The camp had settled under a rising hush, firelight flickering between the bramble shadows at Karsen Vale's outer wall. The wind carried the scent of ironwood and damp moss, but inside Veyra's tent, the world was smaller—warmer, taut with silence.
Her cot was unfolded. Gear stowed. She'd just dropped the last of her rolled leathers into the corner when she heard the soft rustle behind her.
Liora.
She was at the other end of the tent, near the hanging canvas that offered modest privacy. Her voice had been quiet all evening—tired, maybe—but her scent...
The shift struck like a blade drawn too fast—clean, irreversible.
It hit her like a breaking tide—a sudden wave of heat and sweetness that dragged under her skin and tore through her restraint. The honey in Liora's scent, always warm, had turned intoxicating—fermented, thick, like spiced wine poured hot over embers. And the lavender—once soft—was sharp now. Vivid. Like walking blind through a sunburned garden.
Veyra's breath caught mid-motion.
Her limbs locked. Eyes wide. The heat struck her belly first—a twist, low and heavy. Then higher, through her spine. Pressure gathered between her thighs so fast it made her knees weaken.
She clenched her fists to steady herself, nails digging into her palms hard enough to sting.
Behind her, Liora hummed softly. She had peeled her overshirt off—bare shoulders catching the low firelight—and was reaching for another tunic. Oblivious. Calm. Unaware of the chaos she'd just unleashed with that one casual movement, that one surge of scent.
Veyra gritted her teeth.
She couldn't let this spiral. Not now. Not here.
"Liora," she said, too sharply. Her voice cracked.
Liora turned, startled. "What?"
Veyra didn't meet her eyes. "I need... fresh air. Just for a moment. The smoke is too much."
It was a poor excuse. The fire wasn't even lit inside the tent. But she didn't wait for Liora to question it.
She ducked out before her voice betrayed her again.
Outside, the cool air struck her face like a slap. She dragged in a breath—then another. Her pulse thundered.
Heat.
Liora was entering heat.
And Veyra had almost lost herself right there in the scent of it.
She braced both hands against the outer frame of the tent, breathing through her nose, slow and deep, until the tight swell of arousal in her lower belly eased enough to move again.
—
Inside, Liora stood very still, half-dressed, tunic forgotten in her hands.
She'd caught the look on Veyra's face—brief, raw, wild. Not fear. Not exactly. But something close. Something that had made her pulse jump.
Her body felt strange. Tense, flushed. Her skin prickled where the cold air had kissed it, but the warmth radiating from her core made her legs feel loose and her thoughts, thick.
The air still carried the trace of Veyra's scent—spice and pine—but now it smelled sharper. Hungrier.
Liora swallowed.
She pulled the tunic on, but her hands trembled slightly. Her cheeks felt hot. Her breathing... unsteady.
Something was happening to her body, something she had hoped to delay longer.
She could feel it rising.
And Veyra had realized it before she had.
That, somehow, was both terrifying—and comforting.
Liora sat at the edge of the cot, bare legs pulled up just enough to rest her heels on the canvas. The tunic she'd thrown on clung to her damp skin; the fabric felt too soft, too warm, too much. She pressed her hands between her knees to stop the tremble, but it didn't help.
Outside, the wind brushed the canvas in steady pulses. She could still feel the space where Veyra had been—her scent lingered, faint pine and heat now threaded with something deeper. Something reactive. Wanting.
Liora's breath caught. Veyra had scented it coming.
She curled inward slightly, elbows to thighs, face in her hands. She wasn't naïve. She knew what this was. She'd just hoped—prayed—it would come later, somewhere safer, somewhere without her.
Because Veyra wasn't just an Alpha. She was Veyra. And Liora didn't want her to feel trapped by duty or instinct. That wasn't how she wanted this to happen.
But the way Veyra had looked at her before she left—wide-eyed, flushed, retreating—it hadn't been indifference.
It was restraint.
The flap rustled.
Liora's head snapped up just as Veyra ducked back in, her hair windswept, jaw set, eyes unreadable in the low lamplight. She paused, seeing her there, curled small in the center of the tent like a held breath.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Veyra said. Her voice was lower now, quieter. Forced and controlled.
"You didn't," Liora lied.
A beat passed. Veyra's gaze swept over her—hesitant, careful. She looked at her like someone trying not to fall. Or trying very hard not to leap.
