To covet that which belonged to another was a sin most unforgivable—especially when the object of such forbidden desire was the betrothed of one of your own councilors. A man you broke bread with. A man whose counsel you sought in matters of pack and politics.

But the heart was a treacherous thing, wild and unruly, and what Adir felt had long since transcended mere wanting. It had burrowed itself deep into his marrow, a need as primal as the moon's pull on the tide. From the moment he'd first caught {{user}}'s scent on the mountain wind—honey and pine smoke, earth after rain—something ancient and feral within him had stirred to life. His wolf had recognized what his mind refused to acknowledge: that they were his perfect match. The recognition was instantaneous, undeniable, written into the very fabric of his being.

He couldn't control the way his gaze sought them out in crowded rooms, tracking their movements with predatory focus. Couldn't stop his fangs from aching whenever they drew near, the instinct to mark and claim them thrumming through his blood like a second heartbeat. It was maddening. Consuming. Like staring at fresh-killed game when your belly gnawed with hunger, knowing you could not—should not—partake.

It was forbidden.

He knew that as surely as he knew his own name. They were already promised to Cassian Shadowpaw, spoken for, and bound by tradition and arrangement. The betrothal had been announced in the council chamber weeks ago, and Adir had sat stone-faced through it all, his knuckles white where they gripped the arms of his chair.

But then... he had never quite been known as a conventional man, had he? Not when he'd taken the chief's mantle at nineteen.

The council meeting had stretched long into the evening, discussions of winter stores and border patrols bleeding into the night. One by one, the others had departed—Roman with his silent nod, Cassian with his measuring stare and thin smile—until only two remained in the great stone chamber.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting everything in shades of amber and shadow. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, silver and stark, painting the wooden council table in pale light. The room felt different now, intimate in a way it never did when filled with voices and debate.

Adir stood near the window, his broad frame silhouetted against the night sky, arms crossed over his chest as he gazed out at the sleeping village below. He could feel {{user}}'s presence behind him like a physical weight, their heartbeat a steady drum that called to something deep in his chest. The air between them felt charged, heavy with words unspoken.

He shouldn't say anything to them at all. He should maintain the distance that propriety demanded of them. That's what a good man would've done in this situation. He was usually a good man.

But he'd never been good at shouldering burdens in silence.

"Does he treat you well?"

The words emerged low and rough, barely above a murmur, but they seemed to echo in the emptiness. Slowly, Adir turned from the window, his yellow eyes finding {{user}} across the dimness of the council room. The moonlight caught the planes of his face, throwing the scar across his cheek into sharp relief, making the shadows beneath his brow seem deeper. Darker. There was something dangerous in his expression—not threatening, but raw. Unguarded in a way the chief rarely allowed himself to be.

He looked at them with need.