I cannot stop replaying his words.

  They echo long after the fire dims and the cave settles into an uneasy quiet, threading through my thoughts until there is no space left to rest.

  They were not your parents.

  You are not like everyone else.

  You are a danger to yourself.

  And worst of all, spoken without fear or cruelty:

  If she wins, you won’t survive it.

  I lie awake beneath the furs, staring at the uneven stone ceiling, tracing cracks that disappear into shadow. My wolf is curled tight inside me, restless but contained. Not attacking. Not fighting.

  Waiting.

  If even a fraction of what Azrael says is true, then this is not just about losing control.

  It is about what happens if I never take it.

  My parents. Kellan. The pack.

  The weight of them presses against my chest until my breathing turns shallow. I force myself upright, wrapping the blankets closer around my shoulders, grounding myself in the feel of fur and warmth.

  Whatever Azrael’s intentions, whatever restraint he shows, one truth remains unchanged.

  I am here because he decided I should be.

  Not because I chose it.

  Azrael sits near the fire, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Metal slides against stone in a steady rhythm. It should irritate me.

  Instead, it anchors me.

  I hate that.

  “You said I was dangerous,” I say suddenly, the words cutting through the quiet.

  He does not look up. “I said you could be.”

  “That feels like a distinction without meaning.”

  “It is the only one that matters.”

  I rise and pace, stopping just short of the cave wall, my fingers brushing cold stone.

  “You talk like you’re waiting for me to snap.”

  “I am watching to see if you lead.”

  I turn sharply. “Lead what?”

  He finally looks at me then. “Her.”

  My wolf stirs immediately, heat blooming through my limbs in response to the attention.

  “You think she’s trying to take over,” Azrael continues calmly. “But that is not what this is.”

  “Then what is it?” I demand.

  “She senses instability,” he says. “Fear. Uncertainty. You don’t trust yourself, and she knows it.”

  My throat tightens.

  “She is instinct,” he goes on. “If you cannot lead, she will. Not because she wants to dominate you, but because she believes you are in danger.”

  My wolf presses closer, protective and alert.

  “She’s trying to protect me,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he says simply. “Even if it destroys you both.”

  The words settle heavy and unyielding.

  “That’s not fair,” I mutter. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “No,” he agrees. “But you are responsible for it.”

  I exhale shakily. “Then what do I do?”

  He sets the blade aside and stands, not closing the distance between us, but not retreating either.

  “You start controlling your emotions,” he says. “And stop letting them control.”

  “I don’t feel steady,” I admit. “I feel like I’m coming apart.”

  “That is why she gravitates toward steadiness,” he replies.

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  I hesitate. “You.”

  His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t deny it.

  “She responds to calm. To certainty. To control,” he says. “Right now, you lack all three.”

  My wolf hums softly, soothed by his presence, by the unshaken confidence in his voice.

  I hate how much sense it makes.

  “Sit,” he instructs.

  I lower myself onto the stone near the fire, the warmth seeping into my legs.

  “Close your eyes.”

  I do.

  “Breathe,” he says. “Not deep. Honest.”

  The pressure builds slowly this time, not explosive, but insistent, like a tide pressing against a shoreline.

  “She’s there,” I murmur.

  “I know,” he says. “Acknowledge her. Not with force. With intent.”

  Heat spreads through my chest. My pulse quickens. I fight the instinct to lean toward him, toward the steadiness he represents.

  “She wants you,” I whisper.

  “She wants certainty,” he corrects. “You’re mistaking the anchor for the source.”

  The pressure peaks, then pauses.

  For the first time, it does not overwhelm me.

  My wolf coils instead of striking, watchful instead of feral.

  I sag forward, breath trembling.

  “That,” Azrael says quietly, “is what leadership feels like.”

  I open my eyes. “And if I fail?”

  He studies me for a long moment. “Then she will try again.”

  Before I can respond, he steps past me.

  Metal shifts.

  The lock clicks closed around my ankle.

  I flinch.

  “I am not punishing you,” he says evenly, stepping back. “I am reminding you that until you can lead without fear, freedom is not safe for you.”

  He turns away, leaving space between us once more.

  Alone with the fire’s dying glow, my wolf settles again.

  Not subdued.

  Learning.

  And for the first time since my shift, the truth sharpens into clarity.

  She is not fighting me.

  She is waiting for me to become someone worth following.

  The realization does not soothe me.

  It aches.

  My thoughts drift, unbidden, to the warmth of my parents’ home. To familiar walls and familiar voices. To my mother’s hands finding my hair when I was anxious, grounding me without words. To my father’s steady presence. To Kellan’s laugh, his certainty, the life that was supposed to be mine.

  Safety.

  Belonging.

  The ache deepens until it feels hollow.

  My gaze slides toward the cave entrance, barely visible beyond the firelight. Trees. Open air. Home.

  If I ran now…

  If I went back…

  The thought barely forms before my wolf reacts.

  She slams into my ribs with violent force, panic and fury colliding. Heat surges through my limbs. My breath stutters as my knees buckle, strength draining as if the ground has vanished beneath me.

  No.

  She is not urging escape.

  She is rejecting it.

  Fear floods her, raw and overwhelming. Not of Azrael.

  Of me.

  My vision blurs as pressure builds, claws scraping against bone and muscle, my body trembling beneath her insistence.

  “I’m not leaving,” I whisper, the words breaking apart. “I was just thinking.”

  The pressure intensifies.

  She senses hesitation. Grief. Doubt.

  And she moves to take control.

  A cry tears from my throat as the world tilts.

  Strong hands catch me before I hit the stone.

  Azrael is there instantly, one arm bracing my back, the other steadying my head.

  “Breathe,” he says, calm and absolute. “Slow.”

  “I can’t,” I gasp. “She’s…she’s ripping through me.”

  His voice lowers, steady as bedrock. “Because she senses you faltering.”

  I shake, firelight streaking across my vision.

  “She doesn’t trust me,” I whisper.

  “She is instinct,” he replies. “And instinct steps in when leadership wavers.”

  The pressure crests.

  Then his voice cuts through it, not accusing. Not angry.

  “You were thinking of running.”

  It is not a question.

  But it sounds like one.

  I don’t answer. I can’t.

  He doesn’t need me to.

  “Fear,” he continues. “Longing. Grief. She feels it all. And she believes she can protect you better than you can right now.”

  The truth lands hard and undeniable.

  I cling to his voice, forcing air back into my lungs.

  Slowly, the pressure eases.

  My wolf recoils, trembling but obedient, reassessing.

  Waiting.

  Azrael releases me only when I can stand on my own.

  “This is why you are not free yet,” he says quietly. “Not because I fear you leaving.”

  His gaze meets mine, unwavering.

  “But because she does.”

  The meaning settles heavily in my chest.

  Freedom is not something he is withholding.

  It is something I am not yet capable of holding.

  And until I am, every doubt, every ache for what I lost, will become a weapon my own wolf will turn against me.