"I can sleep outside if it's more comfortable," she said suddenly. "Or take the first watch."
Liora blinked. "You're not going to talk about what just happened?"
Veyra didn't answer at first. She knelt near her own pack, busied her hands lacing something shut—anything to avoid turning around.
But Liora stood.
Crossed the space between them.
And said, quietly, "You knew before I did."
That made Veyra freeze.
"Yes," she said at last, not looking up. "I scented it."
"And?"
A long breath. "And I didn't trust myself to stay."
Liora's hand reached out—uncertain—but landed gently on Veyra's arm, against the edge of her sleeve.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she whispered.
Veyra turned to her, slowly, her expression unreadable—but her voice cracked when she asked, "You're not afraid of me?"
"Should I be?" Liora asked softly. "But I'm not."
It was a quiet statement, hushed and gentle. Then, softer—softer than breath—"I want you to stay."
Silence. A slow moment pulsed between them.
Then Veyra shifted. Sat back on her heels. Her eyes met Liora's fully now. "If I stay," she said carefully, "I'm going to know exactly what you smell like now."
Liora flushed. Her pulse skipped, but she nodded anyway.
"I know."
Veyra exhaled like it hurt—but she didn't leave.
And that was the mistake.
Because Liora stepped closer, small hand rising again—and this time, her fingers touched the inside of Veyra's forearm. Skin to skin.
The reaction was immediate.
Her scent flared—not just strong, but fierce, uncontrollable. Like something set loose after being caged too long. The honey turned molten, syrup-thick and heady, the lavender sharp as crushed petals between warm palms.
Veyra's vision swam. Her breath caught. The heat that had been coiled low in her belly snapped, rushing through her like wildfire. Her body reacted—unbidden, instant. Jaw tightening. Thighs clenching. Pupils dilating.
"Liora," she warned, already backing an inch—but Liora moved with her.
She was panting now—soft and quick. Her cheeks flushed, eyes dazed, lashes fluttering as if she couldn't quite stay grounded. Her body swayed toward Veyra's, drawn not by decision but instinct. Her nose brushed along Veyra's shoulder, her hair trailing down Veyra's chest, lips parted.
"Liora," Veyra said again, firmer. But her voice was too low. Too strained.
A high sound caught in Liora's throat—almost a whimper—as she nuzzled under Veyra's jaw, mouth brushing her neck. Her breath was warm, wet, desperate.
Veyra's body locked up.
She could feel her own pulse pounding behind her eyes. A feverish pressure was building low, tightening hard enough to hurt. She could feel herself swelling, her body preparing—no.
Not like this.
She jerked back—stumbled to her feet, heart slamming against her ribs. "Don't—don't do that," she rasped, breath heaving.
Liora blinked up at her, confused, lips parted.
"I need air," Veyra snapped. She didn't wait for a response.
She tore open the tent flap again and vanished into the cold night, her boots thudding heavy against the earth as she tried to outrun her own body.
The air outside was thin and brutal. It cleared nothing.
Liora's scent clung to her skin like smoke. Sweet. Wild. Claiming.
She dug her nails into her palms again, just to feel something sharp, something that wasn't need.
She had to stay away.
Or next time, she wouldn't.
The cold hit Veyra hard—but not hard enough.
Liora's scent still clung to her clothes, her throat, the space behind her teeth. No matter how fast she walked, it followed. Sweet and wild. A living thing.
She stopped near the outer fire pit, fists still clenched, heart still slamming against the cage of her ribs.
She touched me.
It had been the lightest graze. A palm on her forearm. But Veyra had felt the snap inside her like a rope pulled taut and cut clean through.
And then—nuzzling. The Omega in Liora had surfaced so fast, so helplessly, it had nearly broken Veyra in two.
Her fingers still twitched with the memory of it. The need. The ache. Her body had shifted automatically, swelling low and hard, slick heat gathering in her belly like kindling waiting for flame.
If she hadn't stepped back...
If she hadn't run...
Veyra ground her palms into her eyes and let out a low breath through her nose. She couldn't go back in. Not yet.
But Liora was vulnerable now.
Exposed. Alone.
And if anyone else caught her scent...
She turned sharply and strode across camp, past the doused fire circle and down the short slope toward Kellen's tent.
The captain answered on the first knock.
His brow furrowed the moment he saw her face. "What happened?"
