The moment I touch her, I know.
Not just that she’s lying. Not just that she’s hiding. But who she is.
Witch-blood—ancient, rare, laced with something older, wilder. Fae. Not full, but enough. Enough to make her magic stronger than she knows. Enough to make her mine.
The bond flares the second my fangs graze her throat. Not a full claim—no public marking, not yet—but the pull is there. Visceral. Unbreakable. And when she moans—soft, breathless, betrayed by her own body—I feel it like a blade between my ribs.
She thinks it’s magic.
She’s wrong.
It’s us.
I walk away from the dais with my spine rigid, my fists clenched at my sides. The Council Chamber hums with whispers, but I don’t hear them. All I hear is her pulse—still echoing in my mouth, in my veins. All I smell is her—jasmine and iron, moonlight and smoke, the sharp tang of suppressed power. She’s caged her magic, but it bleeds through. And I can taste it.
Riven falls into step beside me as I stride toward the Spire’s private corridors. My second. My shadow. The only one I trust.
“You marked her,” he says, voice low.
“I didn’t.”
“Close enough. The bond’s active. You felt it.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He knows me too well.
“She’s not who she says she is,” I say instead.
“No. She’s Celeste Thorne.”
I stop. Turn. “You know her?”
“By name. The last of the Blackthorn Coven. Thought she was dead.”
“They all are. Except her.”
Riven’s dark eyes narrow. “Lysandra’s coven was wiped out ten years ago. Burned to the ground. No survivors.”
“There was one.”
“And now she’s here. Posing as a diplomat. Why?”
“Revenge.”
He exhales sharply. “You think she knows about the blood theft?”
“I think she is the blood theft.”
My jaw clenches. I remember the reports. The whispers. Lysandra, weakening. Desperate. The raid on the Blackthorn sanctuary. The stolen vials of pure witch-blood—enough to extend life, amplify power. Enough to save a dying regent.
I didn’t stop it.
I was too busy holding the packs together, too focused on the growing rift between North and South. By the time I heard, it was done. The coven was ash. The blood was gone.
And now the woman whose blood was stolen stands in my court, wearing silk and lies, and her scent is under my skin like a fever.
“She’s dangerous,” Riven says.
“She’s hers.”
He doesn’t ask what I mean. He sees it in my eyes. The pull. The hunger. The way my fangs still ache to sink into her throat and never let go.
“Then you can’t protect her from yourself,” he says quietly.
I turn away. “Lock down the Spire. No one in or out without my approval. And find out everything you can about Celeste Vale—or whatever the hell her real name is.”
“And her?”
“She stays under watch. Twenty-four hours. No exceptions.”
“You’re afraid she’ll run.”
“I’m afraid she’ll get herself killed.”
He doesn’t argue. Just nods and disappears into the shadows.
I keep walking.
My chambers are at the top of the Spire, a fortress of black stone and iron. No windows. No weak points. Just a bed, a desk, a weapons rack, and the scent of pine and fire that clings to me. I strip off my gloves, toss them onto the desk—and freeze.
There, on the leather, is a single black glove. Hers.
She must have dropped it during the ritual. I didn’t notice. But now—
I pick it up.
And inhale.
Her scent floods me—stronger than before, unfiltered. Witch-blood. Fae. Heat. Need.
My fangs drop.
I don’t fight it.
I press the glove to my face, breathing deep, letting the aroma coil through my lungs, my blood, my bones. It’s intoxicating. Maddening. I can feel her—her pulse, her breath, the way her body arched when I touched her neck. I can still taste the salt of her skin, the iron of her blood.
And I want more.
Not just the bond. Not just the claim.
Her.
I growl, low and feral, and throw the glove across the room. It hits the wall and falls to the floor.
Pathetic.
I am the Alpha of the Northern Packs. I have controlled my beast since I was sixteen. I have led wars, crushed rebellions, held back the chaos of a hundred wolves howling for blood.
And one woman—one—has me on my knees.
Not because of the bond.
Because of her.
I pace. Back and forth. My boots echo on the stone. My heart hammers. My skin is too tight. My wolf snarls beneath my ribs, restless, hungry, possessive.
She doesn’t want me.
She doesn’t even know me.
But her body does.
That moan—it wasn’t just the magic. It was her. Her desire. Her surrender. Her yes.
And it undoes me.
I stop in front of the mirror. My reflection is a stranger—eyes too bright, jaw too tight, fangs still bared. I look like a predator. A killer.
And I am.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be.
I want to be hers.
No.
I want her to be mine.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Enter,” I growl.
Riven steps in, holding a data tablet. His expression is unreadable.
“I found something,” he says.
I turn. “Talk.”
“Celeste Vale doesn’t exist. No records in any coven registry. No diplomatic clearance. No trace.”
“And her real identity?”
He hands me the tablet.
