The Keep smells like blood and betrayal.
Not just from the assassins—three dead in the eastern hall, their cloaks still smoking from the witch’s fire, their blades etched with the same cursed sigil that’s been poisoning the bond since the beginning. No. It’s deeper than that. It’s in the air—thick, cloying, laced with Fae rot and something worse. Manipulation.
I’ve seen this before.
Not the bodies. Not the magic.
The silence.
After a kill, the pack howls. The vampires hiss. The Fae whisper behind their hands. But not tonight. Tonight, the corridors are too quiet. The torches too dim. The wolves too still.
Like they’re waiting.
And I know why.
Because she’s coming.
—
I find them in the infirmary.
Lysander on the cot, shirtless, bandaged across the ribs, his gold eyes half-lidded, his breathing slow. Circe beside him, her gloves off, her sigil glowing faintly, her fingers pressed against the wound like she could stitch it shut with will alone. The bond hums between them—low, steady, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Need.
They don’t see me at first.
Just stare at each other, close enough that their breath mingles, their scents wrapping around each other like smoke. Fire and storm. Thyme and iron. And beneath it—something sweeter. Something new.
“You should be resting,” I say, stepping inside.
Circe doesn’t flinch.
Just lifts her gaze, dark and sharp. “So should you.”
“I slept.”
“Liar.”
A ghost of a smile.
But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“The assassins,” I say, crossing my arms. “Same sigil. Same magic. Fae rot laced with Hollow corruption. They were sent by Malrik.”
“We know,” Lysander says, voice rough. “He’s not hiding anymore. He’s testing us.”
“Testing what?”
“How far we’ll go to protect each other.” He turns his head, gold eyes locking onto mine. “He wants to see if the bond is real. If we’re willing to die for it.”
“And are you?”
They don’t answer.
Just look at each other, the bond flaring between them, warm and steady.
And I see it—
The shift.
Not just in the magic.
In them.
Circe used to fight him. Hated him. Wanted to kill him. Now she’s sitting beside him, her hand on his wound, her body leaning into his like she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she lets go.
And Lysander—
He used to see her as a threat. A spy. A weapon aimed at his throat.
Now he looks at her like she’s the only thing keeping him from drowning.
“He’s not done,” I say, voice low. “This was just the beginning. Malrik doesn’t send assassins to kill. He sends them to provoke. To make us react. To make us break.”
“Then we don’t,” Circe says, lifting her chin. “We stay calm. We stay together. We don’t give him what he wants.”
“And if he comes for you?” I ask.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Then I burn him.”
“And if he comes for him?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her fingers harder against the wound, like she could shield him with her own body.
And I know—
She would.
She’d take the blade for him again.
Without hesitation.
Without regret.
And that’s when I see it—
The danger.
Not from Malrik.
Not from the assassins.
From them.
Because if they keep going like this—if they keep letting the bond pull them closer, if they keep trusting each other, if they keep feeling—then Malrik won’t need to kill them.
He’ll just wait.
Wait for them to fall.
Wait for them to break.
Wait for the bond to consume them.
And when it does—
He’ll be there.
Ready to pick up the pieces.
—
I leave them alone.
Not because I trust them.
Because I know what happens when a wolf is cornered.
It fights.
And right now, they’re not just fighting for their lives.
They’re fighting for each other.
And that makes them dangerous.
—
The training yard is empty at dawn.
No wolves sparring. No guards patrolling. Just the wind, low and cold, carrying the scent of iron and old magic. I move through the shadows, boots silent on stone, my senses sharp, my wolf restless beneath my skin. I don’t like this. Don’t like the silence. Don’t like the way the bond hums in my chest, not with pain, but with something darker. Anticipation.
And then—
I feel it.
A flicker.
Not from the Keep.
Not from the pack.
From the east wall.
I move fast.
Boots striking stone. Heart pounding. Magic flaring at my fingertips.
And then—
I see her.
Circe.
Standing at the edge of the yard, her back to me, her black silk gown fluttering in the wind. Her gloves are off. The sigil on her wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond. She’s not alone.
Nyx is there.
Draped in Lysander’s shirt. Her hair loose. A fresh bite mark on her neck.
And she’s smiling.
“You’re early,” Nyx says, voice smooth. “I was just telling Circe how much I enjoyed last night.”
Circe doesn’t turn.
Just stands there, spine straight, her breath coming fast, her magic flaring at her fingertips.
“Enjoyed what?” I ask, stepping forward.
“The King’s bed,” Nyx says, running a hand down the front of the shirt. “His mouth. His hands. The way he—”
“Shut up,” Circe says, voice low, dangerous.
