The city breathes beneath me—Avalon, the hidden heart of supernatural power, carved from the bones of old London. Neon veins pulse through the undercity, blood bars flicker with red-light allure, and the scent of magic, iron, and desire hangs thick in the air. But none of it matters now.
All I feel is *her*.
Ebony.
She’s lighter than I expected. Smaller. But there’s fire in her bones, a spine of steel wrapped in silk and fury. She fought me all the way to the car—kicking, twisting, spitting curses like poisoned darts. Her magic flared, wild and untamed, lashing out in pulses of crimson light. But the bond held. It *answered*. Every time she tried to break free, the sigils on her wrist flared brighter, pulling her back to me like a tether forged in Fae fire.
Now she’s silent.
Bound not by rope or steel, but by blood and magic.
She sits across from me in the back of the armored limousine, her back rigid against the leather, her eyes fixed on the window. The city’s glow paints her profile in streaks of red and blue—cold, beautiful, dangerous. Her bare wrist rests on her thigh, the golden sigils still faintly glowing, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. I can feel it. Not just see it. The bond hums between us, a live wire strung from her skin to mine. It’s not just magic. It’s *hunger*. And it’s growing.
“You’re staring,” she says, voice sharp as glass.
“You’re mine,” I reply. Simple. True.
She turns her head slowly, those dark eyes locking onto mine. “I’m no one’s property, Alpha. Especially not a D’Vaire’s.”
“Then why does your body respond when I touch you?”
Her breath hitches—just slightly. A crack in the ice. I saw it back in the gallery. Felt it. When I pressed my lips to the sigil, when my fangs grazed her neck—her pulse spiked. Her scent changed. *Desire*. Not fear. Not hatred. *Want.*
She doesn’t answer. Just looks away, jaw clenched. But her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress, and the sigils flicker.
Good.
Let her fight it. Let her rage. The bond doesn’t care. It only knows one truth: we are bound. And if we don’t stabilize it—through annulment or consummation—the Council will exile us both. No more Avalon. No more power. No more protection.
And I won’t lose my city.
Not for her. Not for anyone.
The car slows, turning through iron gates that part like living things. My estate rises before us—black stone, gothic spires, a fortress carved into the cliffs above the Undercity. No windows on the lower levels. No weak points. Only strength. Control. *Mine.*
She doesn’t flinch as we pull up. Doesn’t gasp. Just watches, calculating. I know that look. I’ve seen it in enemies before they strike.
“Welcome home,” I say.
“This isn’t my home,” she snaps as the door opens. “I’m not staying.”
I step out first, then reach for her. She tries to pull away, but I catch her wrist—gently this time. The sigils flare, warm against my palm. She hisses, but doesn’t fight.
“You don’t have a choice,” I say. “The Fae contract binds us until it’s broken or completed. And the Council will be watching. If we don’t prove the bond is stable, they’ll exile us both. You’ll be cut off from your mission. From *him*.”
Her eyes narrow. “Lucien.”
“You want him,” I say. “I get it. I do. But you won’t get close to him if you’re banished to the human world with no magic, no name, no power.”
She stares at me, searching for lies. But I don’t give her any. Not this time.
“So I’m your prisoner,” she says.
“You’re my *wife*.”
She flinches at the word. Good. Let it burn. Let it remind her.
“I didn’t consent.”
“Your mother did. And the Fae don’t care about consent. They care about blood. And yours is bound to mine.”
I lead her inside, past silent Enforcers who bow their heads. Riven waits at the foot of the grand staircase, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“She’s here,” he says.
“You don’t need to state the obvious,” I reply.
“She’s dangerous.”
“So am I.”
Riven’s gaze flicks to Ebony. “She’s not just a witch, is she?”
I don’t answer. Not yet. But I’ve felt it—the way her magic bends to the bond, the way her blood sings when I touch her. Fae-touched. Rare. Powerful. And if the High Court finds out… she’ll be executed.
“Take her to the east wing,” I say. “Guest suite. Reinforced wards. No outbound magic.”
“You’re locking me up?” Ebony demands.
“I’m keeping you *alive*,” I snap. “You think Lucien won’t come for you the second you step outside? You think the Fae won’t drag you to Orlanth the moment they sense your blood? You’re not just a threat to me, Ebony. You’re a threat to *everyone* who gets close to you.”
She goes still. For the first time, doubt flickers in her eyes.
Good.
Let her see the truth. This isn’t just about power. It’s about survival.
Riven steps forward. “This way, Ms. Vale.”
She doesn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere with him.”
“You don’t have a choice,” I say. “But if it makes you feel better—*I* could carry you.”
Her eyes flash. “Try it, and I’ll burn you alive.”
I step closer, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. “You already did, remember? With your magic. And I’m still standing.”
She doesn’t back down. But her pulse jumps. Her scent shifts—spice and heat. The bond *thrums*.
