The Royal Alpha

Chapter 5: Watching Her With Him

FENRIS

I enter the library silently, keeping to the shadows and avoiding passing wolves. This place is familiar to me—too familiar. I know which floorboard creaks under weight, which shelves carry the faintest echo, which corners catch sound and which swallow it whole. I know the hours when the air inside feels undisturbed, heavy with stillness.

Tonight, I need it empty.

The library smells of old parchment, ink, and faint traces of magic embedded into the stone walls centuries ago. It's a place meant to preserve truth, not welcome intrusion. I slip into it like I belong—which, in a way, I do.

The librarian sits at her usual desk near the entrance, shoulders slightly hunched as she files new entries and logs book deliveries. She hasn't looked up once since I entered. I greet her with a brief nod, careful not to draw her attention further, and move toward my regular spot near the inner shelves.

I pull a random book from the rack—something thick, heavy, dull—and open it. Lowering my gaze, I pretend to read, even though my mind refuses to focus on the words.

Acting has never been my strength.

But tonight, it will have to do.

Across the room, tucked into the far corner where the shadows pool deepest, Lycidas and Caliana sit close—too close for it to be innocent. Their shoulders touch. Their knees brush. Their scents mingle in a way that makes the air feel warmer around them.

They're whispering softly, heads bent together, completely lost in each other.

I turn my face away.

Not because I disapprove.

But because my chest tightens unexpectedly, a sharp ache blooming where none should exist.

Soon, Fenris, I remind myself sharply. Soon, you'll be with your mate.

The thought steadies me—but only briefly.

I shake it away. I don't have the luxury of longing right now. I need two minutes of focus. Just two.

Closing my eyes, I stretch my awareness outward.

Three wolves.

The librarian—neutral, methodical, bored.

Lycidas—warm, content, distracted.

Caliana—flushed, nervous, humming with anticipation.

No suspicion.

No interest in me.

Good.

Very good.

I rise slowly from my seat and drift toward the corner near the Archive entrance, careful not to draw attention. As I move, I turn inward, tightening something deep inside me—like pulling a thread until the world around me loosens its grip.

The hum of emotions brushing against my senses dulls. Sounds soften. The scrape of a chair leg, the whisper of turning pages, even the steady rhythm of my own breathing begin to fade. It's as if the space around me thickens, growing heavier, resistant.

I draw my presence inward, compressing it until it feels smaller, dimmer—less there.

The air around my skin prickles faintly, a tingling sensation that crawls along my arms and neck. My muscles ache as though I'm holding my breath underwater, lungs burning despite the fact that I'm still breathing.

It's exhausting.

I can feel the strain building almost immediately—a tight pressure behind my eyes, a dull throb at my temples. My focus wavers for half a second, and panic flares.