I wake tangled in him.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. His arm is still locked around my waist, his leg thrown over mine like a claim. His chest presses against my back, his breath warm on my neck. My body is flush against his, every inch of me humming with the low, insistent pulse of the bond. It’s not pain—yet—but it’s there, a constant undercurrent, like a second heartbeat beneath my skin.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
I just feel.
His heat. His strength. The way his fingers curl slightly around my hip, possessive even in sleep. My nightgown has ridden up, and the bare skin of my thigh is pressed against the rough fabric of his sweatpants. The contact sends a jolt through me—sharp, electric, undeniable. My nipples tighten. My breath hitches. My core clenches, just once, a traitorous throb of yes in the silence.
No.
I crush it. I crush everything.
This isn’t desire. This isn’t weakness. This is the bond. Magic. Biology. A forced connection I didn’t ask for, don’t want, and will end the second I have the power to.
I shift—slow, careful—and his arm tightens.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You’ll make it worse.”
“Make what worse?”
“The fever.”
His eyes open. Gold. Fierce. Already alert. He’s not as asleep as I thought.
“If we separate too soon,” he says, “we’ll both burn.”
“Then let me go.”
“Not yet.”
He rolls onto his back, pulling me with him—just enough to break the full-body contact, but his arm stays around me, his hand resting low on my stomach. His thumb brushes my skin, just above the waistband of the nightgown.
“Give it another hour,” he says. “Let the bond settle.”
“I have things to do.”
“So do I. But not like this.”
He reaches over, taps the panel on the nightstand. The lights rise slowly, casting the room in soft gray dawn. His chambers are massive—stone walls, black iron fixtures, a weapons rack in the corner loaded with blades and guns. A desk piled with documents. A study beyond, half-open door revealing shelves of ancient tomes.
And everywhere—his scent. Smoke. Iron. Wild earth. It clings to the sheets, the air, me.
I sit up, pulling away. The moment I break contact, a sharp ache flares in my chest—hot, deep, like a fever spiking. I gasp.
“Told you,” he says, sitting up beside me. “Give it time.”
“How long?”
“An hour. Maybe two. The bond’s new. It’ll stabilize.”
“And if I don’t care?”
“Then you’ll be weak. Slow. Useless.”
He’s right. And he knows it.
I glare at him. “You enjoy this.”
“No.” His voice is rough. “I hate it. I hate that they forced this. That they’re using you. Using us.”
“Then break it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then you’re just another cage.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just stands, stretches, his shirtless body a map of muscle and ink—Lupine runes snaking down his spine, over his shoulders. He grabs a black shirt from the chair, pulls it on.
“There’s a shower,” he says, nodding toward the bathroom. “Towels. Clothes in the wardrobe. Choose what you want.”
“You have my clothes?”
“Burned. Like the dress.”
“Of course.”
“They’ll bring new ones. Until then, wear what’s here.”
He turns to leave. “I’ll be in the study. Knock when you’re ready.”
The door clicks shut.
I don’t move for a long moment. Just sit there, the ache in my chest throbbing, my skin still humming where he touched me. Then I stand. Strip off the nightgown. Step into the shower.
The water is scalding. I let it burn. Let it wash away his scent, his heat, the memory of his body against mine. I scrub hard—shoulders, neck, thighs—until my skin is raw. But I can’t scrub out the bond. It’s deeper than skin. Deeper than blood.
I dress quickly—black pants, boots, a fitted dark gray top with silver threading. Tactical. Functional. The wardrobe is full of them—like he expected me. Like he’s been waiting.
Good.
I’ll use it.
I find a knife in the second drawer—small, sharp, perfect for slipping between ribs. I tuck it into my boot, next to my mother’s dagger. Then I open the door.
Kaelen is at his desk, reviewing a data tablet. He doesn’t look up.
“You’re late,” he says.
“You’re not my keeper.”