On the screen is a grainy image—ten years old. A young woman, maybe eighteen, standing in a moonlit clearing. Her hair is wild, her eyes fierce, a silver dagger in her hand. The caption reads: Celeste Thorne, last heir of the Blackthorn Coven.
My breath catches.
It’s her.
But not as she is now. Now, she’s polished. Controlled. A weapon in silk. Then, she was fire. Wild. Untamed.
“There’s more,” Riven says.
I swipe. Another image—burned ruins. A sign half-melted in the ash: Blackthorn Sanctuary.
“Lysandra ordered the raid,” he says. “Stole three vials of pure witch-blood. Enough to extend her life by decades.”
“And Celeste?”
“Officially, dead. But there were rumors. A survivor. A girl who crawled out of the fire with a dagger in her hand and vengeance in her eyes.”
My chest tightens.
She came here to kill Lysandra.
And I’m the one standing in her way.
“She doesn’t know about the bond,” Riven says. “Not really. She thinks it’s political. A tool.”
“It is,” I say. “And it isn’t.”
“You’re going to have to tell her.”
“Not yet.”
“Then what? Let her think you’re just another obstacle? Another enemy?”
“She needs to trust me.”
“She won’t. Not after what Lysandra did.”
“Then I’ll give her a reason.”
Riven studies me. “You’re not just protecting the packs anymore, are you?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
He sighs. “She’s in the East Wing. Room 412. Under guard. She hasn’t tried to run.”
“Good.”
“She’s asking for you.”
I turn. “Why?”
“Says she wants to negotiate terms.”
A lie.
She wants to test me. To probe. To see how much I know.
And I want to see her.
“Tell her I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Riven hesitates. “Be careful, Kaelen. She’s not just a witch. She’s a storm. And you’re walking into the eye.”
“I’ve faced storms before.”
“None like this.”
He leaves.
I stand there, staring at the tablet. At her face. At the girl who survived fire and blood and betrayal.
And I feel something I haven’t felt in years.
Fear.
Not for me.
For her.
Because if Lysandra knows she’s alive—
Then Celeste is already a dead woman walking.
I grab my coat. Head for the door.
But not before I pick up her glove from the floor.
I don’t put it in my pocket.
I press it to my lips once. Just once.
Then I tuck it into my inner chest pocket, over my heart.
Let her think I don’t care.
Let her think I’m just the enemy.
But I’ll be watching.
I’ll be waiting.
And when the storm breaks—
I’ll be the one who stands between her and the fire.
The East Wing is quieter than the rest of the Spire—fewer guards, fewer eyes. Her room is at the end of the hall, door sealed with a biometric lock. Two of my wolves stand outside, tense, alert.
“She’s been quiet,” one says. “No attempts to escape. No magic.”
“Good.”
I key in my access code. The door hisses open.
She’s standing at the window, back to me, silhouette framed by the moonlight. She’s changed—out of the silk dress, into black tactical gear. Hair down. Knife at her thigh. Ready for war.
“You wanted to see me,” I say.
She turns.
Her eyes are dark. Hard. But beneath it—something else. Fear? Need? Hope?
“I want terms,” she says. “For this… alliance.”
“There are no terms. The bond is binding. You’re mine to protect. I’m yours to command.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“You’re in my city. My court. My rules.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
She moves fast—but not fast enough.
I close the distance in one step, grab her wrist, twist her around, pin her against the wall. Her breath hitches. Her pulse jumps. Her scent flares—heat, anger, arousal.
“You don’t get to walk away,” I say, voice low. “Not from me. Not from this.”
“You don’t own me.”
“No. But the bond does.”
Her eyes flash. “Then break it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then you’re useless to me.”
I lean in. My lips brush her ear. “You felt it. That moan wasn’t magic. It was you. You want me as much as I want you.”
She shivers. “I want justice.”
“Then let me give it to you.”
“How?”
“Trust me.”
She laughs—sharp, bitter. “I don’t trust anyone.”
“Then start with your body. It already knows the truth.”
Her breath catches.
And for the first time, I see it—
The crack in her armor.
The flicker of doubt.
The need.
I release her. Step back.
“You have twenty-four hours to decide,” I say. “Stay. Fight with me. Or go. But if you leave, you die. Lysandra will find you. And she won’t be gentle.”
Her face pales. Just for a second. Then it’s gone.
“And if I stay?”
“You live. You fight. And you let me protect you.”
“At what cost?”
“Whatever it takes.”
I turn to leave.
“Kaelen.”
I stop.
She doesn’t look at me. Just stares at the floor.
“Why did you really bind me?”
I don’t answer.
Because the truth would destroy us both.
Not politics.
Not duty.
Not the bond.
Love.
And I can’t say it.
Not yet.
So I walk out.
But I know one thing now.
She’s not just a threat.
She’s not just a mission.
She’s not just the enemy.
She’s mine.
And I will burn the world down before I let anyone take her from me.