"She's in heat," Veyra said, voice like gravel. "It started tonight."
He stiffened. Not in surprise, but in understanding. "You need someone posted."
"Yes. You and Malen. No one else." She didn't add what they both knew: her lieutenant couldn't be trusted near that tent—not with Liora scenting like that. "Do not speak to her. Do not let anyone in. Just make sure she doesn't leave and that she's safe."
Kellen nodded, already pulling on his boots.
Veyra turned before he could ask what she would do.
—
Inside the tent, Liora had slumped to her knees.
The cot was a blur behind her. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her body burned. Her skin prickled with sweat, and her thighs trembled from nothing but air.
Her mind floated just behind her thoughts. She could remember Veyra's voice. Veyra's hands. The heat she gave off. And then—her absence.
Why had she left?
Liora whimpered, pressing her forehead to the blanket-strewn cot. Her hands curled into the wool. Her scent spiraled into the air unchecked, thick and cloying.
She couldn't think.
Couldn't want, not in words.
Only touch. Pressure. Warmth.
She wanted her Alpha.
—
The fire cracked, but Veyra barely felt its warmth.
She sat low on a split log just beyond the outer ring of tents, the hem of her cloak curled around her boots, fingers laced tight in front of her mouth. Her eyes stayed fixed on the shadows just beyond the orange light—where Kellen and Malen stood near Liora's tent.
They said nothing.
They didn't have to.
Betas had no biological reaction to Omega heat—not the madness, not the pull. That's why she trusted them. Had to trust them.
Even so, Veyra watched every movement.
Kellen stood to the left of the entrance, hands loose but alert at his sides, gaze sweeping the perimeter in calm, calculated arcs. Malen sat near a smaller campfire to the right, sharpening a dagger not out of necessity, but rhythm. Both still. Both silent.
And yet—Veyra's jaw clenched.
Because even from here, she could scent Liora.
It was faint compared to the haze inside the tent, but enough to haunt the air. The wind carried it in slow pulses—sweet, sharp, thick with instinct. The honey had turned sickly-ripe, golden and fermented. The lavender was lush and raw, like petals crushed into fevered skin.
It hit her every time the breeze shifted, curling around her shoulders like smoke. Her throat tightened. Her belly throbbed with residual tension.
She swallowed hard.
This is why you left.
But even distance didn't save her. The instinct didn't vanish. It simply coiled, deeper, darker, beneath the surface of her composure.
She could scent Liora's need even now—how it had grown since she fled. The heat had taken hold completely. There was no hiding it anymore.
Veyra glanced toward the Vale wall.
That was the danger.
The ridge was quiet. But this close to the border—where loyalties bent and the terrain allowed for shadows—any Alpha still lingering in the region could be drawn like blood to a wound.
And Liora's scent would do more than tempt.
It would unmake reason. Drive instinct. Invite violence.
A heat-roused Alpha didn't care about titles, loyalty, or law. Only what it wanted. And what it scented.
Veyra's hands curled into fists.
She hated that thought.
Hated how easily her own body had nearly fallen into that same storm—how close she'd come to giving in.
If she lost control... if anyone else did...
She would never forgive herself.
So she sat, far from her cot, far from Liora, ears trained on the stillness, every muscle locked tight.
And still—
Gods, she could smell her.
The fire crackled low—barely a sound above the wind.
Veyra kept her eyes on the dark, jaw tight, every part of her body still braced for motion. She didn't move when she heard the tent flap shift behind her. But the footfalls that followed—staggered, heavy—told her who it was before the voice did.
"Fuck. That smell," Deyla muttered, low and hoarse.
Veyra didn't turn.
The lieutenant half-swayed into the firelight, boots dragging slightly in the dirt, hands fisting the edge of her cloak around her throat. Her usually sharp eyes were glazed—too wide. Her jaw was clenched like she was chewing her own restraint.
"I thought it was a dream," Deyla said, voice taut. "Then I realized I couldn't breathe right. She's in heat, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"Gods, Veyra." Deyla's voice dropped an octave, strained and full of disbelief. "How the fuck are you sitting out here and not halfway inside that tent?"
"Because I know what would happen if I went back."
Veyra's voice was flat. But it vibrated with tension.
Deyla paced once, running a hand through her hair. "I couldn't sleep. I got up to piss and almost fell to my knees outside her tent. I'm not even near it. It's—gods, it's like someone's bleeding fire."
