Chapter 9 Metaphors

Lyra

He placed my palm against his nose and took in a deep breath.

Then his eyes flew open. The light spilling through the cracked window caught in them, transforming his irises into an eerie silver-black.

He stared at me in disbelief.

“It’s not possible,” he whispered.

His voice was raw, edged with shock, awe, and something dangerously close to reverence.

His grip tightened around my wrist.

“Your kind…” He swallowed, his gaze never leaving mine. “Your kind is supposed to be extinct.”

“What are you talking about?” I hissed, yanking my hand away.

I took a step back and glared at him.

“I am a wolf. My kind is thriving. You should know that. Your kind has been forcing us to pay tribute for generations.”

“I am not talking about wolfkind.” He snarled the words, inhaling once again. His voice dropped, thick and dark. “Your scent…” He paused. “It’s... it’s intoxicating.”

I scoffed, wiping the sweat from my brow.

I wasn't panicking anymore, so why was I still sweating?

“What scent? What are talking about—”

The words died in my throat.

A strange tingling raced across my skin, followed by a sudden rush of warmth flooding my veins.

I couldn’t be in heat. I wasn't eighteen nor was I mated.

I raised my hand again to wipe the beads of perspiration from my face and neck—and froze.

Something was glowing.

I stared at my hand in shock.

I'm glowing? Like bioluminescent algae?

I looked down at myself.

A faint light shimmered around my body, barely visible against the heavy darkness of the cabin.

Then the air around me changed.

A sharp, unfamiliar scent rose from my skin—the clean tang of wild rain and crushed medicinal herbs.

I had never smelled anything like it before.

This couldn’t be the scent of my heat.

Could it?

His eyes widened the moment he saw the glow.

He inhaled sharply.

Almost at once, the silver smoke pouring from his wounds began to quiet. The pain etched across his face slowly faded.

I stared at him in wonder.

What was happening?

Confusion and shock pulled me closer before I could stop myself. I inched toward the bed.

The only sound in the cabin was his heavy, ragged breathing as he drew in the scent rising from my skin.

Then he growled.

His inner wolf surged toward the surface.

His pupils dilated slowly, swallowing the silver-black color until his eyes were almost completely black beneath the dim light. The corners of his mouth curved into a slow, predatory grin, revealing the sharp points of his teeth.

His breathing grew heavier—not from poison or pain, but from something far more primal.

Hunger and desire. Immediate and absolute.

And as though summoned by my scent, the darkness inside the cabin seemed to recede. The Blood Moon’s light poured through the windows, bathing the bed in an eerie crimson glow.

He sat up in one single fluid motion.

Even wounded, even half-masked, he looked like a god.

“Now I understand why the Lycan Kings before me hunted your kind,” he said, his gaze fixed on me. “You are a priceless gem.”

“Stop talking in metaphors,” I snapped. “Leave, Lycan. Your wound is already healing. And you have me to thank for—”

His hand shot out before I could finish. Large and unyielding.

It locked around my waist and yanked me down with terrifying speed.

I landed hard across his lap.

The old bed groaned beneath our combined weight. His body pressed against mine, radiating an intense, unnatural heat through every layer of cloth.

“Leave?” he murmured, leaning over me. “I will. But not just yet.”

The scent of wild rain and crushed herbs thickened between us. Then the strange, faint glow of my skin began to spread, stretching outward toward him.

He tilted his masked face toward the hollow of my throat and breathed me in.

With every inhale, and with every inch of light that spilled across him, he seemed to grow stronger.

I glanced down at the deep tear in his chest. Silvery liquid still seeped from the wound, but the smoke was gone. Whatever was happening, the silver no longer burned his flesh.

I tried to pull away. I had no intention of getting close enough to be burned by it—or by him.

But he moved faster.

In one smooth turn he had me on my back. One powerful hand pinned both of my wrists above my head against the pillows. The other settled possessively at my waist.

“The silver won’t hurt you, my sweet healer,” he said, black eyes locked on mine. “There’s no need to run. Besides… you and I were meant to find each other.”

As his grip tightened around my wrists, a single, terrifying thought slipped through my mind.

He might be right.

Then he bent his head and pressed his mouth to my throat, licking the beads of sweat off my skin.

My heart began to throb painfully against my ribs.

I was nervous, terrified...

But mostly mesmerized.

I arched my neck and bared my skin to him. His tongue moved along my neck, making me squirm with pleasure beneath his weight.

I did not know this man. I did not know why Astra, my wolf, had gone dead silent in my head. I didn’t understand why my scent and the strange light spilling from my skin seemed to be healing his silver wounds—or why heat was surging through my veins in answer to his.

There was only the raw hunger in his dark gaze and the traitorous warmth spreading through my body, answering every touch despite the uncertainty clawing at me.

His mouth traveled all the way to my ear. He nibbled on the soft skin and I moaned.

By every werewolf law I should have fought him. I should have twisted free, shoved him back, reminded him that I was the one who had just dragged him from the edge of death.

He was a masked rogue. A Lycan. The enemy.

But I didn’t.

Instead my body betrayed me.

His mouth closed over the pulse point at my throat again, and the heat of him seared through the thin barrier of my skin. A low, vibrating growl rolled from his chest into mine, the sound so deep it felt less like noise and more like a claim.

As his mouth moved toward my collarbone, the hard edge of the mask scraped my skin.

Or was it his teeth?

For a fleeting moment, I thought he was going to mark me.

I almost wished he would. But he didn't.

For a heartbeat, I felt disappointed, but I forgot about it when his hand slid under my shirt.

A sharp, liquid heat pooled low in my belly, spreading outward until my skin felt too tight, too sensitive. The faint shimmer of light around me brightened, painting the planes of his masked face in gold. His grip on my wrists never loosened, as his gloved palm mapped the curve of my waist as though he already owned every inch of it.

“Breathe,” he murmured against my throat, his voice rough with the dual edge of man and beast. “Let me taste what the old kings died for.”

Did he always have to speak in metaphors?

I sucked in a shaky breath.

His tongue slowly traced the line of my vein, lingering over my erratic pulse. The silver poison seeped from his wounds, drawn toward the glow radiating from my skin like a dying fire drawn toward oxygen.

But instead of falling onto me, the liquid recoiled.

It moved away.

The sight snapped me back to my senses and I tried to pull away.

“Let go of me, Lycan. You’re not… you’re not supposed to—”

My protest broke into a soft, involuntary sound when his teeth scraped lightly over the same spot he had just kissed.

He lifted his head just enough for his dark eyes to meet mine.

That predatory grin returned.

Sharper this time, almost feral.

“Supposed to?” he murmured. “Little healer, the only thing I am supposed to do is take what the Blood Moon has placed in my hands.”

His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist in a slow, possessive circle.

“And right now, that is you.”