The moon hangs low and fat over the Shadow Keep, bloated and red as if it’s bleeding into the sky. It’s not a good omen. Nothing about tonight is.
I’ve been pacing my chambers for hours, the bond thrumming beneath my skin like a second heartbeat—stronger, darker, more insistent than before. Since the magic test, since Lysander’s lips hovered over mine, since the mirrors showed us *aligned*, something has shifted. Not just between us. Inside me.
The fire in my veins isn’t just rage anymore.
It’s hunger.
And it’s not for vengeance.
It’s for *him*.
I press my palm flat against the stone wall, trying to ground myself, but even the cold stone seems to pulse with the same rhythm as my pulse. My breath comes fast. My skin is too tight. My nipples ache beneath the thin silk of my gown, sensitive to the brush of fabric, to the memory of his hands on my hips, his chest against mine.
I shouldn’t have let him get so close.
I shouldn’t have *wanted* it.
But I did.
And now, the bond is punishing me for it.
A knock at the door.
I freeze.
“Enter,” I say, voice steady.
The door opens.
Lysander.
He fills the doorway, dressed in black leather, his coat unbuttoned, revealing the hard lines of his chest beneath a thin gray shirt. His gold eyes lock onto mine, and something dark flickers in their depths—need, recognition, a predator’s patience.
“You’re coming with me,” he says.
“I’m not your prisoner,” I say, lifting my chin. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“You do tonight.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks. “The full moon rises. My heat cycle begins. And the bond is already pulling at you. If you don’t move, if you don’t *fight*, you’ll be on your knees by dawn, begging me to touch you.”
My breath catches.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He takes a step forward, and I catch it—the scent. Storm and pine, yes, but beneath it, something richer, deeper. *Pheromones*. Thick, primal, intoxicating. They flood the air, wrapping around me like a vice. My knees weaken. My pulse flares. My core clenches, aching with a pressure I can’t name.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, watching me sway. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull. The heat. The way your body betrays you the second I walk into a room?”
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. “I’m not some weak-willed witch who falls at your feet because you *smell* nice.”
He laughs, low and dark. “No. You’re stronger than that. Which is why you’re coming with me. To the courtyard. To patrol. To *fight*.”
“Fight what?”
“Me.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “If you don’t, the bond will consume you. And I won’t be gentle when it does.”
My breath hitches.
He’s not bluffing.
Werewolf heat cycles are real. Every six months, Alphas emit pheromones that compel obedience, that drive lower wolves into frenzy. And fated mates? We’re not immune. We’re *amplified*. The bond magnifies everything—desire, need, submission. If I stay here, locked in this room with him, with the scent of him thick in the air, I *will* break.
I’ll beg.
I’ll *surrender*.
And then I’ll be lost.
“Fine,” I say, stepping past him. “But don’t think this means I trust you.”
“I don’t want your trust,” he says, following me into the hall. “I want your survival.”
—
The courtyard is a battlefield of shadows and moonlight.
Stone paths wind between ancient oaks, their branches clawing at the sky. Torches flicker in iron sconces, casting long, shifting shadows. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, iron, and something wild—*him*. Lysander walks beside me, silent, powerful, his presence a weight against my skin. The bond hums between us, a live wire, pulling us closer with every step.
We’re not alone.
Guards patrol the perimeter—wolves in human form, their eyes watchful, their stances rigid. They don’t speak. Don’t look at us. But I feel their awareness, their tension. They know what’s coming. They know what he is.
And they know what I am.
His fated mate.
His *weakness*.
“Why are we really here?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “You could have locked me in a cell. Drugged me. Done anything to keep me from breaking.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Because I want to see what you’re made of.”
“And if I break?”
“Then you’re not the woman I thought you were.”
I glare at him. “You don’t know me at all.”
“I know enough.” He stops, turning to face me. “I know you’re afraid. I know you’re angry. I know you came here to kill me.”
“And yet here we are,” I say, echoing his words from last night. “Trapped. Together. Bound.”
His eyes darken. “And you still haven’t answered the question.”
“What question?”
“Why *did* you come here?”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t know the answer.
But because I’m afraid of what it means.
“I came for the truth,” I say. “About my coven. About my mother. About who really killed your first mate.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not sure I want it.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because if the truth is that *we’re* meant to be—together—then everything you’ve built, everything you’ve fought for, *collapses*.”
My breath catches.
He’s right.
If Malrik framed me… if Lysander was manipulated… if the bond is real and unbreakable… then my vengeance is meaningless. My mission is a lie.
And I’m not the avenger.
I’m the *mate*.
“I don’t believe in fate,” I say, stepping back. “I believe in choice.”
“Then choose,” he says, stepping forward. “Choose to fight me. Choose to resist. Or choose to *burn* with me.”
Before I can answer, a sound cuts through the night—hooves on stone.
We both turn.
A carriage rolls into the courtyard, black and sleek, pulled by two pale horses with eyes like frozen stars. The Fae envoy from the Chamber of Veins steps out, her silver hair glowing in the moonlight. Behind her—Nyx.
My blood runs cold.
She’s dressed in silk the color of midnight, her curves wrapped in fabric that clings like a second skin. Her lips are painted blood-red, her eyes lined with kohl. And around her neck—
A bite mark.
Fresh.
Deep.
*His*.
“Lysander,” she purrs, stepping forward. “I was hoping to find you here.”
