The morning after the storm tasted like betrayal.
Not mine. Not Kaelen’s.
The world’s.
Dawn had broken pale and quiet over Blackveil Spire, the sky scrubbed clean of clouds, the Blood Moon fading into a ghostly silver disc above the snow-capped peaks. The storm had passed, but its aftermath lingered—wet stone, damp tapestries, the scent of ozone and old magic thick in the air. And beneath it all, the bond pulsed, low and insistent, a constant hum beneath my skin, a reminder that no matter how still the world seemed, I was never alone.
Kaelen was gone.
Again.
Not far—never far—but absent. I could feel him, somewhere in the West Spire, his presence a dull pressure in my chest, like a stone in my ribs. He hadn’t woken me. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t left a note. Just vanished, as if the night we’d spent tangled in fever and vision and something dangerously close to truth had never happened.
As if *I* had never happened.
I stood at the window, my bare feet cold against the stone, watching the first light creep across the battlements. My body still ached—not from injury, but from memory. From the way he’d held me, his chest to my back, his heat seeping into me, his breath warm at my neck. From the visions that had torn through me: his mouth on my skin, his hands between my thighs, his fangs sinking into my throat as I came apart beneath him. From the other vision—the one that hadn’t been about sex, but about power. About choice. About a future where I wasn’t chained, but crowned.
That one haunted me most.
Because part of me wanted it.
And wanting was weakness.
I pressed my palms to the glass, grounding myself. This wasn’t about desire. It wasn’t about him. It was about justice. About my sister. About the truth.
And I still had the second scroll.
Hidden in my boot, beneath a false sole, just where Kaelen hadn’t thought to look. He’d taken the first one—intercepted my meeting with Elara, crushed it in his fist like it meant nothing. But he hadn’t found them all.
And this time, I wouldn’t be so careful.
I dressed quickly—black trousers, boots, a fitted tunic that allowed movement—and tucked the scroll into my coat. The bond flared, a warning pulse in my chest, but I ignored it. I wasn’t breaking the one-mile rule. I wasn’t running. I was *hunting*.
The door opened.
Kaelen stepped in, silhouetted by the dim light of the corridor. He was dressed in dark leathers, his hair slightly damp, his amber eyes sharp, assessing. He didn’t speak. Just stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding like a verdict.
“You’re up early,” I said, voice steady.
“So are you.” He walked toward the hearth, crouched, and fed a log into the embers. The flames flickered, then caught, casting jagged shadows across his face. “You were dreaming.”
“We both were.”
He glanced at me. “You felt it.”
“I felt *nothing*.”
He stood, slow, deliberate. “Liar.”
The bond flared—just a pulse, but enough to make my breath catch. My skin warmed. My pulse jumped. I could feel him more clearly now—the heat of his body, the rhythm of his breath, the way his wolf prowled just beneath his skin, restless, hungry.
“You felt it too,” I shot back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
He didn’t deny it. Just crossed his arms, his gaze never leaving mine. “That vision wasn’t just magic. It was *inevitable*. The bond knows what we are. What we’ll become.”
“We won’t become anything.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He took a step forward. The bond tightened, a physical pull in my chest. “Then why are you lying?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re tense. Your pulse is racing. Your scent—” He inhaled, slow, deliberate. “—is *drenched* in need.”
My face burned. I hated that he could read me like this. That the bond gave him access to my body, my reactions, my *truth*. That he could smell my arousal like it was his right.
“It’s the fever,” I said. “The proximity. It’s not *me*.”
“Isn’t it?” He took another step. Closer. “You want me. Not the bond. Not the magic. *Me*.”
“I want you *dead*.”
He smiled—cold, knowing. “Same thing, sometimes.”
I turned away, moving toward the door. “I’m going to the archives. I need to cross-reference the trial records. See if Veylan’s name comes up in any old disputes with the packs.”
“Alone?”
“I’m not leaving the one-mile radius. You’ll feel it if I do.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I *do*.” He moved swiftly, intercepting me before I could reach the door. His body blocked my path, broad, imposing, radiating heat. “The Council’s watching. Veylan’s watching. If you try anything—”
“I’m not trying anything.”
“Then prove it.”
“By letting you shadow me like a guard dog?”
“By letting me *survive*.” He leaned in, his voice dropping, rough. “You forget, witch. If you die, I die. If you betray me, I die. So forgive me if I’m *particular* about who you speak to.”
I glared up at him. “You think the archivists are a threat?”
“I think anyone who gets close to you is a threat. To me. To this bond. To my control.”
“You don’t control me.”
“Not yet.”
The air between us crackled. The bond pulsed, hotter now, a live wire beneath my skin. My breath came faster. My body leaned into his heat without my permission. I could smell him—pine, smoke, male—and it made my head spin.
I stepped back. “Move.”
He didn’t.
Not at first.
Then, slowly, he shifted to the side. “You first.”
I didn’t thank him. I just walked out, my spine straight, my steps even. But I could feel him behind me—close, too close—his presence a weight against my back, his breath a whisper at my neck. The bond hummed, a constant reminder that we were tethered, that every step I took, he took with me.
The archives were deep in the lower levels of the Fae High Court, a labyrinth of stone corridors lined with glowing sigils that pulsed in time with the Blood Moon. The air was colder here, the scent of old parchment and dried ink thick in my lungs. Rows of ancient scrolls filled the shelves, some sealed with wax, others bound in iron. The archivist—a wizened Fae with silver eyes and fingers like gnarled roots—nodded as we entered, then returned to his work without a word.
