Page 34 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

Her lips twitch. "Kinky."

"Deadly serious."

She nods. "Good. So am I."

SOPHIA

I press my hand against a cold metal table. The slab bears a stain of something that looks like blood but smells like antiseptic and something darker—like rot baked under glass. The tanks lining the back wall are tall, reinforced, and long-abandoned, but theystill hold residue, faint traces of whatever was once inside them. Lucas steps past me, jaw locked, golden eyes scanning every corner of the room.

“You recognize any of this?” he asks, voice low but sharp.

“Some,” I answer, voice unsteady. “Not the tech… but the symbols etched into the metal.” I move toward the nearest tank, brush away a layer of grime. “That one’s Windrider. Corrupted, though. Twisted.”

Lucas turns, moving toward me in two silent strides. “Corrupted how?”

I trace the symbol with my fingertip—not touching it, just hovering close enough to feel the pull. “This one’s supposed to mean ‘threshold.’ It’s used in rites when you’re about to cross into a new phase. But here…” I nod toward the jagged lines branching off it, scorched into the metal like claw marks. “Someone added fracture runes. Like they wanted to break the threshold—not just cross it.”

Lucas mutters a curse and kicks a broken syringe across the floor. “This place feels like a tomb.”

“No,” I say. “A breeding ground. For monsters and mutants.”

He stops moving. His eyes meet mine. “You shouldn’t have come here alone.”

I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “You think I don’t know that? But I didn’t have a choice. The wind led me.”

“I would’ve come with you. I would’ve backed your play.”

I want to tell him I know. I want to say I believe him. But the truth is harder to choke down than I expected.

Instead, I kneel near a collapsed desk and start rifling through the rusted drawers. Most of it is useless—molded paper, broken clamps, what looks like the spine of some small creature, shriveled and curled in on itself. I pick up a bloodstained folder and straighten slowly.

Lucas is watching me. Not the room. Not the shadows. Me.

“What?” I ask, folding the folder under one arm.

“You’ve got that look again,” he says.

“What look?”

“The one you had the first time we met. Like you’re five seconds from bolting and thirty seconds from breaking.”

I flinch. Then I laugh—because he’s not wrong, and because pretending I’m fine is easier than admitting I’m unraveling at the seams.

“I’m scared, Lucas.”

The words come out before I can stop them. My voice is quieter now. Not a whisper, but not loud enough to echo in this godforsaken building, either. Just truth, laid bare like cracked porcelain.

“I’m scared of Cain. I’m scared of what we’re going to find next. I’m scared that whatever's coming is going to tear through the world before we can stop it. And…” I hesitate. The hard part isn’t admitting the fear. It’s the second part. The part that makes my throat tighten.

“I’m scared of you,” I whisper.

Lucas doesn’t move. His hands stay loose at his sides, but his whole body is alert, tuned to me like he can sense the tremble beneath the words.

“Because of what I am?” he asks. “Because I’m dominant? Dangerous?”

I shake my head. “No. Because when I’m near you, I don’t feel like running. I feel like staying. And I’ve never… I don’t know what to do with that.”

He crosses the distance between us slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. Or maybe a wildfire. His hand rises, knuckles brushing my cheekbone.

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