The bond hums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat — not the erratic, fevered pulse of denial anymore, but something deeper. Steadier. Alive.
For ten years, I ruled with the silence of the grave. I buried Elara with my grief, sealed the wound with duty, and told myself I didn’t need a mate. That love was weakness. That trust was death.
And then Circe walked in.
And shattered every lie I’d ever told myself.
She came to kill me. That much was true. But she stayed. She fought. She bled. And when the cursed sigil tried to twist the bond, she didn’t run — she fought back. With me.
Not against me.
And that changes everything.
—
I find her at dawn, standing on the balcony of her chambers, barefoot, her black silk gown fluttering in the cold wind. Her hair is loose, wild, and the sigil on her wrist glows faintly — not with fear, not with pain, but with power. She doesn’t turn as I step behind her, but I feel it — the bond flares, warm and steady, like a fire banked for the night.
“You’re up early,” I say, voice low.
“I didn’t sleep,” she replies, not looking at me. “I keep seeing Mira’s face. The way she looked at me the night she told me to run. Like she already knew she’d die for it.”
My chest tightens.
“She didn’t die for nothing,” I say, stepping closer. “She gave you the truth. And now we have it.”
“We have pieces,” she corrects. “Not the whole picture. Malrik’s still out there. Still watching. Still waiting to break us.”
“Then we don’t give him the chance.” I reach out, slow, and lift her wrist. The sigil pulses beneath my fingers, warm, alive. “We move first. We strike. We burn his lies to ash before he can use them.”
She turns to me, her dark eyes blazing. “And how do you propose we do that? Walk into the Fae Court and accuse a Seelie prince of treason? They’ll laugh us out of the room.”
“Then we don’t go to them.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “We make them come to us. We expose him here. In front of the Tribunal. In front of the pack. In front of *everyone*.”
“With what?” she challenges. “A cursed sigil? A feather? A dead healer’s blood in the mortar?”
“With you.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “With your truth. With your magic. With the bond that ties us — not as enemies, not as lies, but as mated.”
Her breath hitches.
“You don’t get to say that,” she whispers. “You don’t get to act like this changes everything.”
“It doesn’t change what I did,” I say, voice rough. “I gave the order to burn your coven. I let Malrik frame you. I made you a ghost. But it changes what I *am*. And what I’ll do to fix it.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her scent — fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive — wrapping around me like a vice.
And then —
She leans in.
Not to kiss me.
But to press her forehead to mine, her breath warm on my skin.
“Then prove it,” she whispers. “Not with words. Not with promises. With action. With fire.”
“I will.” I kiss her temple, slow, tender. “But not yet. Not until we’re ready.”
She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Why wait?”
“Because Malrik’s watching,” I say. “And if we move too soon, he’ll vanish. He’ll hide. He’ll make us look like fools. But if we let him think he’s winning — if we let him believe you’re still broken, still doubting, still hating me — then he’ll get careless.”
“And when he does?”
“Then we destroy him.” I step back, my voice dropping to a growl. “Together.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, her gaze sharp, unreadable.
But the bond — the bond hums between us, warm and steady.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe — just maybe — she’s not the enemy.
Maybe she’s the only one who can save me.
—
The Council Chamber is packed by midday.
Wolves, Fae, vampires — all gathered for the weekly Tribunal meeting. The air is thick with tension, the scent of bloodwine and iron and something deeper — fear. The bond murders have shaken the Keep. The cursed sigil has everyone on edge. And Malrik — that silver-haired serpent — sits at the far end of the table, calm, polished, his smile sharp as a blade.
I take my seat at the head, Circe beside me.
She doesn’t look at me.
Just sits, spine straight, gloves on, her sigil hidden. But I feel her — every breath, every heartbeat, every flicker of magic beneath her skin. The bond hums, low and steady, a quiet storm beneath the surface.
Malrik speaks first.
“Another body found last night,” he says, voice smooth. “A servant this time. Throat torn out. And on her chest —” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “The Hollow mark.”
Every eye turns to Circe.
She doesn’t flinch.
Just lifts her chin, her gaze cold, defiant.
“It’s a frame,” I say, voice cutting through the murmurs. “Same as before. Same corruption. Same hand.”
“And you know this how?” a Fae noble asks, voice sharp. “Because your *mate* tells you so?”
“Because I’ve seen the magic,” I say, not looking at him. “Because I’ve tasted the lie. Because I know Malrik’s hand when I see it.”
Malrik smiles. “How convenient. The King defends his witch. The mate protects her mate. It’s almost… *romantic*.”
The chamber murmurs.
“It’s the truth,” Circe says, voice low, dangerous. “And if you’d stop sniffing his arse long enough to open your eyes, you’d see it too.”
Gasps ripple through the room.
Malrik’s smile doesn’t waver.
But his eyes — his eyes flicker with something darker. Anger.
“Careful, little witch,” he says, voice silky. “You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
“Neither are you,” she snaps. “I know what you did. I know what you are. And I’ll make sure everyone else knows too.”
“Oh?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “And what, exactly, do you think I’ve done?”
“You killed Elara,” she says, voice loud, cutting through the silence. “You framed me for it. You used Lysander to burn my coven. And now you’re using the cursed sigil to break our bond — because if we stand together, you lose.”
The chamber erupts.
Wolves growl. Vampires hiss. Fae whisper behind their hands.
Malrik doesn’t move.
Just stares at her, his smile gone, his eyes cold as ice.
“You have no proof,” he says, voice quiet. “No evidence. Just the ravings of a witch who’s clearly unstable. Grieving. Delusional.”
