The morning came gray and muted, the kind of silence that clings to the world after a storm.
Mist curled through the trees around the ruins where Lyra sat, staring at her hands — hands that trembled though she wasn't cold.
She hadn't slept. Every time she'd closed her eyes, she'd felt him.
Sometimes it was faint: a shift of muscle, the steady rhythm of breathing. Other times, it was so vivid it stole her breath — a flash of anger, a whisper of regret, the echo of her name spoken in a voice she couldn't forget.
Kian.
She pressed her palms to her temples and whispered, "Get out of my head."
But the bond didn't listen.
It pulsed like a second heartbeat, answering her with the faintest flicker of warmth — almost tender.
Lyra swallowed hard. She wanted to hate it, but hate was a fragile shield against something that had already lived inside her once.
"Why won't you leave me alone?" she murmured.
Because I never could.
She froze. The voice wasn't hers.
It came from somewhere deep inside her mind — soft, rough, and painfully familiar.
Her pulse spiked.
"Kian?"
A pause. Then, hesitantly, You can hear me.
Lyra stood, the world spinning for a moment. The sound wasn't external — it was a thought, but not her own.
"How—"
The bond, Kian's voice said quietly. It's getting stronger.
Lyra's fingers curled into fists. "Stop it. Stop reaching for me."
I'm not trying to, he said, his tone heavy with exhaustion. It just happens when we think of each other.
She almost laughed — a sharp, bitter sound. "Then stop thinking about me."
A flicker of silence. Then, quietly:
That's the problem. I can't.
The air went still.
Lyra turned away, clutching her cloak tighter. "You don't get to say that, Kian. Not after what you did."
You think I don't hate myself for it?
"Not enough," she hissed.
There was a long, pained pause. Then his voice — faint now — murmured, I thought I was protecting you.
She closed her eyes, tears threatening for the first time in years. "By breaking me?"
By keeping you away from this curse.
Lyra almost laughed again, but the sound died in her throat. "Then you failed. Because now we both have it."
The link pulsed harder, emotion bleeding through — his frustration, his sorrow, his ache. She could feel it as if it were her own. It frightened her, how familiar it felt.
She took a deep breath and whispered, "You can't make me forgive you."
I'm not asking for forgiveness, came his answer. I'm asking you to survive.
Then the connection flickered, dimming until only silence remained.
The hours slipped by. Lyra moved through the ruins like a ghost, her thoughts heavy, her heart restless. Each echo of the bond left her raw — too aware of the man she wanted to forget and the mark that tied her to him.
She knelt by the old stone altar, tracing the faded runes with trembling fingers. The marks pulsed faintly in response, silver light spreading across the carvings.
The curse had its own rhythm, its own will. And somewhere in its magic, she could feel something ancient — older than their hatred, older than their love.
A voice whispered from the edge of her thoughts: Two hearts divided cannot break the bond. They can only learn its pain.
She shivered. "If that's what it takes, I'll learn it."
Far away, Kian stood on the balcony of his stronghold, overlooking the misted valley. His wolves moved below, unaware of the turmoil inside their Alpha.
He rubbed at the mark beneath his shirt, feeling the faint warmth there. He could still sense her — distant, hurting, defiant.
"She still hates me," he murmured.
"She has every reason to," came a voice behind him — his Beta, Rowan.
Kian didn't turn. "I know."
Rowan hesitated. "And yet you're still bound to her."
Kian exhaled slowly. "Maybe that's my punishment."
The wind shifted, and for a heartbeat, he heard her whisper through the bond again — faint, like a sigh: You deserve worse.
His lips curved into a sad smile. "You're probably right."
That night, as the moon rose, Lyra sat by the fire she'd built from the wreckage of the old temple. The mark on her skin glowed softly in the firelight, its rhythm slow and steady.
For the first time, she didn't try to block the bond. She simply listened.
And deep in the silence between her breaths, she heard him again — not words this time, but the faintest hum of his heartbeat, calm and steady, lulling her into a fragile peace.
She hated herself for it — for the comfort, for the warmth, for remembering what it once felt like to belong.
But as sleep claimed her, she whispered into the night,
"Don't talk to me again."
And though he didn't answer aloud, she felt it — that same quiet echo in her chest:
I'll still be listening.