The first light of dawn bleeds through the cracks in the lodge’s shutters, painting thin red lines across the furs. I wake tangled in heat—his heat—his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm on the back of my neck. My skin still hums from the kiss, from the knife, from the way we stood on the edge of death and chose each other anyway. My throat is raw. My lips are swollen. My body aches in the best possible way.
And yet—
I don’t move.
I lie there, eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, the steady thud of his heart against my spine. Last night wasn’t just a surrender. It was a reckoning. He held a blade to his own throat to prove he’d rather die than lose me. And I—
I pressed it to mine.
We’re bound now. Not just by magic. Not just by blood. But by choice.
And that terrifies me more than any lie.
Because now there’s no going back. No pretending this is just the bond. No hiding behind vengeance or duty. If I fight Virellion now, I fight for *us*. If I burn the throne, I burn it for *him* as much as for my mother.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
Kaelen stirs.
His fingers twitch against my hip. His breath hitches. I feel the moment he wakes—the shift in his body, the way his arm tightens, the low, possessive growl that rumbles in his chest.
“Birch,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“I’m here,” I say, not opening my eyes.
He rolls me onto my back, his body pressing into mine, his golden eyes searching mine. Rain still drums the roof, but the storm has passed. The air is still, charged, like the calm after a war.
“You’re real,” he says, voice rough. “You didn’t run.”
“I almost did,” I admit. “When I left last night… I wanted to see if you’d come for me. If you’d fight for me.”
“And did I?”
“No,” I say. “You didn’t move. You just lay there, burning up, and I thought—” My voice cracks. “I thought I’d lost you.”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “You never lost me. I’ve been yours since the ritual. Even when I didn’t know it.”
“And now?” I whisper. “Now that you do?”
He leans down, his lips brushing mine. “Now I fight for you. With everything I am.”
The kiss is soft. Slow. A promise.
And then—
He pulls back. Rolls off me. Rises in one fluid motion, his body a landscape of scars and muscle, of power and pain. He doesn’t look at me as he pulls on his clothes—black trousers, a worn leather vest, his dagger at his belt. The Alpha. The warrior. The man who would die for me.
“We should go,” he says, voice flat. “Before the guards find us.”
My chest tightens.
Just like that, the moment is gone. The tenderness. The truth. Replaced by duty. By danger. By the Blood Trial that looms like a blade above us.
I sit up. Pull my chemise down. My clothes are still damp, but I don’t care. I dress quickly—leather pants, a fitted tunic, my daggers at my ribs. The locket rests cold against my skin. I haven’t opened it since the ritual. I’m not ready. Not yet.
Kaelen watches me, his expression unreadable. Then he steps forward, reaches for me.
Not to kiss me.
But to adjust the harness of my blade.
His fingers linger on my hip. Warm. Calloused. *Alive*.
“Don’t die on me,” he says, voice low.
My breath hitches.
“I don’t plan to,” I say. “But I won’t lose to *him*.”
His jaw tightens. “Virellion’s champion won’t be some blood-drunk rogue. He’ll be trained. Ruthless. He’ll fight dirty.”
“So will I,” I say.
He looks at me. Gold eyes burning. “Then I’ll train you.”
—
The Blackthorn estate is quiet when we return—no torches lit, no guards on patrol. The storm has washed the world clean, but the air still hums with tension, with the scent of wolf and old magic. We move through the corridors like shadows, silent, close. The bond thrums between us—steady, alive, *aware*.
Kaelen leads me to the training yard—a vast stone circle surrounded by high walls, the ground packed hard from centuries of battle. Wooden dummies line the perimeter, their heads splintered, their limbs broken. A rack of weapons stands in the corner—swords, daggers, staffs, chains. This is where Alphas are made. Where warriors are broken.
He doesn’t speak. Just hands me a practice sword—light, balanced, the hilt wrapped in leather. I take it, testing the weight. It’s not my usual dagger, but I can work with it.
“Stance,” he says.
I shift—feet shoulder-width, knees bent, blade up.
He circles me, his gaze sharp, assessing. “Too rigid. You fight like a witch, not a warrior. You rely on magic. On tricks.”
