The bite mark pulses like a second heartbeat.
Not painful. Not weak. Alive. A brand, deep and warm, nestled just above my collarbone, hidden beneath the high collar of my tunic. I haven’t taken it off since I woke. Haven’t let it see the light. Haven’t let anyone else see it. Not even Kaelen, though he knows it’s there. Though he put it there.
I press my fingers to it now, standing before the mirror in the chamber they still call mine, though I’m not sure I have a right to any space in this world anymore. My reflection stares back—pale, wide-eyed, lips still swollen from last night’s desperate kiss. The woman who claimed victory in the Blood Trial. The woman who said, *“I choose it.”* The woman who woke up marked, half-naked, with no memory of how it happened.
I chose him.
But did I choose this?
The bond hums beneath my skin, low and insistent, a constant reminder that I’m not alone in my body. That my blood isn’t just mine. That my choices aren’t just mine. Kaelen says he stopped. That he fed his own blood into the bond to keep me from waking in terror. That he would’ve stopped even if it killed him.
And I believe him.
That’s the worst part.
Because believing him means trusting him. And trusting him means letting go of the mission—the vengeance, the fire, the blade I’ve carried since I was a child watching my mother die. It means accepting that I’m not just a weapon. That I’m not just a curse.
That I’m his.
I turn from the mirror. Walk to the window. The Blackthorn estate sprawls below, cloaked in morning mist, torches still flickering along the walls like dying stars. The scent of wolf is strong—musky, territorial, his. I used to hate it. Now, it’s the only thing that calms the storm in my chest.
And then—
A knock.
Soft. Deliberate.
“Birch.”
Soren.
My pulse stutters. I don’t answer. Don’t move.
The door opens anyway.
He steps inside, his expression unreadable, his posture tense. He’s not in full armor today—just leather and steel, his sword at his hip, his eyes scanning the room like he’s looking for threats. He finds me at the window.
“You look like hell,” he says.
“Feel like it,” I mutter.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. Just steps closer, his gaze dropping to my neck. He sees it. Of course he does. The mark is too high, too close to my pulse. Even with the collar, it’s visible if you know where to look.
“He marked you,” Soren says, voice low.
“Yes.”
“And you don’t remember.”
“No.”
He exhales. “He wouldn’t have forced you.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look like you’ve lost?”
My chest tightens.
Because I have lost. Not the Trial. Not my freedom. But the illusion that I’m in control. That I’m the one driving this. That I’m still the avenger, the saboteur, the blade wrapped in skin.
Now I’m just a woman who let a werewolf bite her in her sleep. Who kissed him back when he said he’d rather die than see her belong to anyone else. Who wants to believe him.
“I didn’t lose,” I say, voice steady. “I just… don’t know what I won.”
Soren studies me. Then reaches into his coat.
And pulls out a photograph.
Black and white. Crisp. Too clear.
My breath catches.
It’s Kaelen. In a room I don’t recognize—dim, opulent, velvet drapes, a canopy bed. He’s shirtless, his back to the camera, his muscles taut, his scars stark in the low light. And draped over him—
Lysara.
Naked. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands clawing at his back, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Her mouth is open. Her eyes are closed. Her body is arched into his, her skin glowing faintly with fae magic.
And the date stamp—
Last night.
After he left my room.
After he bit me.
After he said he’d rather die than see me belong to anyone else.
My vision blurs.
“Where did you get this?” I whisper.
“Circulating in the Undercroft,” Soren says. “Sent from an anonymous source. Already in a dozen hands. By tonight, the whole court will have seen it.”
“It’s a lie,” I say, too fast. Too sharp.
“Is it?” Soren asks. “You don’t remember what happened. He won’t tell you. And now this—” He gestures to the photo. “—shows him with her. In bed. After you were marked.”
My chest tightens.
“He said he stopped,” I say. “He said he wouldn’t—”
“And you believe him?” Soren challenges. “After everything? After Lysara? After the Blood Trial? After he let her walk in on you in the lodge? After he didn’t fight for you when she humiliated you?”
“He did fight,” I say, voice breaking. “He held a blade to his own throat to prove he’d rather die than lose me.”
“And then he went to her?” Soren says. “The same night? After marking you?”
“No,” I say. “He wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t he?” Soren steps closer. “He’s a werewolf, Birch. A pureblood Alpha. He has needs. Heat cycles. And you—” His voice softens. “—you’re hybrid. Unpredictable. Unstable. Maybe he wanted something… easier. Something that wouldn’t fight him. Something that wouldn’t make him choose.”
My breath hitches.
Because that’s the fear. The one I haven’t let myself name.
That I’m too much. Too broken. Too dangerous. That he wants me, yes—but not enough to give up the simplicity of a vampire princess who knows her place. Who doesn’t challenge him. Who doesn’t demand proof.
And Lysara—
She’s everything I’m not.
Polished. Powerful. Predictable.
And she wants him.
“I need to see him,” I say, stepping past Soren.
“Birch—”
“I need to know.”
—
I find him in the training yard.
Of course I do.
He’s shirtless, sweat-slick, sparring with a wooden dummy, his movements fast, brutal, relentless. The sun is high, beating down on his back, casting long shadows across the stone. His muscles flex with every strike, every block, every spin. He looks like a man trying to beat the truth out of his own body.
And he knows I’m here.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. Just keeps fighting.
I step forward. “Kaelen.”
He ignores me.
“Kaelen.”
He spins, disarms the dummy with a brutal twist, then turns to face me. His chest rises and falls. His eyes are gold—burning, human, alive. “You’re up.”
“You marked me,” I say, voice steady. “Last night. And I don’t remember.”
“I know.”
“And then you went to her.”
He stills. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snap, pulling the photograph from my pocket. “Soren gave me this. You. In bed. With Lysara. Last night.”
