Chapter 62

Chapter 62: Chapter 62

The Silvermoon Academy was bathed in pale morning light, its towers gleaming white against a sky of softest blue. Unlike the dark stone and iron of Shadowmoon, Silvermoon was built from pale marble, its architecture elegant and feminine, its gardens meticulously maintained. The students who walked its corridors moved with grace and poise, their uniforms pristine, their manners impeccable.

In the headmistress’s office, Lady Isolde sat behind a desk of polished oak, her silver hair pulled back in an elegant chignon, her pale eyes assessing the young woman who stood before her.

She was beautiful. That was the first thing anyone noticed about her. But it was not a soft beauty it was the beauty of a blade, sharp and refined and utterly deliberate. Her posture was perfect. Her hands were folded demurely in front of her. Her dark hair cascaded down her back in waves, and her eyes a striking, unusual color were calm and unreadable.

"You understand why I’ve called you here," Lady Isolde said.

"Yes, Headmistress."

"The talent showcase at Shadowmoon Academy is the most important event of the year. This year, it is more significant than ever. The King and Queen will be in attendance. Every dignitary of note in the Seven Packs will be watching. Silvermoon must present its best face to the realm."

"And you want me to lead the delegation."

"I want you to do more than lead." Lady Isolde rose from her chair and walked to the window, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "You are the finest student this academy has produced in a generation. Your combat skills are unmatched. Your political instincts are sharp. Your grace under pressure is legendary. When people look at you, they see the future of our academy. Perhaps the future of the realm."

The young woman inclined her head modestly. "You flatter me, Headmistress."

"I speak the truth. And the truth is that Shadowmoon has grown complacent. They believe themselves the superior academy because they train warriors. But Silvermoon trains leaders. And at this showcase, you will remind them of that."

"I will do my best."

"I know you will." Lady Isolde turned back to face her. "The delegation leaves in one week. You will have full authority over the other students. Choose your events carefully. Train hard. And remember—every eye will be on you."

The young woman smiled. It was a careful smile, practiced and poised, revealing nothing of what lay beneath.

"I understand, Headmistress. You won’t be disappointed."

"I never am."

The young woman curtsied—a graceful, fluid motion—and left the office. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor as she walked through the sunlit corridors, her expression serene, her thoughts hidden.

Students nodded to her as she passed. Whispers followed in her wake. She was admired. Envied. Respected. And feared, just a little, by those who knew what she was capable of.

She paused at a window and looked out at the horizon, toward the distant mountains that separated Silvermoon from Shadowmoon.

One week, she thought. One week until I see him again.

A flicker of something—anticipation, perhaps, or something sharper—crossed her perfect features.

Then it was gone, replaced by the calm, practiced smile of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it.

She turned and continued down the corridor, her footsteps steady, her future certain.

The Shadowmoon Academy had no idea what was coming.

The morning mist clung to the academy grounds like a ghost, cold and silent and heavy with the promise of rain. The sun had barely begun to rise, painting the eastern sky in pale shades of gold and gray, but Soren was already awake. He had been awake for hours, his mind too restless for sleep, his thoughts too tangled with worry and want and the memory of a crumpled note hidden in his pocket.

He was at the training ground before dawn, moving through his drills with mechanical precision. Punch. Strike. Block. Counter. The rhythm was familiar, comforting—a ritual he had performed thousands of times. But today, it wasn’t enough to quiet his mind.

She’ll be here soon, Kael said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. Is that why you’re so distracted?

"I’m not distracted."

You’ve thrown the same combination six times in a row. You never repeat combinations. You’re distracted.

Soren didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Because Kael was right—he was distracted. He had been distracted since the moment Nyra had fallen into his arms in that corridor, since the moment his wolf had called her mate, since the moment he’d held her in a crumbling hut and prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that she would survive.

And now she was coming here. Alone. For the first time since they’d returned from the Mistwood, they would have actual time together—not a stolen moment in a corridor, not a whispered conversation in a crowded room, but real, uninterrupted time.

The thought made his heart beat faster.

He heard her footsteps before he saw her light and quick on the cold stone. She emerged from the mist like a figure from a dream, her silver hair pulled back in a short ponytail, her training clothes loose and comfortable. She was still binding her chest he could see the faint outline beneath her tunic but her face was relaxed, her silver eyes bright despite the early hour.

"You’re early," she said.

"So are you."

"I couldn’t sleep."

"Neither could I."

They stood looking at each other for a moment, the mist swirling around their ankles, the silence heavy with everything they hadn’t said. Then Soren gestured toward the training circle.

"Let’s begin."

The training started like any other session. Soren led her through warm-up drills, correcting her stance with gentle touches that lingered a moment too long. He demonstrated a new combination a complex sequence of strikes and counters designed to exploit an opponent’s momentum and she practiced it repeatedly, her movements growing sharper with each repetition.