“Magic is a weapon,” I say. “Just like this.” I gesture with the sword.
“And when they bind your magic? When they drain your power? What then?”
My jaw clenches. “Then I fight.”
“With what?”
“With my hands. My teeth. My *will*.”
He smirks. “Good. Now show me.”
He attacks.
Fast. Brutal. No warning.
I barely block in time—the wooden blade clashing against mine with a crack that echoes through the yard. He’s strong. Faster than I remember. His movements are precise, economical, every strike designed to break, to dominate.
I parry. Spin. Lunge.
He disarms me in three moves, the sword flying from my hand, clattering into the dirt.
“Again,” he says.
I retrieve the blade. Reset.
He attacks.
Again, I’m disarmed.
“Again.”
And again.
And again.
By the fifth time, my arms are trembling. My breath comes in gasps. Sweat stings my eyes. The sun climbs higher, beating down on my back.
“You’re too slow,” he says. “Too emotional. You fight like you’re afraid to win.”
“Maybe I am,” I snap, shoving at his chest. “Maybe I don’t want to become what you are.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. “And what am I?”
“A monster.”
“Yes,” he says, not denying it. “But I’m *yours*.”
My breath hitches.
He steps closer, his body pressing into mine, his hand closing around my throat—not tight, not choking, but *there*. A reminder. A claim.
“You could have killed me in that study,” he says, voice low. “You could have taken the dagger. Ended the bond. Freed yourself. But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” I whisper.
“You *felt* it,” he says. “The truth. The bond. The way your body answers mine.”
“It’s not real,” I say. “It’s magic. Instinct. Not love.”
“Then why does it hurt when you lie?”
I freeze.
Because it does.
Every time I deny it, something inside me *twists*. Like the bond knows. Like it *punishes* me for resisting.
He releases me. Steps back. “Train harder. Or you’ll die in the Trial.”
And then he turns, walking toward the armory, his back rigid, his shoulders tight.
I don’t follow.
I stand there, breathless, my heart hammering. The sun beats down. The bond hums. And I know—
He’s not just training me to fight.
He’s training me to survive *him*.
—
The days blur.
Morning drills. Afternoon sparring. Evenings spent in silence, in his chambers, the door between us open, the bond a live wire between our beds. We don’t touch. Don’t kiss. Don’t speak of what happened in the lodge. But I feel him. Every breath. Every shift of muscle. The way his heat sears through the wall when he’s near.
And I dream.
Of him. Of blood. Of fire. Of a woman with my mother’s face, whispering, *“The pact isn’t just blood. It’s choice.”*
I still haven’t opened the locket.
I’m afraid of what I’ll find.
On the third day, Kaelen introduces weapons.
“Daggers,” he says, handing me a pair—black stone, Duskbane steel, the blades etched with runes. “Fast. Silent. Lethal.”
I take them, testing the balance. They’re heavier than mine, but the grip fits my hand like it was made for me.
“You’ll fight with these,” he says. “Not magic. Not tricks. Just steel and skill.”
“And if I need magic?”
“Then you’re already dead.”
We spar.
He’s relentless. No mercy. No hesitation. He blocks, disarms, pins me—again and again. My body aches. My ribs are bruised. My knuckles split. But I don’t stop. I can’t.
Because if I lose the Trial, I lose *him*.
And I can’t lose him.
Not after what we’ve survived.
On the fifth day, he teaches me to fight dirty.
“They’ll go for your throat,” he says, circling me. “Your eyes. Your knees. They’ll use magic, poison, blood contracts. You have to be faster. Smarter.”
He lunges.
I dodge. Slash.
He catches my wrist, twists—pain flares up my arm. I kick, hard, my boot connecting with his thigh. He grunts, but doesn’t let go.
“Good,” he says. “But not good enough.”
He flips me—fast, brutal—and I land hard on my back, the breath knocked from my lungs. His knee presses into my stomach. His hand closes around my throat.
“Dead,” he says.
I glare up at him. “Then kill me. Or get off me.”
He doesn’t move. His eyes burn. “You think I don’t want to?”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because I can’t lose you,” he says, voice raw. “Not now. Not after everything.”
