The map burned in my hand like a curse.
Not because it was dangerous—though it was. Not because it led to the grimoire—though it did. But because it shattered everything I thought I knew.
Malrik had it.
He’d had it for *years*.
And Kaelen—
He hadn’t stolen it.
He’d been trying to protect it. To keep it from falling into the hands of a vampire elder who’d already used witch-forged poison to try to kill me. Who’d sent assassins into the forest. Who’d framed my parents. Who’d wanted me silenced before I even set foot in Blackthorn Keep.
And I’d spent every moment since the ritual hating him.
Blaming him.
Calling him a thief. A tyrant. A monster.
But what if *I* was the one who’d been blind?
The bond pulsed beneath my skin, steady, insistent, like it knew the truth before I did. My wolf stirred, not in rage, but in *recognition*. The scent of dark amber and old blood—Kaelen’s scent—filled my lungs, grounding me, centering me, even though he was across the keep, dealing with Malrik’s men at the gates.
I should have gone to him.
Should have told him what I’d learned.
Should have *trusted* him.
But I didn’t.
Not yet.
Because even if he hadn’t stolen the grimoire, even if he’d been trying to protect it, he’d still *lied* to me. He’d let me believe he was the enemy. He’d let me hate him. And for what? To protect some secret? To maintain some twisted game of power?
No.
If he wanted my trust, he’d have to *earn* it.
And right now, I needed answers. Not from him. Not from the bond. But from the one person who might know the truth.
Lira.
If anyone knew where Malrik kept his stolen relics, it would be her. The Fae were obsessed with secrets. With bargains. With *truths* hidden in plain sight. And if she’d been whispering in Kaelen’s ear for centuries, she’d have ears in Malrik’s court too.
I tucked the map into my belt and moved.
The east wing was quiet, the torches unlit, shadows pooling in the corners like ink. My shoulder still ached from the poison, but the wound was healing—fast. Hybrid strength. Hybrid resilience. And hybrid stubbornness.
I found her chamber easily.
Not because I’d been told where it was. Not because I’d asked.
But because her scent led me there—moonlight and frost, laced with something sharper, something *hungry*. And beneath it—Kaelen’s. Faint, but unmistakable.
My stomach twisted.
Had he been here? Had he gone to her after leaving me in the infirmary? Was that why he’d lingered, his lips hovering over mine, his voice rough with something that sounded too much like *need*?
No.
I refused to believe it.
He’d saved me. Carried me. Told me I was his equal. His match. And though he hadn’t said it in so many words, I’d felt it—his fear when I was hurt, his rage when the assassins attacked, the way his body had trembled when he held me.
That wasn’t the act of a man who’d run to another woman’s bed.
But then—
The door was ajar.
And I heard it.
A whisper.
A laugh.
And then—
Her voice.
“You always did prefer the dramatic entrances.”
And his.
“I prefer the quiet ones. Less chance of being caught.”
My breath stopped.
No.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
Kaelen.
Inside Lira’s chambers.
At night.
Alone.
I didn’t knock.
Didn’t announce myself.
I just *moved*.
The door flew open, slamming against the wall. The room was dim, lit only by a single black candle on the vanity. Silks in shades of silver and ice draped the bed. And there—
She stood.
Lira.
Barefoot. Hair tousled. Dressed in nothing but a man’s black silk shirt.
Kaelen’s shirt.
And standing beside her—
He turned.
His eyes—crimson, glowing—locked onto mine.
And for a heartbeat, I saw it.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
But *surprise*.
“Petunia,” he said, stepping forward. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“And you’re not supposed to be *here*,” I snapped, my voice raw, my claws pricking beneath my nails. “With *her*.”
Lira smiled, slow and cruel. “Oh, don’t be jealous, little wolf. He was just checking on me. Making sure I hadn’t been compromised by Malrik’s men.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” I said, stepping forward. “A *security check*?”
“Petunia,” Kaelen said, his voice low, warning. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“It looks like you’re in another woman’s room,” I said, my voice shaking. “With her wearing your shirt. With your scent on her skin. With her laughing like she’s just been *fucked*.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “You said you never touched her! You said you never fed from her! You said she meant *nothing*!”
“And I meant it,” he said, stepping closer. “I was interrogating her. She’s been meeting with Malrik’s spies. I needed to know what she’d told them.”
“And you *interrogate* her in her bedroom?” I spat. “With her half-naked? With your shirt on her body?”
“It’s not *my* shirt,” he said. “It was planted. A setup. She was wearing it when I arrived.”
“Convenient,” I hissed.
“Petunia—”
“Don’t,” I said, backing away. “Just don’t.”
My chest ached. My vision blurred. The bond—usually a steady hum—was *screaming*, a jagged pulse of pain and need and betrayal. My wolf howled, not in anger, but in *grief*. I’d let myself believe in him. Let myself *want* him. Let myself think that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the monster I’d come to destroy.
And now—
Now I was a fool.
“Was I just your *rebound*?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “After her? After all those centuries of whispering her name in the dark? Was I just another conquest? Another pawn in your game?”
“No,” he said, stepping forward, his hand reaching for me. “You’re the only one who burns me alive.”
I slapped him.
Hard.
My ring split his lip again, blood welling, dark and thick. The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder. Lira gasped—whether in shock or delight, I couldn’t tell.
Kaelen didn’t flinch.