But something was different today. The air between them was charged, electric, thick with a tension that had nothing to do with combat.

"You’re hesitating," Soren said, stepping behind her to adjust her elbow. His body pressed against her back, his breath warm against her ear. "You need to commit to the strike. Don’t pull back."

"I’m trying."

"Try harder."

She threw the strike again harder this time, faster and he caught her wrist. The momentum spun her around, and suddenly they were face to face, inches apart, her arm still caught in his grip.

"Better," he said, but his voice was rougher now. Lower. His dark eyes weren’t focused on her technique, they were focused on her lips.

"Soren..."

He released her wrist. His hand moved to her waist instead, pulling her closer. "I’ve been trying to concentrate," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "All morning. All week. Every time I look at you, I can’t think about training. I can’t think about the showcase. I can’t think about anything except—"

"Except what?"

"Except this."

He kissed her.

It was not the gentle kiss he’d given her in the garden. It was not the reassuring press of lips meant to calm her fears. This was something else entirely something that had been building for days, for weeks, since the moment they’d left the hut in the Mistwood and returned to the academy where every moment was stolen and every glance was watched.

His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that bordered on desperation. His hands slid from her waist to her back, pressing her against him, and she gasped into the kiss, her fingers gripping the front of his training tunic.

"I don’t think," he muttered roughly against her lips, "I will be able to concentrate on training you when you are this beautiful."

"Then don’t," she breathed, and pulled his mouth back to hers.

The kiss deepened, intensified, became something wild and consuming. Nyra’s back hit one of the wooden training posts, but she barely felt it. All she could feel was him the heat of his body, the strength of his hands, the desperate way his mouth moved against hers like she was the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

Finally, Luna sighed dreamily in her mind. I thought he’d never—

Not now, Luna.

Fine, fine. I’ll be quiet. But don’t hold back on my account.

Soren’s hands were everywhere tangled in her hair, gripping her hips, sliding under the hem of her loose training tunic. His fingers found the edge of her chest binding and hesitated.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing ragged. "If you want me to stop, tell me now."

Nyra looked at him—the sharp jaw, the dark eyes burning with want, the restraint he was clinging to by a thread. She had spent months hiding. Months pretending. Months keeping everyone at arm’s length because letting them close meant risking everything.

But this was Soren. Her mate. The man who had carried her through a cursed forest and killed rogues to protect her. The man who had pressed his mother’s pendant into her palm and told her he needed her to come back.

"Don’t stop," she whispered.

The thread snapped.

His mouth was on hers again, fiercer than before, and his hands resumed their exploration. The chest binding came loose she didn’t know if he’d untied it or she had, but suddenly it was falling away and his hands were on her bare skin, warm and rough and gentle all at once. His palms cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she moaned into his mouth—a sound she would have been embarrassed by if she had any capacity for embarrassment left.

He swallowed the sound and made one of his own a low, rough growl that vibrated through his chest and into hers. His lips left her mouth and trailed down her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. She arched into him, her head falling back against the training post, her fingers gripping his shoulders like he was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to liquid.

"Nyra." Her name was a prayer on his lips. "You have no idea—no idea—how much I’ve wanted this. Wanted you."

"I think I have some idea."

He laughed a breathless, surprised sound and kissed her again. His hands continued their exploration, mapping the curves of her body like he was memorizing them. The training ground around them had faded into nothing. The mist. The cold. The approaching dawn. None of it existed. There was only this the heat of his body, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands on her skin.

She tugged at his tunic, and he pulled it over his head without breaking the kiss. Her hands roamed his bare chest—the hard planes of muscle, the ridges of old scars, the intricate lines of his Lycan tattoo that rippled across his shoulder and down his arm. He shuddered under her touch, and the knowledge that she could affect him like this—that she, Nyra Astrlyn, the hidden princess who couldn’t shift could make the Sword Sovereign tremble sent a thrill of power through her veins.

"You’re beautiful," she murmured against his mouth.

"You’re one to talk."

"I mean it. You’re—"

He kissed her again before she could finish, and she let the words dissolve into sensation. His hands were still on her breasts, gentle but insistent, and every brush of his thumbs sent sparks of pleasure through her entire body. She was burning. She was drowning. She was more alive than she had ever been.

"Soren." His name came out as a gasp. "Soren, we’re still on the training ground."

"I know."

"Anyone could walk by—"

"I know." He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with desire. "Do you want to stop?"

She looked at him—bare-chested and breathless and so beautiful it made her heart ache. "No."

"Good." He kissed her once more, softer this time, and pressed his forehead to hers. "Neither do I."