My chest tightens.
And then—
He leans down.
Not to kiss me.
But to bite.
His fangs graze my pulse.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Let him try. Let him mark me deeper. I’ll use it. I’ll turn it. My magic thrives on blood, on breath, on kisses. If he wants to bind me, I’ll bind him back.
But he doesn’t bite.
He pulls back.
And in that moment, I see it—just for a heartbeat—raw, unguarded need in his eyes. Not just animal hunger. Something deeper. Something human.
Then the mask slams down.
“Stay away from me,” he says, voice rough. “Or next time, I won’t stop.”
He releases me.
I sit up, rubbing my throat. My wrist throbs. My body hums with something I can’t name.
He turns, striding to the armory, his back rigid, his fists clenched.
And I know—
This changes everything.
My mission. My plan. My life.
I came here to destroy the pact.
But the curse wasn’t meant to bind me to the king.
It was meant to deliver me to him.
And someone—
Someone has known that from the beginning.
—
On the seventh day, Soren finds me in the archives.
I’m not studying treaties. Not searching for the key. I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the shelves, the locket in my hands. I’ve been here for hours. Staring at it. Not opening it.
“You look like hell,” he says, crouching beside me.
“Feel like it,” I mutter.
He glances at the locket. “Still haven’t opened it?”
I shake my head.
“Afraid of what you’ll find?”
“Afraid of what I’ll lose,” I say.
He’s silent for a moment. Then—
“He’s never looked at anyone like that.”
I look at him. “Like what?”
“Like you’re the only air in the room.”
My breath hitches.
“He’s afraid,” Soren says. “Not of the Trial. Not of Virellion. Of *you*. Of losing you.”
“And if I lose?” I whisper. “If I die in the Trial?”
“Then he dies with you,” Soren says. “The bond won’t let him survive. But he’d rather die than see you belong to Virellion.”
Tears burn my eyes.
“I don’t want to fight him,” I say. “I don’t want to fight *for* him. I want to fight *with* him.”
“Then make him see that,” Soren says. “Prove it. Not with words. Not with kisses. With *action*.”
My chest tightens.
That’s what I told Kaelen.
And now Soren’s saying the same thing.
Maybe it’s time I listened.
—
That night, I find Kaelen in the training yard.
He’s alone. Shirtless. Sweat-slick. Sparring with a wooden dummy, his movements fast, brutal, relentless. The moon is high, casting silver light across the stone. The bond hums—strong, insistent, *alive*.
I step forward.
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps fighting.
“I want to try something,” I say.
He stops. Turns. “What?”
“Magic,” I say. “Blood magic. It’s stronger when it’s fueled by touch. By breath. By *kiss*.”
His eyes narrow. “You want to use the bond?”
“I want to use *us*,” I say. “If I’m going to survive the Trial, I need every advantage.”
He studies me. “And if it breaks you?”
“Then I’ll break with purpose,” I say. “Now—do you trust me?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps closer.
And holds out his hand.
I take it.
Our skin touches—warm, alive, *electric*. The bond flares—heat, light, power surging through me. I close my eyes. Focus. Draw on the magic—the old blood, the fae oath, the witch’s fire.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A claiming. A challenge.
His hands fist in my hair. He pulls me closer. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, fierce, hungry. The magic *explodes*—bright, hot, *alive*—pouring through me, through *us*, a river of light and heat and need.
I break the kiss—panting, my lips swollen, my eyes wild.
And then—
I raise my hand.
A blade of pure light forms—sharp, glowing, humming with power. Blood magic. Fueled by kiss. Fueled by *us*.
Kaelen stares at it. Then at me.
“You’re not just a weapon,” he says, voice rough. “You’re a storm.”
“Then let me burn,” I say. “Let me fight. Let me win.”
He steps forward. Pulls me into his arms. His lips brush my ear.
“Then fight,” he whispers. “But don’t die on me.”
And for the first time—
I believe he means it.
Not as a threat.
But as a plea.
And I know—
When the Blood Trial comes—
I won’t just fight to survive.
I’ll fight to come back to him.