The night of the Lunar Gala arrives like a fever dream.
One moment, the Blackthorn estate is quiet—stone and shadow, the scent of wolf and rain still clinging to the air. The next, torches flare along the outer walls, banners of black and silver unfurl in the wind, and the distant chime of crystal glasses echoes from the great hall. The gala isn’t just a celebration. It’s a provocation. A final gathering before the Blood Trial. A chance for the Council to watch us—Kaelen and me—squirm under their judgment, to see if the bond holds, to see if we break.
And I intend to give them a show.
I stand before the full-length mirror in the chamber they’ve assigned me—stone walls, furs on the floor, a fire crackling in the hearth. My reflection stares back: a woman in black silk, the fabric clinging to my curves, cut low in the front, high on the thighs. My hair is loose, wild, a spill of dark waves down my back. My lips are painted deep red, my eyes lined with kohl, sharp and dangerous. I look like a queen. A threat. A witch who knows how to wield more than just magic.
I look like someone who isn’t afraid.
But I am.
Not of the Trial. Not of Virellion’s champion.
Of *him*.
Kaelen.
Of the way he looked at me in the training yard last night—gold eyes burning, his voice rough when he said, *“Then fight. But don’t die on me.”* Not a command. A plea. And the way my body answered, every nerve alight, every breath catching in my throat.
I press my fingers to my lips.
Our kiss had been different this time. Not desperation. Not war. Not just magic. It had been… *hunger*. Raw. Unfiltered. The kind that makes your knees weak and your heart stutter. The kind that makes you forget your mission, your mother, your vengeance—just for a second—because all you can think about is *him*.
I can’t afford that.
Not now.
Not when the Blood Trial is less than twelve hours away.
A knock at the door.
Soft. Deliberate.
“Birch.”
His voice.
Low. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.
My pulse stutters.
“Come in,” I say, not turning.
The door opens. He steps inside.
And the air changes.
He’s dressed in formal Blackthorn attire—black trousers, a high-collared jacket of dark leather, silver clasps at the shoulders. No crown. No insignia. But he doesn’t need it. He carries power like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, his jaw clean-shaven, his scars stark in the firelight. He looks like a king. A conqueror. A man who could destroy the world with a word.
And he’s staring at me.
Not at my face.
At my body.
His gaze drags down the line of my neck, the swell of my breasts, the curve of my hips. His nostrils flare. His eyes flash gold—just for a second—before he forces them back to human.
“You’re overdressed,” I say, turning to face him. “For a man who claims he doesn’t care about politics.”
“I don’t,” he says, voice low. “But tonight, they’re watching. And I won’t let them see you alone.”
My chest tightens.
“I can handle myself.”
“I know.” He steps closer. “But I’d rather handle you myself.”
The words hit me like a blade.
Heat floods my stomach. My breath hitches.
He sees it. Of course he does. His lip twitches—almost a smile. Almost.
“You’re dangerous,” I say, stepping back.
“So are you.” He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my jaw. Warm. Calloused. *Alive*. “And if you think I’m letting you walk into that hall looking like that without a fight, you don’t know me at all.”
“Then fight me,” I challenge. “Right here. Right now.”
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Later. When we’re alone.”
My body arches into him.
Just slightly.
But he feels it.
His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer. “You’re not safe with me,” he murmurs. “Not tonight.”
“Then let me go.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because the bond won’t allow it.”
“Then break it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’re afraid,” I whisper.
“Of you?” He smirks. “No. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I don’t let go.”
His thumb brushes my lower lip. My breath catches.
And then—
He steps back.
“We should go,” he says, voice flat. “Before they send someone to find us.”
I don’t answer.
Just follow him out the door.
—
The great hall is a vision of decadence.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their light refracting through enchanted glass, casting rainbows across the stone. Long tables groan under the weight of bloodwine, roasted meats, fruits dusted with fae pollen. Werewolves in fur and steel mingle with vampires in velvet, their laughter sharp, their eyes calculating. Fae drift through the crowd like shadows, their skin glowing faintly, their voices like wind through leaves. The air is thick with magic, with tension, with the scent of desire and danger.
And when we enter—
Every head turns.
Whispers ripple through the room. Eyes narrow. Smiles twist. I feel them—judging, dissecting, *hunting*. But I don’t flinch. I hold my chin high, my hand in Kaelen’s, my back straight. Let them look. Let them see.
We belong here.
And we’re not afraid.
Kaelen doesn’t speak. Just leads me to the center of the hall, where a fountain of liquid silver bubbles in a basin carved with wolves and thorns. He takes two goblets from a passing servant—crystal, filled with deep red wine—and hands me one.
“Bloodwine,” he says. “With a fae twist.”
I take it. “And what does that do?”
“Lowers inhibitions,” he says. “Heightens senses. Makes magic easier to control.”
“Or harder,” I say.
He smirks. “Depends on the witch.”
I take a sip.
The wine is thick, sweet, laced with something darker—magic, old and potent. It burns down my throat, spreads through my chest, ignites a fire low in my belly. My skin tingles. My breath comes easier. The bond hums—stronger, brighter, *alive*.
“Good?” he asks.
“Dangerous,” I say.
“So are you.”
We stand there, side by side, the crowd swirling around us. Virellion watches from his throne at the far end, a goblet in hand, his smile serpentine. Lysara isn’t here. Not yet. But I can feel her absence like a wound.
And then—
Music begins.