Veyra didn't reply.
"Why didn't you warn me?" Deyla demanded.
"Because I didn't expect it to happen tonight."
Silence fell again, broken only by the wind and the soft hiss of fire. Deyla turned her back briefly, fists planted on her hips, visibly trying to slow her breathing.
Then, quieter—more ragged: "I can smell her from here. It's maddening. I don't even want her and I can feel it pulling me."
Veyra closed her eyes.
Exactly.
This was why she had left. Why she had put Kellen and Malen on guard. Why she had forced herself to sit in the dirt with a blade at her belt and fire in her chest.
Because if Deyla—seasoned, loyal, composed Deyla—could barely keep her instincts leashed...
Then Veyra was balancing on the edge of a blade.
And she didn't know how long she could stay there.
Deyla's voice was quieter now, but still laced with pressure. "Then why haven't you gone in to handle it?"
Veyra finally looked up.
Deyla met her gaze, eyes dark with something between disbelief and animal pull. "By all accounts—by law, by scent, by every damned rule this kingdom still clings to—she's yours, Veyra."
The words landed like a stone in water.
Veyra didn't move. But her fingers curled again, slow and sharp.
"She's not a possession," she said, quiet and cold.
Deyla scoffed—but it wasn't unkind. Just... Alpha. "I didn't say she was. But the law doesn't care about poetry. You scent-matched her. She wears your tunic. She took your collar and hasn't left your side since. Do you think the Circle will blink if someone else walks in there tonight and touches her first?"
Veyra's chest rose, then fell.
The fire crackled.
"She is not mine unless she chooses to be," Veyra said at last. "And right now, she isn't choosing. She's burning. There's no consent in that. No clarity."
Deyla was silent for a moment.
Then, softly, like peeling a scab: "Then you'll risk her being taken?"
Veyra's gaze went to the tent again. Her jaw locked.
"I've stationed Betas. I'll kill anyone who tries."
Deyla exhaled—sharply, tensely—but stepped back, something raw in her face.
"Gods, Veyra," she muttered. "You always were the strongest of us. And I never envied that more than I do right now."
Then she turned, striding off into the dark without another word, leaving Veyra alone again.
Alone—with the fire, and the scent of heat bleeding through canvas like fog through armor.
—
Morning came cold and slow.
Not with trumpets or light, but with the hush of a camp that had held its breath all night.
The sky was still pale steel when Veyra opened her eyes fully. She hadn't truly slept—not with her sword laid heavy across her lap, fingers curled around the hilt, her back braced against the support post beside the fire. The ashes had long gone gray, thin tendrils of smoke whispering like ghosts into the morning wind.
Her cloak was damp from dew. Her neck stiff. But she didn't move. Not yet.
Somewhere in the brush beyond the tents, a warhorse stamped and snorted. A bird trilled once, as if uncertain whether to break the quiet.
Then—footsteps. Measured. Careful.
She heard Malen murmur something low to Kellen near Liora's tent, his Beta voice steady, his presence like a hand pressed gently over boiling water. They had done exactly what she needed—stood guard without judgment, kept danger away, and said nothing.
A flick of wind rolled through the camp, and with it—again—came the scent.
Fainter now. Less wild. But still rich enough to make Veyra's throat tighten.
Liora.
The worst of the spike had passed, she could tell. The sweet, dizzying peak of heat had softened to something lower now—slower, more bearable. But the edges still carried that sharp note, lavender and body-warm honey clinging to the canvas walls of her tent like perfume too stubborn to fade.
Veyra drew in a breath. Let it out slow.
Her body still remembered the pull. The hunger.
Her thighs ached from being clenched all night, her jaw sore from the constant press of restraint.
The choice to remain out here—alone—had carved itself into her bones.
But it was the right choice.
As the sun stretched fingers over the hills, more sounds began to rise: the soft murmur of horses shifting in the paddock, the rustle of tents opening, the low scrape of Kellen's sword against whetstone as he resumed his morning ritual.
And beyond it all—the stillness of Liora's tent.
No movement.
Not yet.
Veyra glanced at it just once, eyes narrowing. The shape of the canvas, the slight shadow beyond. She wondered if Liora was still asleep. If her body had collapsed under the weight of instinct. If her skin still burned.
She imagined her there—curled small under the blanket, her fingers fisted in the folds of the cot, cheeks flushed, mouth parted, breath shallow. The scent of her still hung in Veyra's chest like a brand.
