist, not rough, not forceful—but intentional. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Every movement calculated, every touch just enough to stir the mate bond without triggering the full effect.

“You think you can seduce me into submission?” I snarled, hating the way my heartbeat betrayed me.

“I think your body’s already halfway there.”

His mouth dipped to my neck, his lips brushing the spot just below my ear. That traitorous spot that pulsed like a war drum. And then—teeth.

He bit me. Not a full mark, not the bond-forming bite, but enough to make my knees weaken. My breath caught. My wolf stirred.

No. No. No.

“Stop,” I rasped, trying to push him away.

He didn’t push further. He didn’t have to. He felt the change in me. The flicker of heat, the way my hands pressed weakly against his chest instead of clawing at his face.

I hated that my body responded. I hated it. But the bond didn’t care about hate. It didn’t care about defiance. It only cared that we were compatible. That he smelled like home. That his touch set my nerves on fire.

Kieran finally pulled back.

“You’re pretending,” he said, almost bored. “But your pulse gives you away.”

I didn’t speak. What could I say? That I hated him so much it made me tremble? That I wanted him so much it made me sick?

Instead, I lay down. Stiff. Silent. If he wanted a corpse, I’d give him one.

Kieran studied me for a long, long moment. Then something cold shifted in his eyes. The amusement faded. His jaw tightened.

“Still playing your little rebellion games, huh?”

He moved away from the bed and opened a drawer. When he turned back, something black gleamed in his hand.

A collar. Sleek. Leather. Unmistakable.

“No,” I breathed.

“Yes.”

He fastened it around my neck, his fingers surprisingly gentle even as humiliation seared through me like acid.

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Now everyone knows who you belong to.”

I sat frozen. Rage clawed up my throat. Shame burned in my chest. But beneath it all, something deeper twisted. Fear. Because part of me—some hidden, wretched part—wasn’t entirely repulsed.

Part of me wondered what it would feel like to stop fighting. And that terrified me most of all.