But he stepped closer.
Fenrir began to pace inside me, a restless, circling pressure.
Lielit noticed. She pulled the covers back up, her posture closing in on itself.
The guard didn’t leave.
He stood there—hovering, pretending to check something that no longer needed checking.
Lingering.
And in that moment, without realising it, he sealed his death wish.
Give him to me, Fenrir snarled. Show her. Show her what we are capable of.
The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to.
They settled—heavy, inevitable.
I pushed back from the desk so hard the chair scraped loudly across the floor. The laptop screen still glowed behind me, frozen on her image, the guard standing too close, his body angled wrong. Towards her. Wanting her.
She was mine.
I was already moving.
I took the stairs two at a time, my pulse flattening into something cold and efficient. Fenrir pressed closer with every step, not frenzied—focused. Patient in a way that was far more dangerous.
Ignore her scent, I ordered.
It clawed anyway as we grew closer.
The hallway stretched. The door waited at the end of it.
Closed.
That was enough.
The fury came sharp and clean. I lifted my leg and kicked without slowing. The impact detonated through the frame—wood splintering, hinges screaming. The door didn’t swing open.
It tore free.
It hit the far wall and slid to the floor.
The room stilled.
Fenrir saw him.
The man froze mid-movement, his body caught between instinct and disbelief. His hand hovered near his weapon, uncertain. Too slow.
The man who had smiled.
The man who thought proximity was permission.
The man who believed himself unobserved.
I owned her.
Me.