She looked away.
She couldn't go to her. Not yet.
The coals had long since died in the fire.
Ash curled faintly in the wind, and the camp stirred with slow rustling—tents shifting, boots scraping over gravel, breath drawn in the cold dawn.
Boots approached.
She didn't need to look to know who it was.
Deyla cleared her throat softly and stood just outside the ring of charred logs, arms folded, eyes trained not on Veyra, but on the dead fire.
"I owe you an apology," she said.
Veyra stayed silent.
"I wasn't thinking straight," Deyla continued. "Not last night. Not when I came out of that tent and barked at you like some rabid beast. It wasn't—" She stopped herself. Inhaled. "It wasn't tactical. It wasn't fair."
Now Veyra looked up.
Deyla finally met her eyes.
Deyla's voice lowered. "I stand by you, Veyra. All of it. But gods... that scent. It hit like a weapon. I was losing control. I've never—" She broke off, jaw tight. "I just wanted you to know I'm sorry. And I'll keep my distance."
Veyra didn't speak for a long moment.
The silence wasn't cold—but it wasn't soft either. Just heavy. Earnest.
Finally, she shifted—just enough to glance at her lieutenant over the edge of the dying fire.
"I don't need your apology," she said, voice hoarse from the sleepless night. "But I'll take your distance."
Deyla gave a tight, understanding nod.
"And Deyla," Veyra added, more quietly now, something strained flickering behind her silver eyes, "you weren't the only one holding the line last night."
She didn't say more. Didn't need to.
There was no shame in Deyla's expression—just respect. Earned, and returned.
She nodded once, then turned away, her steps softer this time as she walked into the shifting light of morning.
And Veyra—still clutching the hilt of her sword—let herself exhale fully for the first time in hours.
As the sun stretched fingers over the hills, more sounds began to rise: the soft murmur of horses shifting in the paddock, the rustle of tents opening, the low scrape of Kellen's sword against whetstone as he resumed his morning ritual.
And beyond it all—the stillness of Liora's tent.
No movement.
Not yet.
Veyra glanced at it just once, eyes narrowing. The shape of the canvas, the slight shadow beyond. She wondered if Liora was still asleep. If her body had collapsed under the weight of instinct. If her skin still burned.
She imagined her there—curled small under the blanket, her fingers fisted in the folds of the cot, cheeks flushed, mouth parted, breath shallow. The scent of her still hung in Veyra's chest like a brand.
She looked away.
She couldn't go to her. Not yet.
—
The world was too warm.
Not the burning heat from before—not quite—but a thick, lingering warmth, like lying too long in the sun. Her skin prickled beneath the blankets. Her breath came shallow and uneven, nose still filled with the heavy scent of herself: sweet, pungent, sharp like crushed lavender underfoot.
Liora stirred, sluggish and sore, limbs weighted like stone. The wool beneath her felt scratchy against damp skin. Her thighs ached. So did her throat.
Her lips parted with a small sound—barely audible.
The tent was dim. Pale gold light filtered through the canvas walls, muted by the morning sun. Somewhere outside, someone coughed. Steel scraped. Boots crunched against gravel.
She blinked slowly, lashes sticky with sleep, brain molasses-thick.
What...?
Memory returned in pieces.
The fever that had overtaken her. The dizzying heat, the way it had clawed up her spine and folded her in half. The hunger. The way she'd reached for Veyra without thinking—without breathing—just needing. The scent of her. The solid feel of her armor. Her voice.
"You didn't do anything wrong."
Liora's breath hitched.
Had she touched her? Gods, she'd touched her, hadn't she? Nuzzled into her chest, clutched at her cloak, trying to bury herself in the Alpha's scent like it was the only air that existed.
A flicker of shame bloomed low and slow.
She didn't know what had happened after that. Only that Veyra had pulled away.
She wasn't here now.
The cot creaked as Liora turned her head. The tent was empty, save for a canteen near the stool and a folded blanket on the bench. Everything was in its place. Unbroken. Untouched.
But she left.
A strange ache bloomed behind her ribs. Not rejection—Veyra hadn't been cruel. Just... absence.
Liora shifted again, letting one hand slide up over her belly, then to the warm metal of the collar still at her throat. The front clasp rested cool beneath her fingers.