I moved quickly, scanning the labels, searching for anything related to the Northern Packs, to Veylan, to my sister. Kaelen stayed near the door, arms crossed, his gaze scanning the room like he expected an ambush. But I could feel him—his awareness, his tension, the way his breath hitched when I bent to pull a scroll from the lowest shelf.
And then—
It happened.
Not a vision. Not a fever spike.
A *rumor*.
At first, it was just a whisper—faint, like wind through leaves. Then it grew, spreading from the corridor, slipping under the door, curling around the shelves like smoke.
“He spent the night with her.”
“In the sacred lodge. Three hours. They didn’t come out.”
“She’s wearing his shirt.”
“He marked her. On the neck. In front of the fire.”
My breath caught.
I turned to Kaelen. “What is that?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at me, his expression unreadable.
And then—
The door opened.
She stepped in.
Seris.
Vampire. Former lover. Political ally. A woman who’d once lain in my bed and whispered promises she never meant.
She wore a gown of black silk that clung to every curve, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, her lips painted blood-red. But it wasn’t her dress that made my stomach drop.
It was the shirt.
Loose, untucked, hanging from one shoulder—*Kaelen’s shirt*. The one he’d worn the night of the ritual. The one with the silver clasp at the throat, the one I’d seen him burn in the fire when he’d ended things with her.
And then—
She turned her head.
And I saw it.
A fresh bite mark on the side of her neck. Red. Swollen. *His* mark.
My breath stopped.
My chest tightened. My pulse roared in my ears. My vision blurred at the edges, darkening, narrowing until all I could see was *her*—smirking, victorious, wearing his scent, his shirt, his *claim*.
“Kaelen,” she purred, stepping forward. “I was just telling everyone how… *thorough* you were last night.” She tilted her head, exposing the mark. “You’ve always had such a talented mouth.”
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t *breathe*.
Because the worst part wasn’t the lie.
It wasn’t the shirt.
It was the way my body reacted.
A low, aching throb between my thighs. My nipples tightening against the fabric of my shirt. My breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My core clenching, wet, *needy*.
Jealousy tore through me like a blade—sharp, deep, *personal*. Not just because she was lying. Not just because she was trying to humiliate me.
But because part of me *wanted* that mark.
Wanted *his* teeth in my skin. Wanted *his* claim. Wanted to be the one he’d spent the night with, the one he’d touched, the one he’d *taken*.
And that terrified me more than anything.
“That’s a lie,” Kaelen said, voice low, dangerous. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
Seris smiled. “You don’t remember? After the trial? You came to my chambers. You said you needed to… *relieve the tension*.” She ran a hand down her body. “And you did. Thoroughly.”
“I was with *her*,” he growled, jerking his chin toward me. “All night. The bond would’ve alerted me if I’d left.”
“Maybe you blacked out,” she said, sweetly. “The fever can do that. Make you lose control. Make you do things you don’t remember.”
My stomach twisted.
Because she was good. So damn good. She wasn’t just lying—she was making it *plausible*. Using the bond, the fever, the magic, to weave a story that the Council would believe.
And worse—she was doing it to *me*.
Not to humiliate Kaelen.
But to break me.
“You’re a liar,” I said, voice shaking. “And a fraud.”
She turned to me, her smile widening. “Am I? Then why does his scent still cling to my skin? Why does his mark still burn on my neck? Why does my body still ache from how hard he fucked me?”
I slapped her.
The sound cracked through the room.
She didn’t flinch. Just smiled, slow and cruel. “He likes it rough. Hope you can keep up.”
And then she turned to Kaelen, winked, and walked out.
Silence.
The archivist didn’t look up. Kaelen didn’t move. I just stood there, my hand stinging, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, my body still aching, still *wanting*.
And then—
He was there.
Close. Too close. His hands on my arms, his face inches from mine, his amber eyes blazing.
“That mark is old,” he said, voice rough. “I bit her months ago, before we ended it. She’s wearing it like a trophy. Like she thinks it means something.”
“Then why the shirt?” I whispered. “Why the *rumor*?”
“Because she’s jealous. Because she knows what’s happening between us. Because she can *smell* it.” He leaned in, his breath hot at my ear. “And because she sees it in your eyes.”
“What?”
“You want it.” His voice dropped, low, dangerous. “You want my teeth in your skin. You want my claim. You want to be the one who bears my mark.”
My breath caught.
He was right.
And that was the worst part.
“I don’t,” I lied.
He didn’t call me on it. Just held my gaze, his thumbs brushing the inside of my wrists, his touch sending a jolt through me. “She’s nothing. A ghost. A memory. And you—” He stepped back, his voice hardening. “You’re the only one who matters. Whether you like it or not.”
And then he turned and walked out.
I stood there, trembling—not from anger, not from betrayal, but from *want*.
Because he was right.
I did want it.
I wanted *him*.
And that wasn’t just dangerous.
It was fatal.
That night, as the Blood Moon rose again, I sat by the hearth in the West Spire, pretending to read. Kaelen was across the room, sharpening a dagger, his movements precise, controlled. The bond hummed between us, a constant, maddening presence.
And in my pocket—
The second scroll.
But I didn’t reach for it.
Not yet.
Because for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court, I wasn’t sure what I wanted more.
Justice.
Or him.
And that terrified me more than any trial ever could.
Kaelen’s voice cut through the silence, low, rough.
“That mark is old. But I see it in your eyes—you want mine.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stared into the fire, my body trembling, my heart breaking.
Because he was right.
And I didn’t know how to stop it.