The fire in the hearth burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone walls of our shared quarters. I stood by the window, back rigid, gaze fixed on the Blood Moon hanging like a wound in the sky. Outside, the spire’s battlements were silent, the wind carrying only the distant echo of a wolf’s call—some Beta testing the edge of his control. Inside, the silence was worse.
She was awake.
Again.
I could feel her—her pulse, her breath, the restless energy humming beneath her skin—like a second heartbeat beneath my ribs. The bond had never been this strong. Never this *present*. Even when I closed my eyes, I saw her: Misty, on her knees in the archives, trembling not from rage, but from something deeper. Something raw. Jealousy. Possession. *Need*.
She’d seen Seris in my shirt.
She’d seen the mark.
And she’d *wanted* it.
Not just the mark. Not just the claim.
She’d wanted *me* to give it to her.
I clenched my jaw, fists tightening at my sides. I was the Alpha of the Northern Packs. I’d led armies into battle. I’d crushed rebellions with a word. I’d stared down vampire kings and Fae lords and never flinched.
But this?
This was different.
This wasn’t war.
This was *hunger*.
And it wasn’t just the wolf.
It was *me*.
The visions from the storm still haunted me—Misty beneath me, her back arched, her mouth open on a cry as I thrust deep, magic spiraling around us, the Blood Moon blazing above. Her fingers raking down my back. My teeth grazing her throat. And then—my fangs sinking in, claiming her, as she came with a scream, her body clenching around me, her magic and mine merging into one.
It hadn’t happened.
But my body believed it.
And worse—so did my heart.
I turned from the window.
She was sitting by the hearth, her spine straight, her boots propped on the low table, a scroll in her hands. She wasn’t reading. Just holding it, her fingers tracing the edge, her gaze fixed on the flames. The firelight painted gold across her skin, caught in the dark strands of her hair, danced in the silver locket at her throat—the one with her sister’s ashes.
She looked like a warrior.
And a woman on the edge of breaking.
“You’re brooding,” she said, voice sharp, not looking up.
“You’re observant.”
“You’ve been staring out that window for an hour.” She turned a page—too fast, too forced. “Either you’re plotting my murder, or you’re waiting for the moon to curse someone else.”
“Maybe both.”
She finally looked at me, her storm-gray eyes sharp, defiant. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You’re trying to push me away. Make me hate you. So when the bond breaks, you won’t feel it.”
“The bond won’t break.”
“It will. One way or another.”
“And then what?” I stepped forward, my voice low. “You’ll kill me? Expose me? Burn the Council down and walk away like none of this mattered?”
She didn’t answer.
But I saw it—the flicker in her eyes. The way her fingers tightened on the scroll. She didn’t know what she wanted. Not really. Justice? Revenge? Or something else—something she was too afraid to name?
And then—
The door opened.
Lord Veylan stood in the threshold, flanked by two Fae guards. His mask was gone, revealing sharp, ageless features, eyes like polished onyx. He smiled—a slow, serpentine thing that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Alpha. Miss Vale.” He stepped inside, the guards remaining in the hall. “I trust you’ve… adjusted to your new arrangement.”
I didn’t answer. Misty stayed silent, but I felt her tension like a live wire.
“The Council has convened,” Veylan continued. “The Blood Moon Trials must progress. The second trial begins tonight.” He let the words hang, savoring them. “You will share the Sacred Lodge for three nights. One mile apart, or death. And the bond must be *proven*.”
My gut twisted.
The Sacred Lodge.
A relic from the old world. A stone cabin deep in the Blackveil Woods, built for bonded pairs during the Blood Moon. No guards. No witnesses. Just the two of them, the moon, and the magic.
And one bed.
“What kind of proof?” Misty asked, voice steady, but I could hear the tremor beneath it.
“Physical proximity,” Veylan said. “Skin contact. The bond must be sustained through touch. The magic will measure your closeness—emotionally, spiritually, *physically*.” He smiled. “Fail to maintain the bond’s strength, and you will both be executed for defying the moon’s will.”