Still here. Still mine. Still my choice.
She swallowed thickly, unsure if the salt in her throat was from dehydration or tears.
Outside, she heard Malen's voice—calm, low, Beta-steady.
They didn't leave me alone. Not entirely.
But Veyra had.
And part of her—part wild, part raw—was already searching for that scent again, that calm spice-and-pine steadiness that had steadied her at the edge.
She'd wanted it.
She remembered it now, in disjointed pieces. The spike. The moment it took her. How quickly her mind dissolved into nothing but touch and scent and heat. And Veyra—gods, Veyra had been there. Holding her, steadying her. Taking in all that wild, frantic need and giving nothing but restraint.
She shifted beneath the blanket. Her thighs still trembled slightly. She wasn't sick—just raw, as though she'd come back from some place too deep to explain.
Only four times before, she thought. And never like that.
Back home, she'd been warned. First heats were dangerous. Second ones worse. Omegas weren't supposed to let them run unchecked. That was what the collars were for. That was why they made you dose. Keep it quiet. Keep it locked down.
She hadn't taken Silence until she fled. Twenty years old. Four heats behind her, none since. She'd thought the drug had buried it all—made her body forget what it was.
She'd been wrong.
And now—
She sat up slowly, body tight, sore, breath catching in her throat as she pulled her tunic down and tried to brace her knees beneath her. The tent smelled thick with her own scent. But she was no longer drowning in it—just hovering in the wake.
The cot creaked again as Liora swung her legs over the edge.
She winced.
Her knees trembled the moment they touched the ground, the cold biting against her overheated skin. A full-body shiver rippled up her spine. She braced a hand against the canvas wall, willing her breath to steady, her muscles to remember what strength felt like.
One foot, then the other.
It was like walking after a fever—fragile, imprecise. Her senses weren't entirely her own. The tent still smelled of her: thick honey, crushed lavender, the aching echo of need that had flooded every fiber of her body just hours before.
Was that really me? she thought. Did I really... lose control like that?
She wanted air.
She wanted—
She still wanted her.
The tent flap rustled as she stepped out, barefoot, hair disheveled, cheeks still flushed from the heat and sleep. Camp had begun to stir. Soldiers' boots moved over gravel. Kellen stood posted, arms crossed. Malen noticed her and nodded with quiet approval. She realized, dimly, that both had been stationed nearby.
Veyra.
She looked toward the fire—and saw her.
Veyra sat alone, sword resting across her lap, cloak draped over her shoulders, like she hadn't slept at all. Pale in the morning light, eyes locked on the fire as though trying to keep something inside from breaking.
Liora swallowed and stepped forward.
When she spoke, her voice was hoarse—thin from everything she'd poured out into the night. "You stayed..."
Veyra turned only slightly, eyes catching hers—tired but clear. "I said I would."
Her eyes held Liora now—steadfast, unreadable, silver as frost under the morning light.
Liora hesitated.
Then, slowly, she lowered herself to sit beside her on the low stone rim of the fire pit, pulling her knees close as if to keep herself from unraveling. The wool of her borrowed tunic clung faintly to her skin, still damp at the nape. Her fingers fidgeted at the clasp of the collar—nervous, grounding, searching for something real.
She didn't speak for a moment.
Then:
"I didn't know it would feel like that."
Her voice was quiet, hoarse—not ashamed, but dazed. Honest.
Veyra's jaw shifted, but she said nothing. Just listened.
Liora hesitated, then sat beside her. Close, but not touching.
"I haven't felt that in years," she said, quietly. "Not since I left. Not since I started dosing. I thought maybe it wouldn't come back." Her fingers toyed with the collar at her throat. "But it did."
Veyra didn't interrupt.
"I remembered pieces of it," Liora went on. "How it felt. But this time was different. Like it came back stronger. Deeper." Her voice cracked. "And with you there... I wasn't afraid. I should've been. I wasn't."
Veyra looked at her, long and quiet.
Then, softly, "You weren't the only one it hit."
Liora stared down at her hands.
They looked small against her thighs—still shaking faintly, though the fever had passed. The collar at her throat felt cool now, not burning. Her hair clung to the back of her neck in loose, tangled waves.
The silence between them hung like morning mist. Heavy, quiet, waiting.
Then—quietly, but clearly:
"Why didn't you come in?"
Veyra didn't move. Didn't flinch.
