Page 50 of To Carve A Wolf

The room dimmed. Blurred. My vision tunnelled, and my wolf—gods, my wolf—was clawing at the inside of my ribs, desperate to run to her, to rip the door from its hinges and claimwhat was his, to tear down every wall between us until she was beneath me, howling, begging, his.

“You want to leash me? Claim me? Then feel what it’s like to burn for something you’ll never control.”

I shoved back from the table, the wood groaning beneath my hands.

“I need to step out,” I said, voice low and frayed. “Garrick, handle the rest.”

Alek looked concerned. Maera blinked, curious. Garrick nodded, calm as ever, but I saw the fire behind his eyes.

I didn’t wait for pleasantries. I turned on my heel and left, jaw clenched so tight I could taste blood, vision pulsing red as I stalked through the corridor like a predator denied its kill.

The bond snapped again, another wave. Her cry. Her hand tightening. Her breath faltering. She was close.

I slammed a fist into the stone wall as I passed, cracking the mortar. A servant gasped and vanished down another hall.

She was punishing me. Torturing me with what I craved, weaponizing her own body, her own pleasure, knowing damn well that if I touched her now, if I stepped into that room, I wouldn’t stop.

I’d bury myself in her until she screamed my name without fury. Until she begged for the bond. Until she loved the chain.

But she didn’t want that. She wanted to destroy me. So I stopped outside her door. Fist raised. Breathing hard.

“Lexa.”

I sent her name down the bond like a command, like a growl, like the warning of a storm about to break.

“Open this fucking door.”

CHAPTER 16

Lexa

Slowly, I opened the door with the calm of a woman who’d spent the morning doing absolutely nothing wrong.

I was fully dressed—dark green tunic laced at the collar, thick leggings tucked into soft boots, hair pulled into a loose braid. The fire in the hearth crackled behind me. Servants moved about the room quietly, laying out breakfast, folding linens, smoothing out the now-fresh bed I hadn’t even touched.

I hadn't sent those images because I did any of it. I sent them because I could. Because I knew what I was to him now. Knew the bond between us was frayed and cursed and real. And if I couldn’t cut it—I would choke him with it.

Andros stood in the doorway like a god made of fury, dressed in black from throat to boots, eyes so dark I swore they absorbed the light. His jaw clenched once, twice, and every breath he took looked like it cost him.

“Out,” he said, voice sharp enough to flay bone.

The servants froze.

“Now.”

They didn’t wait for a second command. Plates clinked as they scrambled to leave, skirts swishing, boots echoing against stone. One nearly tripped in her haste to bow. The door clicked shut behind them with the soft finality of a blade slipping into a sheath.

I didn’t move. I crossed my arms. Lifted my chin.

“You look disappointed,” I said, voice calm, almost mocking. “What? Were you hoping to find me on your bed with my fingers between my thighs?”

His dark blue eyes sparked like lightning behind stormclouds, cold fire, charged and lethal.

“You sent those images,” he said slowly, each word vibrating with contained violence, “into my mind. During a diplomatic meeting. While I was discussing trade routes. While I was surrounded by wolves who’d gut each other for a glance at weakness.”

I shrugged. “And?”

“You tried to use the bond to break me.”

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