Ezra's POV

He couldn't remember falling asleep, but somehow he was running. Barefoot through a moonlit forest, wind rushing past his ears like whispered secrets.

But he wasn't alone.

Another wolf ran beside him—massive and black, with eyes like molten gold. When their shoulders brushed, electricity shot through Ezra's spine, hot and familiar in a way that made no sense.

Then the dream shifted, reality bending like heat waves.

Suddenly he was a child again, silver hair matted with dirt, palms bloody and stinging. He was crying in the ruins of what had once been a palace, now nothing but stone and ash. That same black wolf—smaller now, just a pup—was dragging him toward safety, growling low and protective.

"Don't leave me," Ezra whispered in the dream, his voice young and broken.

The wolf looked back, and for just a moment, its eyes were achingly human.

"I never did."

Ezra jolted awake, gasping like he'd been drowning.

Sweat soaked his sheets, his heart hammering against his ribs. The images clung to him—the wolf, the ruins, the desperate child he'd been. And through it all, one face kept surfacing in his mind.

Rumi.

It was nearly midnight when Ezra slipped out of his dorm. He pulled a hoodie over his tank top, swim shorts underneath, and padded barefoot across the quad. The night air was cool against his overheated skin.

He shouldn't be doing this. But ever since that kiss—that claiming—his body felt like it belonged to someone else.

The wolf in him was restless, hungry. And he'd heard rumors that Rumi sometimes trained late, alone, in the private pool beneath the west building.

Ezra told himself he was just going to watch. Maybe tease a little. Maybe see what would break this time.

The pool room was warm and silent when he found it. Dim lights reflected across the water's surface like scattered stars. And there he was.

Rumi. In the water. Alone. His back turned.

Every muscle in Ezra's body went taut.

He didn't announce himself. Just dropped his hoodie and let it hit the floor with a soft thud. The echo of his footsteps on the wet tiles told Rumi he was no longer alone.

Rumi turned, his eyes immediately darkening when he saw who it was.

"Ezra."

"I couldn't sleep," Ezra said, walking closer to the pool's edge. "Figured you'd be here."

"You shouldn't be." Rumi's voice was rough, strained.

"I'm not here for rules," Ezra said, peeling off his tank top. His chest was pale in the dim light, still damp with sweat from the summer heat. "I'm here for you."

Rumi didn't move, but his eyes tracked every inch of exposed skin like he wanted to memorize it. Or devour it.

"Get out," he growled, but there was no real force behind it.

Ezra stepped to the edge of the pool. "Make me."

And then he dove in.

The water closed over him like silk, cool and welcoming. When he surfaced, Rumi was right in front of him, chest bare, dark hair slicked back. He looked like sin carved from stone, beautiful and dangerous.

"What are you doing?" Rumi hissed, but his voice shook. "Do you want me to lose control?"

"Yes," Ezra breathed without hesitation.

Rumi grabbed him by the shoulders, slamming him back against the pool wall. His breath was hot against Ezra's throat, his grip almost painful.

"You don't understand what I am," Rumi said, his voice barely controlled. "If I take you, there's no going back."

Ezra tilted his head, letting his mouth brush against Rumi's jaw. "Maybe I'm tired of going back."

That one sentence snapped the last thread of Rumi's control.

He crashed into Ezra, lips devouring, tongue claiming. The kiss was brutal and messy, all teeth and heat and years of repressed hunger. Ezra moaned into it, wrapping his legs around Rumi's waist under the water.

They moved together, gasping and grinding, as Rumi's hands slid under Ezra's thighs, lifting him effortlessly against the pool wall.

Ezra arched, his back pressing against the cool tiles, water dripping down his chest as Rumi's mouth moved lower—to his neck, his collarbone, trailing fire with every touch.

But then something changed.

The talisman around Rumi's neck flared to life.

A pulse of white-hot light burst between them, knocking them apart like a shockwave.

Ezra screamed.

He didn't know why—just that something inside him was tearing open, memories flooding back like a dam had burst.

He saw fire. Blood. A silver crown shattered in mud. Wolves tearing into wolves. A baby crying alone in the snow.

Rumi's voice echoed through it all—"Ezra, Ezra, breathe—"

But Ezra was lost, collapsed in Rumi's arms, his eyes wide and unseeing, his breathing ragged and desperate.

And then, in a voice that wasn't entirely his own, he whispered:

"I think I'm yours."

Everything went black.