Chapter 72 Silent Eyes
Chapter 72 Silent Eyes
Dante crouched on the steel beam above the terminal roof, muscles locked, breath controlled to the point it barely existed. The city stretched beneath him in fractured lights and shadows, but his focus never left the woman standing behind the glass.
Lyra.
She looked smaller tonight.
Not weak but stripped of the firestorm presence that made armies kneel. No flames, just a woman in a dark coat, shoulders slightly hunched as if the world had grown heavier than she expected.
His chest tightened.
This was the part he feared the most. Not her power. This quiet version of her that reminded him she was still human enough to break.
“She’s changed,” his wolf murmured, low and uneasy.
“So have you,” Dante replied silently.
He shifted slightly, the metal groaning beneath his weight before he stilled it with a flex of control. Every instinct screamed to go to her. To step into the light, let her scent anchor him, let the bond breathe instead of suffocate.
But he didn’t move, because what if he was the danger now?
What if the Shadow Wolf inside him, ancient, violent, hungry saw her crown as a challenge instead of a bond?
Dante’s jaw clenched as Lyra turned away from the glass, pacing slowly. He tracked every step, every subtle shift in her posture. The way her hand brushed her collarbone without thinking. The way her eyes flicked to the darker corners of the terminal, alert but uncertain.
She senses something, he realized.
“She shouldn’t be alone,” his wolf muttered.
“She chose this,” Dante countered.
“She didn’t choose loneliness.”
That hit harder than expected.
Below, Lyra stopped walking. She inhaled slowly, then spokevquiet, unguarded, as if the empty space around her were a confessional.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Dante froze.
She wasn’t speaking to anyone he could see.
His heart began to pound.
“When everyone bows,” Lyra continued, staring at her reflection in the glass, “they stop seeing you. They see the crown. The fire. The threat.”
She let out a breath that trembled despite her attempt to steady it. “I used to think being powerful meant no one could hurt you anymore.”
Dante swallowed.
“I was wrong.”
His fingers dug into the beam beneath him.
Lyra hugged her arms around herself, gaze unfocused now, lost somewhere far from the terminal. “When I was little, I used to hide in the closet when my parents fought. I thought if I stayed quiet enough, I’d disappear.”
Dante’s breath hitched.
She had never told him this.
“I’d count my breaths,” she went on softly. “One, two, three… pretending I was somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”
Her lips curved into a sad smile. “Funny thing is, I thought growing up would make that stop. Turns out, you just learn to hide standing up.”
Dante felt something crack inside his chest.
Not break. Crack.
His wolf growled, not in rage but in grief.
“I don’t miss being weak,” Lyra said, voice steadier now. “But sometimes I miss being unseen. It was quieter then.”
She fell silent, staring out at the city like it might answer her.
Dante closed his eyes.
This was the Lyra he loved. Not the Queen or the alpha flame she has become. The girl who learned to survive by shrinking and somehow grew into fire instead.
You should go to her, his wolf urged.
You can’t protect her from yourself, another voice whispered, one that sounded too much like fear.
Dante opened his eyes again.
Lyra turned suddenly, scanning the shadows. “Hello?” she called, tension threading through her voice.
His muscles tensed, ready to vanish.
“It’s stupid,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Paranoia comes with the crown, I guess.”
She turned away again, and Dante released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Not paranoia,” he murmured under his breath. “Instinct.”
He studied her for a long moment, memorizing the way she stood, the strength she carried even when she felt alone. He wanted to step forward, let her hear his voice, remind her she wasn’t unseen by everyone.
But not tonight.
Not when he still didn’t trust the darkness coiled beneath his skin.
“I don’t know what I am to you anymore,” he whispered, voice rough, meant only for himself. “But I know what you are to me.”
Lyra paused again, hand pressing briefly to her chest as if something tugged there.
Dante smiled faintly, painfully.
The bond st
ill breathes.
“I can’t leave her alone,” he whispered, the vow burning deeper than any mark.
“Not now.”