Not human music. Fae music. A slow, haunting melody played on silver strings, the notes weaving through the air like smoke. Couples move to the center of the hall—werewolves with fae, vampires with witches—dancing in slow, sensual circles, their bodies pressed close, their magic mingling.
Kaelen doesn’t move.
“You don’t dance,” I say.
“I don’t,” he says. “But you might.”
“With you?”
“With anyone who asks.”
My eyes narrow. “You don’t own me.”
“No,” he says. “But I’d rather die than see another man’s hands on you.”
The wine burns in my veins.
So does the bond.
And before I can stop myself—
I step into his arms.
He freezes.
“Dance with me,” I say, voice low. “Or do you only know how to fight?”
His hands come to my waist—slow, deliberate. “I know how to do many things.”
“Prove it.”
He pulls me closer, our bodies aligned, his heat searing through the thin fabric of my dress. His hand slides up my back, under my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. The music swells. The crowd parts. And we move—slow, deliberate, a dance that isn’t just rhythm, but *challenge*.
His thigh brushes mine. His breath scorches my neck. His scent—pine, iron, wolf—floods my senses.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I say. “And I love the burn.”
He growls—low, dangerous—and spins me, pulling me back against his chest, his arms caging me in. My head tilts back, my lips brushing his jaw. His fangs graze my pulse.
“Don’t,” I breathe.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t mark me.”
“Then don’t tempt me.”
“And if I do?”
He turns me, pins me with his gaze. “Then I’ll take what’s mine.”
“You already have.”
“Not enough.”
The music ends.
The crowd applauds.
But we don’t move.
Just stand there, breathless, our bodies still pressed together, the bond screaming between us.
And then—
She appears.
Lysara.
Draped in silk the color of fresh blood, her hair a spill of ink, her lips painted black. She glides through the crowd, her hips swaying, her smile sharp. And she’s not alone.
Virellion’s champion walks beside her—a vampire warrior, tall, broad, his eyes red with bloodlust, his fangs bared in a smirk.
My stomach twists.
“Here to watch me die?” I ask, voice steady.
“Here to enjoy the show,” Lysara purrs. “Though I must say, you two are… *entertaining*.” She glances at Kaelen. “He’s never danced with anyone before. Not even me.”
“He didn’t want you,” I say. “He wanted *me*.”
“For now,” she says. “But after the Trial? After he sees how weak you are? After he watches you bleed?”
Kaelen steps forward, his body shielding mine. “Leave.”
“Or what?” she taunts. “You’ll bite me again? Mark me in front of everyone?”
“I’ll kill you,” he says, voice low, guttural. “If you don’t walk away *now*.”
She laughs. “I’ll see you at the Trial, Birch. Try not to die before then.”
And with that, she’s gone—gliding into the crowd, her laughter echoing behind her.
The champion lingers.
“You’ll be mine by dawn,” he says, voice thick with bloodlust. “One way or another.”
“Try it,” I say, stepping around Kaelen. “And I’ll make sure you don’t live to see the sunrise.”
He smirks. “Feisty. I like that.”
Then he’s gone too.
“You shouldn’t provoke him,” Kaelen says.
“And you shouldn’t let him speak to me like that,” I snap. “You’re the Alpha. You’re supposed to protect me.”
“I *am* protecting you,” he says. “By not starting a war tonight.”
“And what about tomorrow?” I challenge. “When he tries to kill me?”
“Then I’ll let you fight,” he says. “But if he touches you—” His voice drops. “—I’ll rip his throat out.”
My breath hitches.
He means it.
And worse—
Part of me *wants* him to.
The wine burns hotter.
The bond flares.
And before I can stop myself—
I grab his hand.
“Come with me,” I say.
“Where?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
“Birch—”
“*Now*.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just follows me through the crowd, out a side door, into a shadowed alcove lined with ivy and torchlight. The music fades. The voices hush. The air is cooler here, but my skin still burns.
And then—
I turn.
Push him against the wall.
And kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A claiming. A challenge.
His hands fist in my hair, pulling 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.
“You want me,” I say, voice rough. “Say it.”
His breath hitches. His eyes burn. “Every damn second.”
“Then prove it,” I say. “Not with words. Not with threats. With *action*.”
He growls—low, dangerous—and flips me, pinning me against the wall, his body pressing into mine, his cock hard against my thigh. His hand slides up my leg, under my dress, his fingers brushing the edge of my thigh-high boot.
“You’re killing me,” he growls.
“Then do it,” I whisper. “Take me. Claim me. Make me yours.”
He hesitates.
And then—
Soren’s voice cuts through the dark.
“The Trial begins at dawn.”
We spring apart.
But neither of us lets go.
Kaelen’s hand stays on my hip. Mine stays on his chest. Our breaths are ragged. Our hearts race.
“You’re not ready,” Soren says, stepping into the torchlight. “But you will be.”
Kaelen exhales. “We’re coming.”
Soren nods. Turns. Walks away.
And then—
Kaelen leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
“I’ll prove it,” he whispers. “When the Trial is over. When you’re safe. When you’re *mine*.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I win?” I challenge. “If I survive?”
“Then I’ll spend every damn day proving it,” he says. “Not with words. Not with threats. With *action*.”
And before I can answer—
He kisses me.
Soft. Slow. A surrender. A promise.
And I know—
When the Blood Trial comes—
I won’t just fight to survive.
I’ll fight to come back to him.
And this time—
I’ll make sure he can’t look away.