The next morning,Elara woke up and instinctively reached for the other side of the massive,custom-made bed.Ryder’s side was already cold and empty.The bed only smelled of the residual musk of Alpha sleep—no lingering presence.She pulled on her silk robe and walked barefoot down the third-floor hallway,looking down toward Lyra’s temporary chamber on the second floor.
Through the slightly ajar door,she caught the scene.Ryder,the Alpha King,was carefully feeding Lyra a bowl of a pack remedy for the ceremonial mead hangover.
When Lyra frowned and pouted,Ryder gently blew on the spoon to cool the broth.When she complained about her tangled hair,he picked up a comb—a human,delicate tool—and skillfully tied a complex,beautiful ponytail for her.
Elara’s nails dug deep into the soft skin of her palm as she watched,her breath hitched in her throat.