A wave of exhaustion washed over me. Or perhaps I was simply afraid to face what would happen if I tore away the mask.

"It's nothing. I fell during a run."

I pulled my hand free from his grip. "The Pack Healer said it will mend with time."

Alaric finally relaxed, releasing a breath that stirred the air between us. "That's good."

He reached for my hand again, lacing his fingers through mine with practiced tenderness.

"The injury's on your right wrist. If it worsens and affects your moon-blessed painting, you'll be howling with grief again."

His voice dripped with indulgence. But every word cut straight through me.

I used to possess extraordinary talent for scent-art painting—the rare gift of capturing emotions in pigments that carried living scents.

Recognition from allied territories, more honors than I could count. Everyone said my future shone bright as the full moon.

But for those experimental treatments—for that tribute payment—

To secure Alaric's early release from confinement—

I let them destroy my wrist in the healer's trials.

Now I cannot even grip a brush.

And now I learn it was all merely a punishment game Alaric orchestrated.

How utterly absurd.

I remained silent the entire journey back to the den. Alaric seemed nervous, filling the quiet with endless chatter.

Obviously rehearsed words he'd gathered from other wolves.

All to convince me he'd truly spent three years in the holding cells.

I listened without really hearing. When he finally stopped, I asked quietly:

"Alaric."

"Did I do something wrong?"

He went completely still. His eyes reddened as he turned to look at me, his wolf flickering behind his gaze.

"What do you mean, Lyra? Why would you ask that?"

I suddenly remembered the last time I'd been permitted to visit the binding den.

I was so happy. I'd saved my meager allowance for ages and hunted fresh game to prepare for him—a proper meal I'd made with my own hands.

No wonder he'd wrinkled his nose and refused to touch it.

He thought the offering was beneath him.

Of course. I believed he'd spent three years suffering in confinement.

But in reality, he'd been traveling through distant territories with his little Omega Liaison.

Fine feasts. Imported delicacies from across the realm.

Why would he ever lower himself to share my hardships?

Even that prison visit—he'd paid a hundred and twenty tribute coins to stage the entire scene.