The night air is sharp with frost, the kind that bites at your lungs and makes your magic flare just to keep warm. The training yard lies below the royal wing, a wide circle of packed earth ringed by torches that flicker like dying stars. It’s where the wolves spar, where blood is spilled in practice, where dominance is tested and earned. And tonight, it’s mine.
I stand at the center, barefoot, dressed in black silk that clings to my skin, my gloves off, my hair loose. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing with the rhythm of my heartbeat. The bond hums beneath my skin, not with tension tonight—no, something else. Something deeper. Anticipation.
He’s coming.
I can feel him—storm and pine, iron and power—before I hear the crunch of boots on frozen earth. He moves like he owns the night, like the shadows bow to him. Lysander. King of the Northern Pack. My fated mate. My enemy. The man I came here to kill.
And yet.
When he steps into the torchlight, gold eyes blazing, chest bare beneath his open coat, every instinct in me doesn’t scream run or fight—
It screams claim.
“You asked for this,” he says, voice low, rough. “Don’t expect mercy.”
“I don’t want mercy,” I say, stepping into a fighting stance, magic curling at my fingertips like smoke. “I want a challenge.”
He smirks. “Then you’ll get one.”
And then—
He moves.
Not with the slow, deliberate menace he uses in court. Not with the controlled precision of a king. No—this is the Alpha. The predator. The wolf. He lunges, fast and brutal, a blur of muscle and speed, his hand closing around my throat before I can react.
But I do.
I twist, using his grip to spin, my elbow driving into his ribs. He grunts, but doesn’t release me. Instead, he pulls me closer, his other arm wrapping around my waist, slamming me into the ground. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, but I roll, kicking up, my heel catching his jaw. He stumbles back, blood welling at his lip.
“You’re faster than you look,” he growls.
“You’re slower than you think.”
I rise, magic flaring. A pulse of blood energy surges from my palm, slamming into his chest. He flies back, skidding across the earth, but rolls to his feet in one fluid motion. His eyes flash black, then gold—his wolf rising, fighting to break free. But he holds it. Just.
“You think magic wins fights?” he says, circling me. “It doesn’t. Power does. Control. Dominance.”
“And you think you have it?” I challenge, circling back. “You think you can dominate me?”
“I know I can.” He lunges again, faster this time. I dodge, but he’s ready—his hand snakes out, grabbing my wrist, yanking me into him. His chest slams against mine, his breath hot on my skin. The bond flares, a jolt of heat straight to my core. My nipples tighten. My breath hitches.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Not from fear. From *need*.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper, but my voice wavers.
“No.” His hand slides down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants. “You’re afraid of wanting me. Of needing me. Of letting me *in*.”
My magic flares, a shockwave ripping from my body, throwing him back. He lands hard, but rises fast, eyes blazing. And then—
He laughs.
Low. Dark. A sound that curls through my spine like smoke.
“That’s it,” he says. “Let it out. Let me see you. Let me *feel* you.”
I don’t answer.
I attack.
This time, I don’t hold back. Blood magic surges through me, feeding on the bond, on my rage, on my grief. I summon a whip of crimson energy, lashing it at him. He dodges, but it catches his arm, slicing through flesh. Blood blooms, black in the torchlight. He doesn’t flinch. Just licks the wound, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You want to hurt me?” he says, voice rough. “Go ahead. But know this—every cut you make, I’ll return. Every drop of blood you spill, I’ll taste. And when you’re on your knees, when you’re breathless, when you’re *mine*—I’ll make you forget every reason you came here to kill me.”
My breath hitches.
But I don’t stop.
I summon another lash, then another, driving him back, forcing him to dodge, to weave, to fight. But he’s relentless. Every time I strike, he closes the distance. Every time I retreat, he follows. And then—
He catches the whip.
His hand closes around the blood energy, unharmed, unburned. His eyes flare gold. “Enough.”
He yanks.
The whip pulls me forward, off balance. I stumble—right into his arms. He spins, slamming me onto the ground, his body pinning mine, his legs locking around my hips. His weight is crushing, his heat searing. His cock—hard, thick, *aching*—presses against my stomach through the fabric.
“You’re strong,” he says, voice rough. “But you’re not stronger than the bond.”
“I don’t want to be,” I whisper.
He stills.
Not because I surrendered.
Because I told the truth.
My hands fist in his coat, pulling him closer. My hips arch, grinding against him. A groan rips from his throat. His eyes close. His jaw clenches. The bond flares, unbearable, a live wire between us.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want me.”
“I can’t—”
“Say it.”
“I want you,” I whisper. “I hate you, but I want you.”
His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
But *hungry*. Desperate. A claiming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if he’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against him, my core aching, my magic flaring.
His hand slides down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants—
And then—
A whisper.
Not from him.
Not from me.
From the *bond*.
A pulse of magic, sharp and sudden, rips through us both. We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“The curse,” he says, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
I look down.
The sigil on my lower back is glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The runes on the training yard’s edge—ancient wards etched into stone—ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“It knows us,” I whisper.
“It knows the bond,” he says. “And it’s trying to heal it.”
“How?”