“Go,” I say to Riven. “She’ll follow.”
He hesitates, then turns. Ebony watches him, then glares at me one last time before following.
Alone, I close my eyes and press a hand to my chest.
The pain hits like a blade.
It starts deep—behind my ribs, in the hollow where my wolf claws at the cage of my skin. A feverish heat. A *hunger*. The bond is unstable. It’s demanding completion. And if I don’t stabilize it, the bond-sickness will take me. Hallucinations. Pain. Madness.
I’ve seen it before. An Alpha, driven mad by a broken bond, torn apart by his own pack.
It won’t happen to me.
I won’t let it.
But I can’t force her. Not yet. The bond won’t accept a lie. It feeds on truth, on desire. And Ebony Vale doesn’t *want* me. Not really.
But she will.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
I find her an hour later.
She’s not in the suite. Not in the library. Not in the training hall.
She’s in the garden.
The moon is full, casting silver light over the black roses that grow in twisted spirals along the stone walls. She stands in the center, barefoot on the cold stone, her white dress glowing like a ghost’s shroud. Her arms are outstretched, her head tilted back. Magic curls from her fingertips—crimson threads, weaving through the air like living ink.
She’s trying to break the bond.
“It won’t work,” I say, stepping into the light.
She doesn’t startle. Just lowers her arms, the magic dissolving like smoke. “I had to try.”
“You’ll only hurt yourself.”
“Hurting myself is better than belonging to you.”
I move closer. The bond hums, louder now. Her sigils glow faintly. “You think I wanted this? A wife I don’t know? A bond I didn’t choose?”
“But you’re not trying to break it.”
“Because I know what happens if we fail.”
“Exile,” she says. “No more power. No more city.”
“And war,” I add. “If the Council collapses, the packs will tear each other apart. The vampires will feast on the weak. The Fae will play their games until the city burns. You think Lucien won’t use that chaos to seize power?”
She goes still. “You’re saying you’re the only thing standing between order and war?”
“I’m saying *we* are.”
She laughs—short, bitter. “You expect me to believe we’re some kind of saviors?”
“I expect you to be smart enough to know when to stop fighting the inevitable.”
She turns away, staring at the moon. “I came here to bury you, Kaelen. But the Fae have other plans.”
Her voice is quiet. Raw. And for the first time, I hear it—*grief*. Not just for her mother. For everything she’s lost. Everything she’s had to become.
And something in me *aches*.
I step forward. “Then let me help you.”
She whirls on me. “Help me? You’re the reason I can’t reach the vault. You’re the reason I can’t expose Lucien!”
“And if you rush in blind, you’ll die. Just like your mother.”
Her face goes white. “Don’t you *dare*—”
“I’m not your enemy, Ebony. Lucien is.”
“And you protected him!”
“I protected the *pack*! The city! If I’d moved against him, it would’ve started a war. And innocent people would’ve died. Was that what you wanted?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, chest heaving.
The bond flares—hot, sudden. A wave of heat rolls through me. I see it in her too—her breath catches, her nipples tighten beneath the silk, her thighs press together. The moon. The garden. The magic in the air. It’s triggering the bond’s heat cycle.
“You feel it,” I say, voice rough.
“It’s just magic,” she whispers.
“It’s *us*.”
I close the distance. One step. Then another. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t fight. Just watches me, eyes wide, breath shallow.
I reach for her.
She doesn’t pull away.
My hand closes around her waist, pulling her against me. Our bodies align—chest to chest, hip to hip. Heat floods between us. The sigils on her wrist burn against my skin. Her breath hitches. My wolf growls, *want, need, take*.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I lift her. One arm under her knees, the other around her back. She gasps, hands flying to my shoulders. Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist.
“What are you doing?” she demands, but her voice is shaky.
“Taking you inside,” I say. “Before the bond burns us both alive.”
She doesn’t fight. Just clings to me, her breath warm on my neck, her body trembling against mine. Every step sends shockwaves through the bond—her thighs squeezing my hips, her chest pressing to my chest, her scent—jasmine and blood and *her*—filling my lungs.
By the time we reach her suite, we’re both breathing hard.
I set her down gently, but don’t let go. My hands stay on her waist. Her legs stay around me. Our faces are inches apart. Her eyes are dark, dilated. Her lips part.
“You’re not leaving,” I say, voice low.
“Neither are you,” she whispers.
And then—
She leans in.
Not to kiss me.
But her breath brushes my lips. Her body arches. The bond *screams*.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
And then she pulls back, shoving me away with a snarl. “Don’t touch me again.”
I step back, hands up. “Fine.”
She slams the door in my face.
But I hear it—the shaky breath. The whimper. The sound of her sliding down the door, broken.
I press my forehead to the wood.
“I came here to bury you,” she said.
But the truth?
We’re already buried.
Together.