But Liora could feel it. The shift. Like a bowstring drawn tight beneath her stillness.
When Veyra finally spoke, her voice was low. Almost too calm.
"Because you were in heat."
Liora turned to look at her. "That's not an answer."
"No," Veyra agreed. "It isn't."
Another pause.
The fire crackled faintly between them, its embers nearly dead.
"I could feel you," Liora whispered. "Even through it. I knew you were close. I knew you were mine. But you didn't—"
She stopped herself.
She didn't want to sound like she was accusing her. She wasn't.
But gods, the ache of it. That need. That closeness. That absence.
Veyra looked at her then.
And for once, there was nothing cold in her eyes. No mask. Just a quiet, brutal honesty that left no room for doubt.
"If I had stepped inside that tent," she said, voice rougher now, "I wouldn't have left."
Liora's breath caught.
Veyra turned back to the fire. "You were dazed. Vulnerable. You touched me, and it nearly undid everything I've spent my life learning to restrain. You don't know what it took to walk away."
"I wanted you to stay," Liora said, voice small.
"I know."
Another beat of silence passed. Then Veyra added, almost too softly to hear:
"So did I."
—
The light over Karsen Vale was pale and gray, filtering through the trees like breath through frost. Their small camp stirred with practiced economy—bedrolls rolled tight, cooking stones scattered and kicked into the brush, embers of the fire extinguished and covered.
But the scent hadn't cleared.
It still clung to the low branches like morning fog—sweet and heavy, the distinct signature of a heat not yet finished burning itself out. Not dangerous to Betas, no—but to an Alpha like Veyra? It still made her jaw tighten when the wind shifted wrong.
Veyra adjusted her gauntlets, then looked toward the source.
Liora, flushed but steadier now, stood near her packed satchel. Her collar was slightly askew from sleep, her hair messily bound. She wasn't panting anymore, but her eyes still had that unfocused sheen—heat-slowed, dazed, lingering on the edge of awareness.
Malen stood nearby, checking her pulse, murmuring something softly before giving a subtle nod to Veyra.
She walked over.
"Liora."
The Omega blinked up at her, color rising instinctively in her cheeks at the closeness.
Veyra didn't step back.
Instead, her voice was low. Measured.
"I know what happened last night wasn't intentional. It was instinct." A pause. "You don't need to apologize for it. And I won't dwell on it."
Liora's lips parted. Her breath caught—but then she nodded. Grateful. Maybe embarrassed. But not ashamed.
Veyra gave the smallest nod in return. Then turned.
"Kellen."
He was strapping the last of his gear when he looked up. "Hm?"
"She can't ride alone," Veyra said, approaching with a clipped tone. "Still too unsteady. And her scent's not faded enough to risk proximity with another Alpha."
Kellen's brows raised. "So you want me to—?"
"You're the steadiest Beta I trust. She rides with you. My horse will be tied off to yours—Malen will ride it."
Kellen blinked. "You're serious."
"I'm not repeating myself."
Kellen muttered something under his breath, half amused, half bewildered, and turned to adjust his saddle. But before he could fully mount, Veyra added, "If either I or Deyla start slipping—if the scent starts pulling too hard—slap us."
He froze.
"Slap you," he repeated.
"Yes."
Kellen turned fully toward her, mouth parting in stunned disbelief. Then—slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted into a crooked, incredulous smile. "You really mean that."
"I wouldn't offer it lightly."
He let out a long breath, chuckling. "This is gonna be the weirdest ride of my life. Heat-fogged Omega in front of me, your horse dragging behind, and orders to smack my superiors."
Veyra arched a brow. "I trust your discretion."
"Don't," he said, but grinned. "I'll behave."
Deyla, passing nearby with her blade at her hip, gave a sharp snort. "I'd pay to see that."
"You're exempt," Veyra said flatly. "No slapping rights for you."
Deyla lifted both hands in mock surrender, but her eyes were clearer now—dry amusement settling the tension like balm.
Within minutes, they mounted up—Kellen steadying Liora behind his reins, Malen taking Veyra's horse with quiet nods, and Deyla riding ahead, gaze sweeping the Vale's edges. Veyra took rear flank, sword loose at her side, her eyes never still.
And as the trail wound south through the thinning woods, skirting the edge of the Vale and bending toward the Ember Hollow Trail, the weight of the night began to lift—not forgotten, but folded away.