Just watched me, his eyes blazing, his chest rising and falling too fast.
And then—
He *moved*.
One step.
Two.
And then he had me.
His hands clamped around my wrists, pinning them above my head against the wall. His body pressed against mine, hard and unyielding, his heat searing through the thin fabric of my tunic. His fangs were fully descended, his breath hot against my neck.
“You think I’d lie to you?” he growled, his voice rough, dangerous. “You think I’d let another woman wear my scent and not destroy her for it?”
“Then why is she wearing your shirt?” I choked.
“Because she *wanted* you to see this,” he said. “She wanted you to doubt. To run. To break the bond. And if you do—” his lips brushed my ear—“you’ll play right into her hands. Into *Malrik’s* hands.”
My breath hitched.
“And you?” I whispered. “Do you want me to stay?”
His grip tightened. “I *need* you to stay.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, his voice dropping, “you’re the only one who makes me feel *alive*. The only one who challenges me. Who defies me. Who *fights* me.”
My heart hammered.
“And the bond?”
“The bond is fire,” he said. “But *you*—” his lips hovered over mine—“you’re the only one who burns me alive.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not kind.
Hard. Possessive. A claim.
His mouth crashed against mine, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands still pinning my wrists. The bond *roared*, a surge of heat and magic and desire that ripped through me, wave after wave. My body arched into his, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My wolf calmed, not in submission, but in *recognition*.
This was right.
This was *truth*.
His scent filled my lungs. His heat seared my skin. His body—hard, strong, *mine*—pressed against me like he’d never let go.
And I—
I *melted*.
My lips parted, my tongue tangling with his, my hips grinding against his. A moan slipped from my throat, raw and desperate. My fingers twitched in his grip, aching to touch him, to pull him closer, to *claim* him back.
“Kaelen,” I gasped, breaking the kiss. “I—”
“Shh,” he murmured, his lips brushing my neck. “Let it in. Let *me* in.”
His fangs grazed my skin, just above my pulse. A shiver tore through me. My core clenched. My breath came fast.
He was going to bite me.
Not a warning. Not a taste.
A *claiming*.
And I—
I *wanted* it.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
But because it was *him*.
Because I was tired of fighting.
Tired of hating.
Tired of pretending I didn’t *want* this.
My body arched, offering my neck. My breath came in short, desperate gasps. My heart pounded.
“Do it,” I whispered. “Claim me.”
His fangs pressed into my skin—
And then—
The door *exploded*.
Wood splintered. Stone cracked. A wave of force slammed into us, throwing Kaelen across the room. I hit the wall, dazed, my ears ringing. The candle snuffed out. Darkness swallowed the chamber.
And then—
Blades.
Flashing in the dark.
Assassins.
Three of them—vampires, their eyes glowing crimson, their fangs bared. One lunged at me, dagger raised. I rolled, drawing my own blade, slashing upward. Silver bit into flesh, and he hissed, stumbling back.
Another came from the side.
I spun, blocking, but the impact sent me skidding across the floor.
And then—
Kaelen was on his feet.
My breath caught.
He moved like death given form—fast, silent, *lethal*. One hand clamped around an assassin’s throat, the other driving a dagger into his heart. The vampire crumpled, dust scattering.
The second turned—
And Kaelen was on him.
A blur of motion. A flash of steel. A scream.
And then—
The third.
He didn’t hesitate.
He threw a dagger.
It buried itself in Kaelen’s side, the metal searing with witch-forged poison. He grunted, staggering, but didn’t fall. His eyes blazed. His fangs lengthened.
And then—
He *roared*.
A sound of pure rage, of pain, of *possession*.
He lunged.
His hand clamped around the assassin’s throat. His fangs sank into his neck.
And he *fed*.
Not a sip. Not a taste.
A *drain*.
The vampire screamed, his body convulsing, his flesh withering, his bones cracking. And then—
Dust.
It scattered in the wind.
Silence fell.
And then—
Kaelen collapsed.
I lunged forward, catching him before he hit the ground. He was heavy, his body hot, his breath ragged. The dagger was still in his side, the poison spreading. His eyes—crimson, glowing—locked onto mine.
“Petunia,” he gasped. “You’re—”
“Don’t talk,” I said, my voice shaking. “Just hold on.”
“The bond,” he said. “If I die—”
“You’re not going to die,” I snapped, my hands pressing against the wound. Blood slicked my fingers. “You don’t get to leave me. Not after that kiss. Not after saying those things. Not after—”
My voice broke.
“After what?” he whispered.
“After making me *believe* in you,” I choked. “After making me want you. After making me—”
“Say it,” he murmured, his hand lifting to my cheek. “Say it.”
My breath hitched.
“I hate you,” I whispered.
He smiled, blood on his lip. “Liar.”
And then—
He bit me.
Not on the shoulder.
Not on the thigh.
On the neck.
A mating mark.
Sharp. Deep. A crescent of twin punctures just above my pulse.
A scream tore from my throat—not of pain, but of *ecstasy*. Fire ripped through me, wave after wave, until I was nothing but sensation, nothing but *his*. The bond flared, a surge of magic and heat and *truth*, sealing us, binding us, *claiming* us.
And as the world blurred around me, as his blood flooded my veins, as his body went still in my arms—
I realized—
I wasn’t just here to burn him.
I was here to burn *with* him.
And for the first time—
I didn’t want to survive the fire.
I wanted to *live* in it.