Nyx laughs. “You don’t believe me? Ask him. Ask him if he didn’t spend the night with me. Ask him if he didn’t taste my blood. Ask him if he didn’t—”
“I said shut up.”
The bond flares.
Not between Circe and Lysander.
Between Circe and me.
Because I feel it—
The lie.
Not in her words.
Not in her scent.
But in the magic.
Fae rot. Tainted. False.
“She’s lying,” I say, stepping beside Circe. “The bite mark—it’s not real. It’s glamoured. Fae magic. Designed to look real. To feel real. But it’s not.”
Nyx’s smile doesn’t waver.
Just tilts her head, like a serpent considering its prey. “And you know this how, Beta? Did the King tell you? Or did you just hope?”
“I know,” I say, voice low. “Because I was with him last night. When the assassins came. When he was stabbed. When Circe carried him to the infirmary. He never left her side.”
Her smile falters.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
“Then why does he smell like me?” she asks, stepping closer. “Why does his shirt bear my scent? Why does his blood taste like thunder and wine?”
“Because you’re a Fae,” Circe says, turning. “And you know how to twist the truth. But you can’t twist this.”
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. Malrik’s magic. His lie. His failure.”
Nyx’s eyes flicker.
Not with fear.
With recognition.
“You think this changes anything?” she says, voice smooth. “You think a single test will undo ten years of work? I am of the Unseelie blood. I am of the High Court. And you—” She looks at Circe. “You are nothing. A witch. A liar. A killer. And you—” She turns to me. “You are a fool. A puppet. A Beta who thinks he can protect a king who doesn’t need him.”
My wolf snarls.
But I hold it.
Because I see it now.
Not just her threat.
Her fear.
She’s losing.
And when a serpent is cornered—
It bites.
“Leave,” I say, voice cold. “Now. Or I’ll make you.”
She doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, her eyes black with hate.
And then—
She turns.
And walks out.
—
Circe doesn’t speak.
Just stands there, her breath coming fast, her magic flaring, her sigil pulsing.
“She’s working with Malrik,” I say, stepping beside her. “The bite mark. The shirt. The scent. It’s all a setup. He’s using her to drive a wedge between you and Lysander.”
“I know.” Her voice is low, dangerous. “And I’m going to burn her to ash.”
“Not yet.” I grab her arm, not hard, but firm. “You play into his hands if you attack her. He wants you to lose control. To lash out. To prove you’re unstable. To prove you’re a threat.”
She turns, eyes blazing. “And if I don’t?”
“Then we make him think you did.” I step closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “We let him believe you’re broken. That you’re doubting. That you’re hating Lysander. And when he thinks he’s won—”
“Then we destroy him.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then—
She pulls away.
“You’re not just protecting him,” she says, turning. “You’re protecting me.”
“Someone has to.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not the enemy,” I say, voice rough. “And neither is he. But Malrik wants you to think you are. He wants you to fight. To break. To fall. And when you do—”
“He wins.”
“And we lose.” I step closer. “But we’re not going to let that happen.”
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 body arches, pressing against her, my core aching, my 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 him.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us all—
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 not mine.
But I’ll burn the world down to keep her.
—
Later, in the war room, I find Lysander standing over the maps, his back to the door, hands braced on the edge. His coat is gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones, the faint scar across his throat. The bond hums between us—steady, warm, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Anticipation.
“She was here,” I say, stepping inside.
He doesn’t turn. “Nyx?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She’s lying. The bite mark. The shirt. The scent. It’s all glamoured. Fae magic. Designed to look real.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stands there, silent, his presence a wall of heat and power.
“You knew,” I say.
“Of course I knew.” He turns, gold eyes blazing in the torchlight. “I didn’t spend the night with her. I didn’t taste her blood. I didn’t let her near me.”
“Then why does she have your shirt?”
“Because Malrik gave it to her.” He steps toward me, his voice dropping to a growl. “He’s using her to drive a wedge between us. To make Circe doubt. To make her hate me. To make her break.”
“And if she does?”
“Then he wins.” He lifts his head, eyes blazing. “But she won’t. Because she’s not weak. She’s not broken. She’s fire. And fire doesn’t burn out—it renews.”
“And if he comes for her?”
“Then I’ll be there.” He steps closer, his presence filling the room like smoke. “And if he comes for me—”
“Then I’ll be there too.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his chest rising and falling too fast, his scent wrapping around me, pulling me in.
And then—
He nods.
“Together,” he says.
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 them.
For them.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t lose them.
Not to vengeance.
Not to fate.
Not to the fire.
Not to anything.
They’re not mine.
But I’ll burn the world down to keep them.