“You’re sending us to a cabin,” I said, voice low. “With one bed. To *prove* we’re bonded.”
“Precisely.”
“This is a setup.”
“It is tradition.”
“Tradition doesn’t require us to sleep together.”
“The bond does.” He turned to go, then paused. “Oh. And one more thing.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, silver vial—filled with dark liquid.
“Blood tincture,” he said. “To dull the fever. But it will not stop the need. The moon demands truth. And the truth,” he said, glancing at Misty, “is written in the body.”
He handed the vial to me, then left, the door closing behind him.
Silence.
Misty stared at me, her chest rising and falling fast. “You’re not actually going to do this.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“We always have a choice.”
“Not when the Council holds the knife.” I uncorked the vial, sniffed the contents—old blood, iron, something bitter. I took a sip. It burned going down, like swallowing fire. “We go. We survive. We complete the trial.”
“And then what? We just… *pretend*?”
“We do what we have to.” I set the vial down. “You want to expose Veylan? Fine. But you’re not going to do it dead.”
She stood, her voice rising. “You think I don’t know what this is? You think I don’t see what he’s doing? This isn’t about the bond. It’s about *humiliation*. About making me look like your whore. About proving I’m not here for justice—I’m here for *you*.”
“And are you?”
She froze.
“Are you here for me?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “Because I can smell it, Misty. Your scent changes when I’m near. Your pulse jumps. Your breath hitches. And when you saw Seris with my shirt—”
“Don’t.”
“You *wanted* it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Liar.” I closed the distance, until our breaths mingled. “You wanted my mark on your neck. You wanted my teeth in your skin. You wanted to be the one I spent the night with.”
Her breath caught.
And then—
She slapped me.
My head snapped to the side, the sting sharp, clean. But I didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
Because I’d felt it—the tremor in her hand. The heat in her palm. The way her body leaned into mine after the strike, like she couldn’t help it.
“You don’t get to do this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You don’t get to use the bond to twist my body against me. To make me *feel* things I don’t want to feel.”
“I’m not twisting anything.” I turned back to her, my voice rough. “I’m just naming it. You’re not cold. You’re not empty. You’re not just vengeance and hate. You’re *alive*. And you want me.”
“I want you *dead*.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
The bond flared—hot, sudden—sending a jolt through my chest. My breath caught. My skin warmed. I could feel her more clearly now—the heat of her body, the rhythm of her breath, the way her pulse jumped at the base of her throat.
And then—
Her hand brushed my cheek.
Just a graze. A whisper of contact.
But the magic *exploded*.
Fire ripped through my veins. My vision blurred. My knees buckled. I gasped, clutching my chest as the vision tore through me—us, tangled together, skin slick with sweat, her mouth on my neck, her fingers in my hair, magic spiraling out of control as we came, screaming each other’s names under the Blood Moon.
It wasn’t a memory.
It wasn’t a promise.
It was a *warning*.
I stumbled, and Misty caught me—her hand closing around my arm, pulling me upright. The contact sent another wave of heat through me, this one deeper, more intimate. My breath came in short, ragged gasps. My skin burned where she touched me.
“Don’t touch me,” I growled, yanking my arm free.
She didn’t let go.
Her grip tightened. “You felt it too.”
It wasn’t a question.
I looked up at her, my heart pounding. “That was magic. Not desire.”
“Liar,” she murmured.
And then she released me, stepping back—but not before I saw it.
The flare of heat in her eyes. The way her throat moved as she swallowed. The slight tremor in her fingers.
She’d felt it too.
And it had shaken her.
“We need to go,” I said, voice rough.
She didn’t answer. Just straightened her coat and walked past me, her spine rigid, her breath steady. But inside—
She was unraveling.
And so was I.
The journey to the Sacred Lodge was silent.
We walked through the Blackveil Woods, the ancient trees arching overhead, their branches tangled like bones. The snow crunched beneath our boots, the air thick with the scent of pine and frost. The bond hummed between us, a constant, maddening presence. Every step she took, I took with her. Every breath she drew, I felt in my lungs.
