The forest still clings to me—pine resin and damp earth, the ghost of Kaelen’s heat pressed against my back. I can feel the imprint of his claws in the bark where he pinned me, the echo of his breath on my neck, the way my body arched into his touch even as my mind screamed *danger*. I shiver, not from cold, but from the memory of it—the raw, animal pull between us, the way my blood answered his like a spell already cast.
I shouldn’t have let him get that close.
I *shouldn’t* have felt it.
But I did.
And that’s the problem.
The Blackthorn estate looms ahead, a fortress of black stone and iron gates, nestled in the highlands beyond the Spire. It’s colder here, the wind sharper, the sky a bruised violet as dusk bleeds into night. Torchlight flickers along the walls, casting long, shifting shadows. The place smells of wolf—musky, wild, territorial. It’s in the air, in the stone, in the very ground beneath my boots. And beneath it all, faint but unmistakable, is *him*. Kaelen. His scent lingers like a brand.
I tighten my cloak around me. My daggers rest against my ribs, cold comfort. The locket at my throat pulses faintly, as if sensing my unease. I haven’t opened it since the ritual. I’m not ready. Not yet.
Soren leads us through the gates in silence. He hasn’t spoken since the woods, hasn’t looked at me directly. But I feel his gaze—measuring, calculating. He knows what happened. He saw it in Kaelen’s eyes, in the way he stepped back like a man pulling himself from the edge of a cliff.
Kaelen walks ahead, a shadow among shadows. He hasn’t shifted back to human form since the forest. He moves on four legs, silent, his golden eyes scanning the perimeter, his body tense, coiled. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge me. But I feel the bond—the low, steady throb between my shoulder blades, the thread connecting us, taut and humming with unspent tension.
He’s fighting it.
And so am I.
We enter the main hall—a cavernous space of stone and firelight. A massive hearth roars at one end, flames licking at blackened logs. Werewolves move through the space—some in human form, others in half-shift, their eyes glinting in the dark. They fall silent as we pass. Heads turn. Whispers rise like smoke.
Her.
The hybrid.
The one who marked the Alpha.
I keep my chin high, my steps steady. I won’t cower. I won’t flinch. I am Birch of the Thornweave. I am no one’s victim.
Kaelen shifts.
The change is swift, brutal. Bones crack, fur recedes, and in seconds, he stands before me—fully human, fully dressed in fresh black clothes, as if the forest never touched him. His face is stone. His eyes, gold and unreadable, lock onto mine.
“You’ll be escorted to your chambers,” he says, voice flat. “Rest. We have council at dawn.”
“Chambers?” I ask. “Plural?”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. “You’ll see.”
Before I can respond, a servant—a young woman with sharp fae features and wary eyes—steps forward. “This way, Lady Birch.”
I hesitate. Look at Kaelen.
He’s already turning away.
—
The chambers are not what I expected.
They’re not a prison. Not a cell. They’re luxurious—too luxurious. A vast bedroom with a four-poster bed draped in black silk, a sitting area with plush chairs and a low table, a private bathing chamber with a copper tub large enough for three. The walls are lined with books—ancient tomes, battle manuals, histories of the packs. A fire crackles in the hearth. The air is warm, scented with sandalwood and something faintly metallic—wolf, again.
And then I see it.
The door.
Not one, but two. One leads to the hall. The other—
It’s open a crack.
And beyond it, I hear water running.
I step closer. Push the door wider.
It’s a second bedroom. Larger. Darker. The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled. A sword rests on a table beside it. A shirt—black, torn at the shoulder—lies crumpled on the floor.
Kaelen’s room.
And the door between our chambers? No lock. No bolt. Just a simple latch.
My breath catches.
This isn’t just proximity.
This is entrapment.
“The Alpha requested you be placed adjacent,” the servant says quietly. “For… bond stabilization.”
“Of course he did,” I mutter.
She hesitates. “There’s a decree. From the Council. Delivered an hour ago.”
She hands me a scroll, sealed with wax—three drops of blood, one from each ruling species: vampire, fae, werewolf.
I break it.
The words are cold, precise, clinical.
Birch of the Thornweave and Kaelen Duskbane, bound by illicit mate-mark, shall reside in shared quarters for a period of thirty days to ensure bond stabilization and prevent fatal separation sickness. Violation of this decree shall result in immediate execution.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Thirty days.
Trapped. With him.
My fingers curl around the parchment, crumpling it. My magic stirs—hot, restless. I could burn it. I could burn the whole damn room. But that would only prove I’m dangerous. That I’m the threat they think I am.
I exhale. Slow. Controlled.
“Thank you,” I say, voice steady. “You may go.”
She bows and leaves.
I stand in the center of the room, the weight of the decree pressing down on me. Thirty days. One step closer to the Blood Trial. One step closer to Virellion’s claim. One step closer to losing everything.
And Kaelen—
He’s just next door.
I walk to the connecting door. My fingers hover over the latch.
Do I close it?
Do I leave it open?
Do I walk through and confront him?
No.
Not yet.
I turn away. Strip off my cloak. My boots. My gloves. I need to think. To plan. To remember why I’m here.
I reach for the locket.
And then—
A knock.
Not on the outer door.
On the one between our rooms.
I freeze.