“By forcing us to face it.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “By making us stop fighting. Stop hiding. Stop lying.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
But for the first time, I don’t fight it.
“Then help me,” I whisper. “Help me burn it down.”
He leans in, his lips brushing mine. “Together.”
The bond flares, not with pain.
With *power*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to wield it.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.
With him.
For him.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t run.
Not from the bond.
Not from the truth.
Not from him.
I’ll stand.
I’ll fight.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep him.
—
We don’t move.
Not for a long time.
Our bodies remain locked, his weight pressing me into the earth, his heat seeping into me, a slow, relentless burn. The bond hums between us, not with hunger now—but with something deeper. Something quieter. Recognition.
He’s the first to pull back.
Slowly. Reluctantly. His hands slide from my waist, but his eyes stay on mine. Gold. Blazing. Not with dominance now. With something else.
Respect.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he says, voice rough.
“I’ve had to be.” I sit up, brushing dirt from my palms. “Ten years on the run. No magic. No allies. No one to trust. I learned how to survive.”
He stands, then offers me his hand.
I hesitate.
Then take it.
His fingers close around mine, warm, rough. He pulls me to my feet, but doesn’t let go. Just holds me there, our bodies aligned, the bond thrumming between us.
“You didn’t have to fight me,” I say. “You could’ve ended it.”
“And miss this?” He smirks. “Watching you fight like a wild thing? Refusing to kneel? I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”
My breath hitches.
Not from flattery.
From *truth*.
He means it.
“You’re not just strong,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re *fierce*. Unbreakable. And I’ve spent ten years ruling with iron, burying my grief, telling myself I didn’t need a mate. That I was stronger alone.”
“And now?”
“Now I know I was wrong.” He lifts my wrist, the sigil pulsing beneath his fingers. “You’re not my enemy. You’re my *truth*. My balance. My fire.”
“And what about your first mate?” I ask, voice low. “Elara.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just stares at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes haunted. “I thought she betrayed me. That she worked with the Seelie. That she helped them kill me. But she didn’t. She died protecting me.”
“And when you found her?”
“Heart bitten out. Eyes wide with betrayal.” His voice breaks. “I blamed the Hollow Coven. Gave the order to burn them. To kill them all.”
“And now?”
“Now I know the truth.” He steps closer, his thumb brushing my jaw. “Malrik killed her. He framed you. He used me to destroy your coven. And I let him.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“And when you think of me?”
“I don’t see a witch who lied,” he whispers. “I see a woman who survived. Who fought. Who came here to kill me—and stayed because she *wanted* me.”
My chest tightens.
“And when you touch me?”
“I don’t feel rage.” His breath hitches. “I feel… *alive*. Like I’ve been dead for ten years and you’re the only thing that can bring me back.”
“And when you think of the bond?”
“I don’t hate it.” His voice is raw. “I *need* it. I need *you*. I want to be yours.”
Behind me, he exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
He pulls me closer, his arm wrapping around my waist, his lips brushing my neck.
“Then stop fighting it,” he whispers. “Let me in.”
My breath hitches.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper.
“So am I.” He kisses my neck, slow, tender. “But I’m done running.”
The bond flares, stronger, hotter.
His pheromones flood the air, thick and intoxicating. My knees weaken. My core clenches. My magic hums, begging to be *used*, to be *released*.
And then—
I feel it.
The truth spell isn’t gone.
It’s still in me.
Still pulling.
Still whispering.
And this time—
It’s not just the bond.
It’s *me*.
“I don’t hate you,” I whisper, voice breaking. “I hate that I *want* you. That I *need* you. That I can’t stop thinking about your hands on my skin, your mouth on my throat, your teeth at my pulse.”
He stills.
“And when you touch me?”
“I don’t want to pull away.” Tears spill down my cheeks. “I want to *burn* with you. To let you claim me. To be yours.”
He exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not like before.
Not a claiming.
Not a conquest.
But soft. Slow. A question.
And I answer.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, my mouth opening under his, my tongue meeting his in a slow, aching dance. His arms wrap around me, lifting me, pressing me against the nearest wall. His body is a wall of heat, his cock already hard, straining against my thigh.
And then—
I pull away.
“No,” I say, breathless. “I can’t.”
“Why?” he growls, voice rough. “You want me. I can *feel* it.”
“I *hate* you,” I scream, shoving him back. “I hate you for making me want you. I hate you for killing my coven. I hate you for making me *feel* this.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, gold eyes burning, jaw clenched.
And then—
He pins me.
One hand at my throat—not squeezing, just *holding*—the other fisted in my hair, tilting my head. His breath is hot on my skin. His cock presses against my stomach, hard and heavy.
“Then why,” he says, voice breaking, “does your body burn for me?”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
My skin is on fire. My core is aching. My magic is flaring, begging to be *used*, to be *released*.
And I *do* want him.
More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
But I can’t.
Not like this.
Not until Malrik is dead.
Not until Mira is avenged.
“I hate you,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face.
“Then say it,” he breathes, lips brushing mine. “Say you want me.”
I turn my face away.
But I don’t let go.
And as the bond hums between us, alive and aching, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.