Chapter 4
Hermione had barely slept.
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows against the cavern walls, but she’d stayed awake, staring at the flickering embers. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt him. The bond. The pull. The heat.
It was worse now.
Worse because she couldn’t ignore the way her body reacted when Fenrir got too close. Worse because part of her was starting to expect it.
She had pressed herself against the farthest corner of the cavern, but even that hadn’t helped. Not when she could hear his steady breathing, feel his presence like a brand against her senses.
Now, as dawn broke, Fenrir stirred.
Hermione’s fingers curled into the rough fabric of her cloak as he stretched, muscles shifting beneath scarred skin. His golden eyes blinked open, immediately finding her.
She hated that her breath hitched.
“Didn’t sleep, did you?” His voice was thick with sleep, rasping like gravel.
Hermione lifted her chin. “Hard to, with a beast in the room.”
Fenrir smirked, slow and knowing. He sat up, his movements fluid, too controlled. “I told you, little witch. You’ll exhaust yourself fighting it.”
“I’m not fighting anything,” she snapped.
His head tilted, studying her. “Aren’t you?”
Hermione’s jaw tightened. She pushed to her feet, needing distance, but the moment she moved, Fenrir was there—fast, predatory.
A gasp escaped her lips as he caught her wrist. Not tightly. Just enough.
The contact was like a spark. The bond hummed, sending a shiver up her arm.
Hermione swallowed hard.
His fingers were rough, warm, too warm. He didn’t let go, didn’t move, just held her there, letting the silence stretch.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
“Let me go,” she said, but it didn’t sound like a command.
Fenrir’s eyes darkened. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”
Hermione clenched her jaw. She refused to answer.
His thumb brushed against her pulse point. A barely-there touch, but her whole body reacted.
A sharp inhale. A traitorous shiver.
Fenrir noticed.
His grip shifted, fingers sliding just slightly, tracing the inside of her wrist, slow, testing.
Hermione’s breath hitched.
Then—he let go.
The sudden loss of contact left her cold, unsteady. She hated that her body swayed slightly, as if it had leaned toward him without permission.
Fenrir’s smirk returned, but there was something dangerous in it now. Something pleased.
“You’re lying to yourself,” he murmured.
Hermione’s fists clenched at her sides. “You’re insufferable.”
He took a step closer.
Too close.
“You want to fight me,” Fenrir said, voice low. “But tell me, little witch… is that the only thing you want?”
Hermione’s breath caught.
Her back hit the cavern wall, and suddenly, Fenrir was there. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough that the bond sang.
She told herself not to look at his mouth.
And yet—
Fenrir’s eyes flicked to hers, his gaze dropping to her parted lips. Just for a second.
Hermione’s heart pounded.
Then, the bastard leaned in.
Not enough to touch. Just close.
Close enough that his breath ghosted over her cheek, that his presence wrapped around her like an unspoken challenge.
A slow, unbearable beat of silence.
Then—
A single brush of his lips.
Not a kiss. Not really. Just the lightest touch, barely more than a breath, like a question neither of them wanted to ask.
The bond roared.
Hermione’s fingers dug into the stone behind her.
Fenrir lingered for half a second longer, then pulled back—just enough to meet her eyes.
“Fight it all you want,” he murmured. “It won’t change what we are.”
Hermione shoved him.
Not that it did much—he barely moved. But the sudden force seemed to amuse him.
Her cheeks burned, fury and something far more dangerous curling in her gut.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she snapped.
Fenrir grinned, sharp and wolfish. “Keep telling yourself that, little witch.”
And with that, he stepped back, leaving Hermione breathless, furious, and far too aware of the bond that refused to let them go.