The strong, possessive scent of Kaelan's cologne hung heavy in the air. Anya felt the humiliation settle into a cold resentment, yet the bond hummed with a stabilizing calm. She watched Kaelan move through the office, a portrait of coiled power and exhaustion.
He was working on damage control—communicating with the grieving families of the Lycans killed in Silas's attack. Anya realized the Alpha's role was more than dominance; it was absolute, terrifying responsibility.
Anya returned to her desk, needing a distraction. She pulled up the only human media she could access: her old library of classic literature.
Kaelan glanced up, seeing the stark black-and-white cover of an old novel on her screen. He paused his work and walked over, peering over her shoulder.
"What is that?" he asked, his voice low.
"A novel," Anya replied curtly. "Humans call it fiction. It's about a man trapped by impossible choices."
"I am not familiar with human fiction," Kaelan admitted, and for a fleeting moment, the Alpha Authority receded, replaced by simple curiosity. "My education was entirely focused on Pack law and military strategy."
Anya felt a strange twist in her chest—pity, perhaps. He was trapped by his own birthright, as much a prisoner as she was.
She closed the book and looked up. "What is your world like, Alpha? When you aren't fighting to survive?"
Kaelan stiffened, the question probing too deep. "There is only survival. Lycans do not waste time on fantasy."
He turned off the desk lamp, plunging the office into darkness except for the glow of the emergency panel. "Alpha Command: Sleep, Mate."
Anya felt the irresistible pull of the command. As she moved reluctantly to the shared bed, she knew the fight was far from over, but the rules of engagement had changed. She was sharing his cage, his scent, and, slowly, his burdens.