“I have the truth,” she says.
“And I have witnesses,” he counters. “Servants who saw you near the body. Guards who heard you muttering in your sleep. And —” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “A healer who claims you tried to poison me.”
My blood runs cold.
“What?” Circe snaps.
“Last night,” Malrik says, turning to the Council. “I was visited by a healer from the infirmary. She said Circe came to my chambers, offered me a drink laced with blood magic. When I refused, she threatened me. Said she’d make me pay for what I did to her coven.”
“That’s a lie!” she shouts.
“Is it?” He pulls a vial from his sleeve — clear liquid, swirling with faint silver threads. “This was found in her chambers. A toxin. Designed to weaken a Fae’s magic. To make them vulnerable.”
My jaw clenches.
“Where?” I demand.
“In a hidden drawer,” Malrik says. “Behind a loose stone. The same place we found the cursed sigil.”
The chamber murmurs.
“You’re framing her,” I growl.
“Am I?” He smiles. “Or is she finally showing her true colors? The witch who came to kill you, Lysander. The woman who’s been lying to you from the start.”
Every eye turns to me.
Waiting.
Watching.
And for the first time, I see it — the doubt. Not just in their eyes.
In the bond.
It flickers — not with pain, not with rage — but with fear.
Fear that maybe — just maybe — she’s not who she says she is.
And then —
Circe laughs.
Low. Dark. A sound that rolls through the chamber like thunder.
“You’re good,” she says, standing. “I’ll give you that. You’ve been planning this for years. Poisoning Lysander’s mind. Framing me for murder. Now this.” She gestures to the vial. “But you made one mistake.”
“And what’s that?” Malrik asks, still smiling.
“You forgot who you’re dealing with.” She steps forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not just a witch. I’m not just a survivor. I’m Circe of the Hollow Coven. And I don’t use toxins.”
She holds out her hand.
And on her palm — a single drop of blood.
It glows faintly — not red, but silver. Tainted. Fae rot.
“This,” she says, “is the blood of the healer who ‘accused’ me. I found it on the vial. Your magic. Your lie. Your failure.”
The chamber falls silent.
Malrik’s smile falters.
“You don’t believe me?” Circe challenges. “Test it. Run it through the blood arbitration. Let the magic speak.”
“She’s stalling,” Malrik says, standing. “Trying to distract from her crimes.”
“No.” I rise, my voice cutting through the silence. “She’s proving her innocence. And you — you’re afraid of what the truth will reveal.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his eyes cold, calculating.
And then —
He smiles.
Slow. Knowing.
“Very well,” he says. “Test the blood. Let the magic decide.”
—
The Blood Arbitration Chamber is cold, the air thick with the scent of iron and old magic. A circular table of black stone sits at the center, etched with runes of truth. The vial is placed in the center. Circe’s drop of blood beside it.
The High Arbiter — an ancient vampire with eyes like coal — steps forward, hands raised. Chanting begins, low and guttural. The runes ignite, pulsing with light. The air hums with power.
And then —
The blood moves.
Not Circe’s.
Malrik’s.
It writhes in the vial, twisting, turning — and then, with a sharp crack, it splits. One half glows silver — pure Fae. The other — black. Tainted. Fae rot.
The Arbiter turns to Malrik. “The magic speaks. This toxin was not created by the accused. It was created by you. And your lie has been exposed.”
The chamber erupts.
Malrik doesn’t move.
Just stands there, his face calm, his smile gone.
And then —
He laughs.
Low. Dark. A sound that curls through my spine like smoke.
“You think this changes anything?” he says, voice smooth. “You think a single test will undo ten years of work? I am of the Seelie blood. I am of the High Court. And you —” He looks at Circe. “You are nothing. A witch. A liar. A killer. And you —” He turns to me. “You are a fool. A puppet. A king who lets a woman with fire in her veins rule his heart.”
“Enough,” I growl.
“No.” He steps forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me tell you what happens now. You exile her. You break the bond. You return to your duty. Or —” He smiles. “I make sure the next body has your name on it.”
My wolf snarls.
But I hold it.
Because I see it now.
Not just his threat.
His fear.
He’s losing.
And when a serpent is cornered —
It bites.
“You’re dismissed,” I say, voice cold. “Leave the Keep. Do not return unless summoned.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, his eyes black with hate.
And then —
He turns.
And walks out.
—
Back in my chambers, I pour a glass of bloodwine and stare into the fire.
Circe stands at the window, her back to me, her gloves off, her sigil glowing faintly.
“He’s not done,” she says, voice low. “That was too easy. He wanted us to test the blood. He *let* us.”
“I know.” I set the glass down. “He’s planning something. Something bigger.”
“And we’re walking right into it.”
“No.” I step behind her, close enough to feel the heat of her body. “We’re making him think we are. But we’re not waiting. We’re not hiding. We’re not afraid.”
She turns, her eyes blazing. “Then what are we?”
“We’re fire,” I say, voice rough. “And we’re going to burn him to ash.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her breath coming fast, her scent wrapping around me, pulling me in.
And then —
She steps forward.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
But *hungry*. Desperate. A claiming. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue meeting mine in a slow, aching dance. My arms wrap around her, lifting her, pressing her against the wall. Her body is a wall of heat, her core aching, her magic flaring.
And then —
I pull away.
“Not yet,” I whisper, breathless. “Not until he’s gone.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just nods, her eyes blazing.
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 her.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both —
Then so be it.
Because this time —
This time, I won’t lose her.
Not to vengeance.
Not to fate.
Not to the fire.
Not to anything.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.