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. But I feel it—the bond between us *snarls*, a ripple of rage and possessiveness that shoots through my core.
“Nyx,” he says, voice cold. “This is a restricted area.”
“Oh, but I have *business* with you.” She glides forward, ignoring me completely. “A treaty to finalize. A *claim* to discuss.”
My fingers twitch.
She’s lying. I can smell it—deceit and jasmine, the same scent as the Fae woman at the gala. She didn’t spend the night with him. She didn’t earn that mark. She *took* it. Or he gave it to her as a political gesture, a way to seal an alliance.
But the bond doesn’t care about truth.
It only knows *threat*.
And Nyx is a threat.
“You should leave,” I say, stepping between them. “The King is on duty.”
She looks at me, finally, her gaze sharp, amused. “And you are?”
“His *mate*,” I say, the word tasting like fire on my tongue.
She laughs. “Oh, darling. A *fated* bond doesn’t make you his mate. *This* does.” She runs a finger over the bite mark. “He *fed* from me. He *claimed* me.”
“He fed to seal a treaty,” Lysander says, his voice flat. “Nothing more.”
“And yet,” she murmurs, “he hasn’t marked *you*, has he, little witch? No bite. No brand. No proof that you’re anything more than a *convenience*.”
My magic flares.
Not from anger.
From *jealousy*.
It surges through me, hot and wild, feeding on the bond, on the heat of the moon, on the scent of him surrounding me. My sigil pulses beneath my sleeve, aching with power.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” I say, voice low. “You think a stolen mark makes you special? He doesn’t *want* you. He *used* you.”
Her smile fades.
“Careful, witch,” she says. “You’re playing with fire.”
“No.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “*You* are.”
She raises a hand—magic crackling at her fingertips.
But before she can strike—
Lysander moves.
In one fluid motion, he grabs her wrist, twists, and *throws* her back into the carriage. The door slams shut. The horses rear, then bolt, vanishing into the night.
Silence.
Then—
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“She was provoking you.”
“And you defended me?” I laugh, bitter. “Don’t pretend this was about *me*. You didn’t want a scandal. You didn’t want the Fae questioning your loyalty.”
“Maybe.” He steps closer, his voice rough. “Or maybe I didn’t like the way she touched what’s *mine*.”
My breath catches.
“You don’t own me.”
“No.” He cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. “But you’re *mine*. Whether you admit it or not.”
The bond flares, unbearable.
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 see it.
The Fae envoy’s carriage—what’s left of it—has vanished down the path. But in the dirt, something glints.
A sigil.
Carved into the wheel track.
Malrik’s mark.
My blood runs cold.
He’s here.
And he’s watching.
“We need to move,” I say, stepping back. “Now.”
“Why?”
“Because someone just sabotaged that carriage. And if they’re targeting the Fae envoy, they’re targeting *us*.”
He doesn’t argue.
He grabs my wrist—again—and pulls me into the shadows.
We move fast, silent, through the trees. The bond hums between us, a live wire, pulling us closer with every step. My breath comes fast. My skin burns. His touch is fire.
Then—
A rustle.
Behind us.
We both stop.
Three figures step from the trees—wolves, but not his. Their eyes glow red, their stances feral. Mercenaries. Hired. Controlled.
“Get behind me,” Lysander growls.
“Don’t order me around,” I snap.
But before I can move, one of them lunges.
Lysander intercepts, a blur of motion, his fist connecting with the wolf’s jaw. The creature stumbles back, but the other two attack—fast, coordinated.
I don’t hesitate.
I drop, roll, and come up with my dagger in hand. One wolf charges. I sidestep, slash—deep across the thigh. He howls, but keeps coming.
Then—
The second one grabs me from behind.
His arms lock around my waist, pinning my arms. I struggle, but he’s strong—too strong. He lifts me, spins—
And I see Lysander, locked in combat with the third.
He can’t help me.
So I do the only thing I can.
I *use* it.
I arch my back, grind my ass against his cock, and *twist*.
He groans—distracted.
Just long enough.
I drive my elbow back, hard, into his throat. He chokes, loosens his grip. I wrench free, spin, and slash—across the neck.
He falls.
I turn—just as Lysander finishes the third with a brutal twist of the neck.
Silence.
Then—
He turns to me, breathing hard, eyes blazing. “You *straddled* him.”
“I *distracted* him,” I correct.
“You *grinded* against him.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “Don’t *ever* let another male touch you like that.”
“Or what?” I challenge. “You’ll mark me? Claim me? Prove to the world that I’m *yours*?”
His eyes darken.
And then—
He grabs me.
Not gently.
He yanks me against him, one hand fisted in my hair, the other at my waist, pulling me so close our bodies are flush. His cock—hard, thick, *aching*—presses against my stomach, hot and heavy through the fabric.
“You want a mark?” he growls. “You want proof?”
My breath hitches.
“Then *take* it,” I whisper, defiant. “If you dare.”
He leans in—lips brushing my ear. “One day, witch. One day, you’ll beg for it.”
He releases me.
I stumble back, heart hammering, body trembling.
“You play with fire,” he says, voice rough. “One day, you won’t walk away.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And the truth is—
I don’t *want* to walk away.
I want to *burn*.
With him.
For him.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because if I let myself want him—
Then I’m not the hunter.
I’m the prey.
And in this court, the prey always burns.