He takes it. Looks at it. And for the first time since I’ve known him—
He flinches.
Not in pain.
In fury.
His hand crumples the photo, the paper tearing in his grip. “This is a lie.”
“It looks real.”
“It is real,” he snarls. “But it’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” I challenge. “Explain it. Tell me why she’s wrapped around you. Tell me why it’s dated last night. Tell me why you didn’t come back to me.”
“Because I was with you,” he says, voice raw. “All night. I marked you. I fed the bond. I held you while you slept. I didn’t leave this estate. I didn’t see her.”
“Then how—?”
“She used old footage,” he says. “From our political bond. From before you existed. She spliced it. Added the date stamp. Made it look like it happened last night.”
My breath hitches.
“And the room?” I ask. “The bed? The lighting?”
“Her chambers in the Spire,” he says. “She has a dozen photos like this. From our time together. She’s been using them for years to manipulate me, to control me, to break us.”
“And you never told me?”
“I didn’t want you to see them,” he says. “I didn’t want you to have to look at her touching me. To know she’s used my body as a weapon against me.”
“And the bite?” I whisper. “The one on her neck? Was that real?”
“Yes,” he says. “But not a mate-mark. Not love. A political display. A lie she’s been using ever since.”
“Then why didn’t you say that?” I ask, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid,” he says, stepping closer. “Afraid you’d run. Afraid you’d use it against me. Afraid that if I let myself hope—” His voice breaks. “I’d lose control. And I can’t lose control. Not with you. Not when everything’s at stake.”
My chest tightens.
It’s the same thing he said in the healing chambers. The same fear. The same vulnerability.
And I want to believe him.
But the photo—
It’s too real. Too clear. Too damning.
“Prove it,” I say, voice low. “Not with words. Not with excuses. With action.”
He looks at me. Gold eyes burning. “How?”
“Break the bond,” I say. “If it’s real. If you’re telling the truth. Then you can break it. Prove that it’s not just magic. Not just instinct. That it’s you. That it’s choice.”
His face goes still. “You know I can’t.”
“Then how do I know it’s real?” I challenge. “How do I know you’re not just trapped? That you don’t hate me? That you don’t wish it was her?”
“I don’t,” he says, voice rough. “I never have. I’ve only ever wanted one woman. And she’s standing right in front of me.”
“Then prove it,” I say, tears burning my eyes. “Not with words. Not with kisses. With action.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps closer.
And backs me against the wall.
Not rough. Not forceful. But there. His body pressing into mine, his heat searing through the thin fabric of my tunic. His hand comes up, framing my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His breath hitches. His heart thunders against my chest.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low. “Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes are gold. Burning. Human.
“You’re the only one I want,” he says. “The only one I’ve ever wanted. The only one I’ll ever want. And if you don’t believe me—” His voice breaks. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it. Not with words. Not with threats. With action.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
He slams his fist into the wall beside my head.
Not at me.
At the lie.
At the doubt.
At the fear.
“Because she faked it,” he growls. “And if you believe her over me—” His voice drops. “Then you don’t know me at all.”
Tears burn my eyes.
Not from anger.
From truth.
He’s not just saying it.
He means it.
And that terrifies me more than any lie.
Because believing it means surrendering. Means letting go of my mission. Means trusting a man who serves the king who killed my mother.
And yet—
When he held me in that tunnel, when he kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning—
I believed him.
And that terrifies me more than any lie.
—
I press my forehead to his.
“Then make me believe,” I whisper. “Not with words. Not with threats. With action.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms, his body pressing into mine, his heat searing through the thin fabric of my clothes. His breath hitches. His heart thunders against my chest.
And then—
He turns me.
Not rough. Not forceful. Gently. Carefully. Until I’m facing him, my legs straddling his, my hands braced on his shoulders. His eyes search mine—gold, burning, human.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “Even like this. Even broken. Even hating me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I breathe.
“Then why do you fight it?”
“Because I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of needing you. Of wanting you. Of loving you.”
He stills.
Then—
He kisses me.
Not like in the forest. Not like in the archives.
This is different.
Soft. Slow. Aching. A surrender. A promise.
His lips move over mine, gentle, coaxing. His hands slide up my back, under my tunic, his palms warm against my skin. My magic flares—bright, hot, alive—and for the first time, I don’t push it down. I let it rise. Let it meet his. Let it merge.
The bond explodes.
Not pain.
Not fire.
Pleasure.
White-hot. All-consuming. It pours through me, through us, a river of light and heat and need. I gasp into his mouth. My fingers dig into his shoulders. My hips grind against his, seeking friction, seeking more.
He groans. His hands tighten. His cock presses against me—hard, thick, alive—and I arch into him, desperate.
“Birch,” he breathes. “We can’t—”
“I don’t care,” I whisper. “I don’t care if we die. I don’t care if the world burns. I just want you.”
He looks at me. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just enough to speak.
“Not like this,” he says, voice rough. “Not trapped. Not desperate. When I take you, it’ll be because you want it. Because you choose it. Not because the bond forces you.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I choose it now?”
“Then I’d be a liar,” he says. “Because I’m already yours.”
He leans in. Kisses me again—soft, sweet, devastating.
And then—
The door to the training yard bursts open.
Soren steps inside, his expression unreadable. “The Council requests your presence,” he says, voice flat. “Virellion is demanding a meeting. Immediately.”
Kaelen exhales. Nods. Doesn’t let go of me.
“We’ll be there,” he says.
Soren hesitates. Then turns. Leaves.
The door closes.
And I know—
This isn’t just a meeting.
This is a war.
And I’m not ready.
But I will be.
Because I’m not just fighting for my mother anymore.
I’m fighting for us.
And this time—
I won’t lose.