Chapter 10 The First Opportunity
The compound doesn’t sleep after Alaric’s warning.
It pretends to.
Torches burn lower, voices soften, footsteps grow measured—but the tension lingers like a held breath that never quite releases. Wolves pass me more often now, their gazes sharp, their scents edged with agitation. I feel it in the bond too: a constant low thrum of awareness, Alaric’s presence circling mine like a guarded perimeter.
Stay close, he’d said.
Containment disguised as protection.
By nightfall, I understand exactly what that means.
I’m summoned to the Alpha’s quarters.
The message is delivered without ceremony. One of Alaric’s lieutenants—broad, dark-eyed, his scent threaded with iron—finds me in the infirmary and says simply, “The Alpha wants you.”
No explanation. No refusal offered.
Selene’s gaze flicks up from where she’s binding a wound. There’s something tight in her expression now—concern, maybe. Or warning.
“Be careful,” she murmurs as I pass.
I don’t answer. My throat is too tight.
The walk to Alaric’s quarters is different from before. Quieter. More deliberate. The corridor narrows, stone walls giving way to darker wood, heavy doors etched with old runes that prickle against my skin.
Power lives here.
Not loud power. Not the kind that needs to announce itself.
The kind that waits.
The guard stops at a massive door and knocks once before opening it, gesturing me inside.
The door closes behind me with a solid, final sound.
Alaric’s quarters are large but restrained—no excess, no ornamentation beyond what’s necessary. A hearth burns low along one wall, casting amber light across a long table strewn with maps, scrolls, and carved markers. The scent of him is stronger here—pine smoke and steel, winter air and blood.
He stands at the table, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against the wood as he studies the map before him.
He doesn’t look up when I enter.
“You’re late,” he says.
I glance instinctively toward the door. “I came as soon as I was summoned.”
“That wasn’t a complaint.” He straightens slowly and finally turns to face me. “It was an observation.”
The bond reacts instantly, a subtle tightening that draws my awareness to him like gravity. He looks… composed. Controlled. But there’s tension coiled beneath it, visible in the way his jaw tightens when his gaze meets mine.
“Come closer,” he says.
Not a command.
Not quite.
I do anyway.
He gestures toward the table. “The eastern ridge,” he says, tapping a marked area. “Scouts report magic residue. Recent. Deliberate.”
My stomach twists. “Witch magic?”
“Yes.”
The word hangs between us, heavy.
“And you’re showing me this because…?” I ask carefully.
“Because you’re the variable everyone keeps arguing about,” he replies coolly. “And because the bond tells me when you lie.”
My pulse jumps. “That’s not how—”
“It doesn’t hear words,” he cuts in. “It feels intention.”
The bond pulses, almost as if confirming his claim.
I fold my hands in front of me to keep them from shaking. “Then you’ll know I’m telling the truth when I say I don’t know why witches would be near your borders.”
He studies me for a long moment.
Finally, he nods once. “I believe that.”
Relief hits me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
“However,” he continues, voice hardening, “I don’t believe they’re here without reason.”
Silence stretches.
He moves closer, stepping around the table until we’re separated by only a few feet. The bond hums low and steady, like it’s bracing itself.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he says.
My heart stutters. “Here?”
“My quarters,” he clarifies. “Under watch. Mine.”
Heat flares through me, sharp and unwanted. “That’s hardly—”
“Negotiable?” he finishes. “No. It isn’t.”
I swallow. “And if I refuse?”
His gaze darkens. “Then the council gets involved. And they are far less patient than I am.”
There it is.
The threat beneath the protection.
“I understand,” I say quietly.
“Good.” He turns away, already dismissing the conversation, and gestures toward a side door. “You’ll take the adjoining room. There’s a washroom. Food will be brought.”
I nod, moving toward the indicated door, but something in me hesitates. The bond tugs—insistent, curious.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Alaric pauses.
Slowly, he turns back.
“Because,” he says, voice low, “if something happens to you under my roof, the pack will see it as my failure.”
“And that matters to you?”
His eyes flicker—not away, but inward. “Everything that happens in this pack matters to me.”
The words land with unexpected weight.
I step into the adjoining room and close the door behind me, leaning against it as my breath rushes out.
This is it.
This is the opportunity the coven warned me about.
Alone. Close. Unobserved.
The poison vial feels heavier than ever as I remove my boots and sit on the edge of the bed. My hands tremble as I retrieve it, holding it up to the firelight.
One dose.
Mixed into wine. Into food. Into salve.
Slow. Subtle. Deadly.
I tuck it back away just as a knock sounds—softer this time.
“Mira.”
Alaric’s voice.
I open the door.
He stands there holding a tray—wine, bread, meat. Simple. Unassuming.
My heart slams into my ribs.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he says.
Opportunity.
My pulse roars in my ears as he steps inside, setting the tray on the table between us. The scent of the wine hits me—rich, dark.
I could do it now.
I watch as he pours himself a glass, then pauses, glancing at me. “You should eat.”
“I will,” I manage.
He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of the glass. The bond stirs—warm, intimate, dangerously calm.
My hand drifts, almost of its own accord, toward my boot.
Now.
Every instinct screams it.
The coven’s voice echoes in my mind: Make it matter.
I step closer to the table, my fingers brushing the vial hidden beneath my tunic. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might tear free.
Alaric sets the glass down, his gaze never leaving mine.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I’m tired.”
He studies me, then nods. “Sit.”
I do.
He pours another glass and slides it toward me. “Drink.”
My breath catches.
If I poison his glass, the bond will react.
If I poison mine…
The thought stops me cold.
I look at the wine. At the man across from me, whose instincts have kept him alive through wars and betrayal and bloodshed. At the bond humming between us, alive and aware.
I can’t do it.
Not like this.
My hand curls into a fist beneath the table as I force myself to breathe, to still the tremor in my veins.
“I don’t want wine,” I say quietly.
Alaric’s gaze sharpens—but he doesn’t push.
“Very well.” He lifts his own glass again, but this time he doesn’t drink. He watches me instead.
“You had the chance just now,” he says suddenly.
My blood runs cold. “What?”
“To do something,” he continues, voice calm but intent. “I felt the shift. The hesitation.”
The bond pulses, traitorous and alive.
“I was deciding whether to trust you,” I lie.
He holds my gaze, searching.
For a long moment, I think he knows.
Then he exhales slowly. “So was I.”
He finally drinks.
Relief crashes through me so hard my vision blurs.
I excuse myself shortly after, retreating to the adjoining room with my heart in my throat. I close the door and press my back against it, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor.
I had the chance.
And I didn’t take it.
Outside the door, I feel Alaric move, his presence shifting through the bond like a question left unanswered.
Tomorrow, there will be another opportunity.
I don’t know whether I’m hoping for it…
Or dreading it.