“No. But I’m your mate. Publicly. So you’ll walk beside me. You’ll smile. You’ll touch my arm. You’ll play the part.”
“Or?”
“Or they’ll know the bond is weak. And they’ll kill you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He stands. Walks to me. Too close. His scent floods me again. My pulse jumps.
“We have a meeting with the Council in thirty minutes,” he says. “Until then, you’re with me. No exceptions.”
“What if I need to be alone?”
“You don’t.”
“What if I need to—”
“No.”
“You don’t control my body.”
“The bond does.”
He reaches out. Touches my wrist—just once, over the pulse. “And if you try to run, I’ll find you. If you try to fight, I’ll win. If you try to kill me—”
He leans in. His breath is warm on my ear. “—I’ll let you try. But not today.”
Then he turns and walks out.
I follow.
The corridors are quieter now, the Spire waking slowly. We pass Fae guards, vampire attendants, werewolf enforcers. All watch us. All see the way he walks slightly ahead, the way I follow. The way his hand brushes my lower back when we turn a corner.
It’s not real.
It’s not.
But my skin burns where he touches me.
We reach the Council Chamber. The doors open. The same twelve figures are seated, though some have changed. The vampire Elder—Lysandra—is here. My breath stills.
She’s older than I remember. Pale. Sharp-featured. Dressed in silver and black, her hair coiled like a crown. Her eyes—cold, calculating—land on me immediately. Then on Kaelen. A flicker. Something like recognition. Like history.
My fingers twitch toward the knife in my boot.
Kaelen’s hand presses against my lower back—gentle, firm. A warning.
We take our places. The ritual from yesterday repeats—bond sigil, vows, the public display of unity. I say nothing. Do nothing. Just stand beside him, my face blank, my pulse screaming.
Then it’s over.
“You’re dismissed,” the Elder says.
We turn to leave.
“Celeste,” Lysandra calls.
I stop. Don’t turn.
“A word?”
Kaelen tenses. But he doesn’t stop me.
I turn. Walk to her.
She smiles. Cold. Beautiful. “You’re not what I expected.”
“And you’re exactly what I expected.”
Her smile doesn’t waver. “Kaelen’s mate. How… unexpected.”
“It’s political.”
“Of course. But bonds have a way of becoming real, don’t they?” She leans in. “Be careful, little witch. Wolves are loyal. But they’re also hungry.”
My blood runs cold.
She knows.
She knows who I am.
“I can handle him,” I say.
“Can you?” She glances at Kaelen. “He’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you.”
Then she turns and walks away.
I return to Kaelen. Don’t speak. Don’t look at him.
“What did she want?” he asks.
“To threaten me.”
“About what?”
“You.”
He studies me. “She’s afraid of you.”
“She should be.”
“Then don’t give her a reason to act.”
“I won’t.”
We walk in silence to his chambers. The moment the door closes, I spin.
“I need access to the Archives,” I say.
“Why?”
“I need to know what she’s hiding.”
“The Archives are restricted. Only Council members—”
“Then get me in.”
“No.”
“You said you’d help me.”
“I said I’d help you survive. Not get yourself killed.”
“The Blood Codex is in there. The record of every blood theft, every illegal transfer. If I can find proof—”
“You’ll start a war.”
“I’ll start justice.”
He steps closer. “You think I don’t want her gone? You think I don’t know what she’s done? But if you go in there, if you’re caught—”
“Then I’ll deal with it.”
“No. You’ll die.”
“Then I’ll die with my knife in her heart.”
He grabs my arms. Holds me still. “Listen to me. You don’t go in there. Not yet. Not without proof you can use. Not without allies. Not without a plan.”
“I have a plan.”
“And what is it? Break in? Steal the Codex? Get caught? Executed? Is that your plan?”
I don’t answer.
“You’re not just a witch,” he says, voice low. “You’re not just a killer. You’re hers. And if you die, her legacy dies with you.”