“Birch.”
Kaelen’s voice. Low. Rough.
“Open the door.”
My pulse spikes. My skin heats. The bond thrums.
“No,” I say.
“We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to say.”
“You read the decree.”
“I did.”
“Then you know this isn’t optional.”
“I know you enjoy pretending you’re in control.”
A beat of silence.
Then—
The door opens.
He doesn’t wait for permission. He steps through, tall and dark and dangerous, his eyes burning into mine. He’s not in armor. Not in full command. He’s barefoot, wearing only black trousers and an open shirt, his chest exposed, the mate-mark glowing faintly on his neck.
And I feel it—his heat. His need. His anger.
“You think this amuses me?” he asks, voice low. “You think I *wanted* this?”
“I think you like having power over me,” I say, backing up. “I think you like the idea of me trapped here. With you.”
“You’re not trapped,” he snaps. “You’re *protected*.”
“Protected?” I laugh. “From what? The Council? The king? Or from *you*?”
He steps closer. “From yourself. You think I don’t smell your lies? Your plans? You came here to destroy the pact. To kill Virellion. And you’ll use *anything* to do it—even me.”
My breath catches. “And if I do?”
“Then you’ll destroy us both.”
“There is no *us*.”
“There is a bond.”
“A curse.”
“Call it what you want,” he growls. “But it’s real. And if we don’t navigate it, we die. And if you die—”
He stops.
His jaw clenches.
“What?” I challenge. “If I die, your precious duty is fulfilled? No more hybrid problem?”
“If you die,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “I die with you.”
The room goes still.
The fire crackles.
The bond flares—hot, insistent.
He’s telling the truth.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the silence—light, mocking, dripping with false sweetness.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account.”
We both turn.
The outer door is open.
And standing there—smirking, radiant, draped in silk the color of blood—is Lysara Nocturne.
Vampire princess.
Kaelen’s ex.
And now—
She’s wearing his shirt.
Not just any shirt.
The one from his room.
The one on the floor.
And she’s wearing it like a trophy.
“Kaelen, darling,” she purrs, stepping inside. “I was *just* in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.” Her eyes flick to me, sharp as knives. “Didn’t realize you were… *entertaining*.”
Kaelen tenses. “Lysara. This is private.”
“Is it?” She glides forward, her hips swaying, her scent—cloying roses and old blood—filling the room. “I thought we had no secrets.”
“We don’t.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me you were moving in with your new pet?”
My fingers twitch toward my daggers.
She laughs. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, little witch. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to… *welcome* you.”
She steps closer, close enough that I can smell Kaelen’s scent on her skin. On her neck. On her lips.
And then she leans in.
Her breath is cold against my ear.
“He moans *my* name in his sleep,” she whispers. “Every night. Even now.”
I freeze.
She pulls back, smiling. “Ask him. Go on. *Ask him*.”
My eyes find Kaelen’s.
He’s rigid. His fists are clenched. His jaw is tight.
But he doesn’t deny it.
“Is it true?” I ask, voice quiet. “Do you dream of her?”
He doesn’t answer.
Lysara laughs—a bright, cruel sound. “Oh, he *adores* me. Always has. Always will. This little charade? This *bond*? It’s just duty. Survival. But *us*—” She touches her chest. “We’re *passion*.”
“Get out,” Kaelen says, voice low, dangerous.
“Or what?” she taunts. “You’ll throw me out like you did last time? After you bit me? After you *claimed* me?”
She lifts her hair.
And there it is.
A bite mark.
Fading, but unmistakable.
On her neck.
Where a mate-mark should be.
“He marked me once,” she says, smiling at me. “Said I was the only one who could handle his heat. That I was the only one who could *tame* him.”
My stomach twists.
She steps closer to Kaelen, her hand brushing his chest. “We were *close* last night. Very close. He almost—”
“LYSARA.”
The roar shakes the walls.
Kaelen lunges forward, grabbing her wrist, yanking her away from him. His eyes are gold. Feral. His fangs are bared.
“You lie,” he snarls. “You *dare* to lie to me?”
She smiles, unafraid. “Believe what you want, Alpha. But ask her.” She flicks her gaze to me. “Ask *her* if she believes you.”
He releases her.
She straightens her clothes. “I’ll see you at the Blood Trial, Birch. Try not to die before then.”
And with that, she’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
I look at Kaelen.
He’s breathing hard. His hands are still clenched. His eyes are back to gold—but human, not wolf.
“Was it true?” I ask. “Were you with her last night?”
He opens his mouth.
But before he can answer—
The Council gong sounds.
Deep. Resonant. Calling us to the chamber.
He looks at me. “We have to go.”
“Answer me,” I say.
“Birch—”
“*Answer me*.”
He exhales. “No.”
“Then why—”
“Because she’s trying to break us.”
“And is it working?”
He doesn’t answer.
He turns.
Walks to the door.
“We’re late,” he says.
And I know—
He’s not just talking about the council.
He’s talking about us.
And as I follow him into the hall, the bond burning between us, Lysara’s words echo in my mind.
He moans my name in his sleep.
We were close last night.
He marked me once.
I don’t know what’s true.
I don’t know what to believe.
But I know one thing—
She wants me to doubt him.
And she’s succeeding.