Page 62 of Growl Me, Maybe

Jace stepped closer to Calla. “You sure this is stable?”

“It’ll hold long enough to get you close,” she said, voice tight. “After that, she’s on her own.”

“No,” Jace said. “She’s not.”

And with that, he shifted—fur and bone snapping into place mid-air—and his massive wolf form tore off into the trees.

His pack behind him.

His mate ahead of him.

And nothing between them but time and a monster wearing Ezra Wolfe’s skin.

31

LYRA

The torches burned lower now, their flicker dimmer than before. Time had passed, though Lyra couldn’t say how much. Her sense of it stretched thin, distorted by enchantments and the steady thrum of restrained magic crawling beneath her skin.

She sat curled in the corner of the stone chamber, every bone aching from holding herself together.

He returned.

Ezra stepped inside like he owned the air in her lungs. The wards didn’t buzz when he crossed them. Of course they didn’t. This washisprison.

Lyra sat straighter, brushing hair from her face with a slow, deliberate hand. Her cuffs sparked when she moved. They were tighter now. As if the magic inside her had grown louder, angrier.

"Comfortable?" Ezra asked, as though they were sharing tea, not a hostage situation. His voice carried that silken quality that made Lyra's skin crawl, like oil sliding over water.

"I've had worse dates." She forced lightness into her tone, even as the magic cuffs bit into her wrists, sending sharp tingles up her forearms.

His smile faltered for a second, a hairline crack in his perfect composure.

Then he turned, pacing with his usual flair across the ancient stone floor, his footsteps echoing in the chamber. The torchlight caught the angles of his face, casting shadows that made him look more predator than man. "You know, this could've been easier. I offered civility."

"Is that what you call kidnapping now?" Lyra shifted, wincing as her muscles protested. The silver threads in her auburn curls caught the firelight, glinting like tiny warning signals.

Ezra stopped at the far wall, tapping a rune with one long finger. It flared blue before settling again, sending ripples of energy through the room that made her teeth ache. "I didn't want it to come to this. But you left me no choice." His voice carried a practiced regret that never reached his eyes.

"You don't get to say that to someone you shackled," Lyra snapped, the moss-green of her eyes darkening with rage. One of her enchanted rings sparked weakly against the binding cuffs, a small rebellion.

He looked over his shoulder, his gaze crawling over her like something physical. "You're not just anyone, Lyra."

"Damn right I'm not." She straightened her spine despite the pain, refusing to cower in his presence.

"You're powerful. Beautiful. The kind of chaos magic the council has feared for generations—and wasted." He gestured expansively, as if presenting her with some grand truth. "All because of some misguided loyalty to the Moonfang Alpha."

"His name isJace," she hissed, the name itself a talisman on her tongue, warming her from within.

Ezra turned fully then, his mask slipping, revealing the cold calculation beneath. "And what has Jace given you? Silence? Distance? Regret?" Each word landed like a precise blow, targeting vulnerabilities he had no right to know about.

Lyra's jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath her honey-toned skin. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into palms.

"You think he'll come for you," he continued, moving closer with predatory grace. "But you felt it, didn't you? That hesitation? That weight in his voice when he talks aboutduty. He'll never choose you over the pack. He's trying so hard to not be his father."

"No," she said quietly, but with steel. "He's not." The certainty in her voice was unshakeable, despite the doubts that had plagued her on darker nights.

Ezra studied her, head tilted like she was a curious specimen. "Then why are you here?"

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