“I don’t care about legacy.”
“You should.”
He releases me. Steps back. “Wait. Learn. Watch. And when the time comes—”
“I’ll act.”
“Then be smart. Or you’ll be dead.”
He turns to his desk. “Now go. Train. Spar. Do whatever you need to. But stay in the West Wing. No exceptions.”
I don’t argue. I walk out.
But I don’t go to the training room.
I go to the East Wing.
The Archives are there—deep underground, behind three layers of security. I’ve studied the Spire’s layout. I know the patrol routes. I know the blind spots.
And I know I have one chance.
I move fast, silent, sticking to the shadows. The corridors are dim, the air colder. I pass a pair of werewolf guards—distract them with a flick of magic, just enough to make a light flicker down the hall. They turn. I slip past.
The Archive door is sealed with a biometric lock and a rune barrier. I don’t have clearance. But I have something better.
I press my palm to the scanner.
Nothing.
Of course.
But the rune barrier—I can feel it. Ancient. Strong. But not unbreakable. Not for a Blackthorn.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Let the dormant magic rise—just a little. Just enough.
My fingers trace the sigil in the air. Whisper the counter-charm. My mother’s voice in my head: “Blood is power. Blood is memory. Blood is truth.”
The runes flicker. Fade.
The door hisses open.
I step inside.
The Archives are vast—rows of stone shelves, glowing data crystals, ancient tomes bound in leather and bone. The air hums with stored magic. I move fast, scanning titles, searching for Blood Codex.
There.
On a central pedestal. A black book, chained. The cover pulses faintly—warded.
I approach. Touch the chain. It burns—Lupine magic. Kaelen’s mark.
Of course he’s protected it.
But I have his blood in me. The bond.
I press my palm to the chain. Let the bond flare—just a spark. The chain glows, then unlocks.
I open the book.
Pages of names. Dates. Transfers. Theft records. And there—Blackthorn Sanctuary. Ten years ago. Three vials. Witch-blood. Recipient: Lysandra Vale.
Proof.
My hands shake.
I rip the page out. Tuck it into my boot, next to the knives.
Then I hear it—boots on stone. Close.
Too close.
I snap the book shut. Turn.
Kaelen stands in the doorway.
His eyes are gold fire. His jaw clenched. His fangs bared.
“You lied,” he says.
“I didn’t promise anything.”
“You betrayed me.”
“You’re not my ally. You’re my jailer.”
He strides forward. Grabs the book. Slams it shut. “This isn’t how it works.”
“It’s the only way.”
“You could have died.”
“I’m still alive.”
He grabs my arms. “You think this changes anything? You think a stolen page is enough?”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s a death sentence.”
“Then I’ll die with the truth.”
He shakes me. “You don’t get to throw your life away!”
“I don’t get to live?”
He freezes.
His grip loosens. His breath comes fast. His eyes search mine—furious, aching, afraid.
“You think I don’t want her gone?” he says, voice raw. “You think I don’t hate what she did? But if you die, who will stop her? Who will carry your mother’s legacy? Who will—”
He stops.
And for the first time, I see it—
Not anger.
Not control.
Fear.
For me.
My breath catches.
Then the alarm blares.
Red lights flash. A voice echoes through the Spire: “Intruder in the Undercity. All enforcers to Sector Seven.”
Kaelen releases me. Steps back. His expression hardens.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
“No,” I say. “It’s just beginning.”
He turns. Walks out.
I stand there, the stolen page burning in my boot, his fear echoing in my chest.
He knows.
And worse—he cares.
And that—
That might be the most dangerous thing of all.
I return to the West Wing. Wait. The bond hums, restless. I pace. Think. Plan.
The page is proof. But it’s not enough. I need more. I need allies. I need power.
And I need to wake my magic.
But not here. Not now.
Later.
When the storm breaks—
I’ll be ready.
And this time, I won’t be alone.