Chapter 5 The Gloves He Never Takes Off

Chapter 5 – The Gloves He Never Takes Off

The room was quiet, too quiet for a place that looked like it had been carved out of the spine of a storm. Stone walls curved overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, polished obsidian floors reflecting torchlight that flickered with an otherworldly blue. It was a space built for shadows, for secrets, and for him.

Alpha Draven Blackthorn.

Lyra stood at the threshold, uncertain whether to enter or bolt. She'd been given no guide, no welcome, no soft voice telling her what came next. Just the echoing silence of a pack that feared its own Alpha-and a husband she was fated never to touch.

She swallowed hard and stepped inside.

He stood near the far window, back to her, tall and rigid as a statue. It had rained earlier, and mist still clung to the panes. Beyond it, the forest loomed-a jagged silhouette against the bleeding twilight. He didn't move at her entrance. Didn't speak. Didn't even glance her way. But she felt him. Her soul felt him.

Mate.

The word echoed in her chest like a curse.

She studied him carefully. His broad shoulders were wrapped in a long black coat trimmed in silver threading. The collar was high, his hair tied back tightly, but what caught her attention most-what made her breath stutter-were his hands.

Gloved.

Not leather. Not cloth. Something else. Something thick, reinforced, as if made to restrain more than protect. And they weren't new. The fabric was worn at the knuckles, faint scratch marks dug into the material like claw scars. He moved one hand slightly, and she swore she heard the creak of pressure contained.

"No one touches him," a servant had whispered earlier when she'd tried to hand him a goblet. "He hasn't been touched in eight years."

Eight years.

The thought settled into her stomach like stone.

Lyra's voice cracked the silence, careful and small. "Alpha Blackthorn."

He turned slowly.

His eyes were obsidian-not dark, but truly black, bottomless. They didn't shine or reflect the light. They drank it in. And when they landed on her, her pulse stumbled into her throat.

"You may call me Draven," he said, voice low and tightly coiled.

She nodded, trying to find something to hold on to-dignity, defiance, maybe even curiosity. Anything but fear.

"I'm not here by choice," she said. "But I won't be treated like a prisoner."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "And yet you came."

"They made me. You know that."

He stepped closer, the air seeming to twist around him. Each step was slow, measured, but powerful. Lyra held her ground, though her knees trembled.

Draven stopped a few feet from her-close enough that she could see the faint breath fog from his lips. Close enough to smell something cold and feral beneath the scent of cedar and night.

"You were born under a cursed blood moon," he said quietly.

She flinched. "I didn't choose that either."

He studied her. "You think this union is punishment. You're wrong. It's containment."

Lyra's spine stiffened. "You think I'm dangerous?"

"I think you don't know what you are."

His voice wasn't cruel, just... hollow. Like someone who'd stopped hoping people would understand him long ago. The way he looked at her-it wasn't hatred. It was weariness. Suspicion. Grief dressed as indifference.

"And you?" she asked, her voice softening. "What are you?"

His eyes flicked to hers, and something-just for a heartbeat-flickered behind them. Pain. Sharp and quick, like a blade unsheathed.

"You don't want to know."

She held his gaze. "Maybe I do."

Silence hung heavy again. He shifted back, folding his hands behind him. The gloves were so deliberate, so precise, as if they were stitched to his skin. And now she was certain of it-he hadn't taken them off once. Not during the ceremony. Not when he signed the pack treaty. Not even when the mark of the Moon Goddess pulsed gold on his wrist, signaling their completed bond.

"Why the gloves?" she asked quietly.

He didn't answer.

She took a step forward, heart hammering. "What happens if you take them off?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I kill people."

The words weren't dramatic. They weren't meant to shock. They were just... true. And they sent a chill down her spine.

"Have you?" she whispered.

He didn't nod. Didn't deny it. Just turned away again.

Lyra bit her lip. "What happened to the last one?"

His shoulders tensed. "You think you want answers. You don't."

"I do," she said, her voice breaking. "You think I'm some fragile doll sent here to play mate until the curse kills me? I have questions, Draven. And I deserve answers."

He turned sharply, and this time the heat in his eyes made her step back.

"You think the gloves are the curse?" he rasped. "They're the only thing containing it."

Lyra stared at him, trembling. "You really believe you'll kill me... just by touching me?"

"I know I will."

His voice cracked.

Something shifted between them then. Not heat. Not attraction. Something deeper. A recognition. A kind of grief that only the broken understood.

She suddenly saw it-the loneliness. The terror in him that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with guilt. The way his jaw clenched when she stood too close. The way his hands fisted even through the gloves, like he was terrified they might move on their own.

Draven wasn't just cursed. He was condemned.

And for the first time since arriving, Lyra didn't feel angry. She felt... sad. For him. For herself. For all the love they might never have.

"I don't want to die," she whispered.

"And I don't want to be the reason you do."

The silence after that was unbearable.

Finally, he turned his back to her again. "There's a room down the hall. Third door on the left. You'll stay there. We will not share a bed. You will not speak of the bond. And you will not touch me."

She lingered a moment, then nodded, voice thick. "Understood."

But as she walked out of the room, heart pounding in her ears, she knew something had shifted. The mate bond was already stirring, clawing at the barrier between them. It pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath her skin, whispering of something terrible and beautiful.

And it didn't care about gloves.

It wanted touch.