And every time our hands brushed—accidentally, inevitably—magic flared, visions tearing through us like storms.
Me, on my knees, her hand in my hair, her voice moaning my name as I took her into my mouth, magic spiraling around us like a storm.
Her, beneath me, legs wrapped around my waist, her back arched, her mouth open on a cry as I thrust deep, magic spiraling around us, the Blood Moon blazing above.
It wasn’t just desire.
It was *completion*.
And it was driving me mad.
The lodge came into view at dusk—a small, stone cabin nestled in a clearing, smoke curling from the chimney, the windows glowing with firelight. No guards. No watchers. Just the two of us. And the moon.
The steward—a wizened Fae with silver eyes and a voice like dry leaves—waited at the door. He bowed as we approached, then stepped aside.
“The bond must be sustained,” he said, his voice hollow. “Three nights. One mile. Skin contact.” He gestured inside. “One bed.”
My stomach dropped.
“One bed?” Misty said, voice sharp.
“Tradition requires it,” the steward said. “The bond must be tested in closeness. In trust. In *touch*.”
He handed me a key, then vanished into the trees.
Silence.
Misty turned to me, her eyes blazing. “You knew.”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re the Alpha. You know everything.”
“Not this.” I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The lodge was simple—stone walls, a low ceiling, a massive hearth with a fire already burning. A single bed stood in the corner, wide, draped in thick furs. A bathing chamber led off to the side, steam curling from the doorway. The air was warm, thick with the scent of cedar and old magic.
And there, on the edge of the bed—
A second vial.
Same silver. Same dark liquid.
Blood tincture.
But this one was different.
I picked it up, uncorked it, sniffed.
Not just blood.
Magic.
Old. Powerful. *Fae*.
“Don’t drink that,” Misty said, stepping inside, her voice tight. “It’s not just to dull the fever. It’s to lower inhibitions. To make us… compliant.”
“You think Veylan would drug us?”
“I know he would.” She walked to the hearth, crouched, and fed a log into the flames. “He wants us to fail. Or worse—he wants us to *succeed* on his terms. To make it look like we’re lovers. Like I’ve abandoned my mission. Like I’ve *chosen* you.”
“And have you?”
She didn’t answer.
Just stood, her back to me, the firelight painting gold across her skin.
And then—
She turned.
“Take off your shirt.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“Your shirt. Take it off.”
“Why?”
“Because if we’re going to do this—if we’re going to survive three nights in this cabin—I need to know I can trust you. That you won’t use the bond to force me. That you won’t take advantage.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Prove it.”
I stared at her.
And then, slowly, I unbuttoned my shirt.
One button. Then another. Then another.
Until it fell open.
I shrugged it off, letting it drop to the floor.
Her eyes flickered over my chest—my scars, my muscles, the old wounds that mapped my battles. I could see the pulse in her throat jump. Could smell the shift in her scent—cleaner, sharper, *wetter*.
“Happy?” I asked, voice rough.
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, her hand rising—slow, deliberate—and pressed her palm to my chest, right over my heart.
Her touch burned.
Not from magic.
From *truth*.
“Your heart,” she whispered. “It’s racing.”
“So is yours.”
She didn’t pull away.
Just kept her hand there, her fingers splayed, her breath coming faster. “I don’t want to want you,” she said, voice breaking. “I don’t want to feel this.”
“Too late.”
The bond flared—hot, violent—sending a jolt through us both. We gasped in unison, our bodies swaying toward each other, drawn by something deeper than magic.
And then—
She stepped back.
“One bed,” she said, voice steady. “But we sleep fully clothed. No touching. No magic. Just survival.”
“You think you can resist it?”
“I have to.”
I didn’t answer.
Just watched as she turned, walked to the bed, and climbed in, pulling the furs up to her chin.
I stayed by the fire.
But I didn’t sleep.
Not that night.
Not any of them.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
And every time I looked at her, I wanted to claim her.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the moon.
But because she was *mine*.
And I was running out of reasons to deny it.