The Moon Festival was a farce.
Not because of the music—drums pounding like war beats, flutes wailing like lost souls, strings trembling with forbidden desire. Not because of the lights—lanterns of enchanted glass floating above the city, glowing in hues of silver, violet, and blood-red, shifting with the mood of the crowd. Not even because of the scent—thick with arousal, adrenaline, and the metallic tang of bloodlust barely restrained.
It was a farce because we were all pretending.
Vampires pretending they didn’t crave the throats of the werewolves grinding against them in the dance circles. Werewolves pretending they didn’t want to tear out our jugulars with their teeth. Fae pretending they weren’t slipping glamour into every drink, every kiss, every whispered promise. And witches—silent, watchful, their sigils hidden beneath their sleeves—pretending they weren’t ready to burn it all down.
And me?
I was pretending I didn’t want to rip every hand off Athena’s body.
She stood beside me on the raised dais in the heart of the Grand Square, draped in red silk that clung to her curves like flame. Not the defiant red of our wedding. Not the reckless red of rebellion. This was different. This was *power*. The fabric shimmered with every breath, catching the light, drawing every eye in the square. Her dark hair was loose, wild, framing her face like a storm. Her lips were painted the color of crushed pomegranates. And her eyes—dark, sharp, alive—scanned the crowd with the precision of a hunter.
She looked like a queen.
And every creature in this city wanted her.
“You’re tense,” she murmured, not looking at me. Her voice was low, barely audible over the music, but the bond carried it straight to my bones.
“You’re wearing red,” I said, jaw clenched. “In a city full of predators.”
“I know what I’m doing,” she replied, finally turning to me. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “You don’t get to decide what I wear.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, my voice dropping. “But I get to decide what happens when someone touches you.”
Her breath hitched. Just slightly. But I felt it—the way her pulse jumped in her throat, the way her scent deepened, sweetened. The bond flared, a pulse between us, hot and deep. Not just desire. Not just need. *Claiming.*
And then—
Riven appeared.
She moved through the crowd like a blade through silk—silver braid coiled over one shoulder, golden eyes sharp with challenge, her werewolf form rippling just beneath her skin. She wore a coat of wolf pelt, open to reveal a corset of black leather, her body taut with power. When she reached the dais, she didn’t bow. Didn’t kneel. Just stared at me, then at Athena, then back at me.
“Kaelen,” she said, voice smooth, dangerous. “Still clinging to your human pet?”
Athena didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “Still desperate for attention?” she countered. “Or did you come to lose another duel?”
Riven’s lips curled. “You think he’ll protect you forever?”
“I don’t need protection,” Athena said. “I have fire.”
Riven laughed—low, throaty. “Fire burns out. Teeth last.”
And then she turned, walking into the crowd, her presence rippling through the square like a storm.
“She’s challenging you,” Athena said, voice quiet.
“I know,” I said. “And she’s going to lose.”
She didn’t answer. Just watched the crowd, her fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger at her hip—Cassia’s dagger, now cleansed of Lirien’s lies, now a symbol of truth.
“You’re not afraid,” I said.
“I should be,” she replied. “But I’m not.”
“Why?”
She turned to me, her dark eyes burning. “Because I finally know who I am. Not just a sister. Not just a spy. Not just your wife. I’m *me*. And I won’t be cowed by her. Or by you.”
The bond flared—hotter, deeper. Not just magic. Not just fate.
Something real.
And then—
The drums changed.
Not a shift in rhythm. A *command*. A single, thunderous beat that silenced the flutes, the strings, the whispers. The crowd stilled. The lanterns dimmed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
And then—
A howl.
Not from Riven. Not from her pack.
From the shadows.
A rogue wolf—emaciated, feral, eyes black with madness—leapt onto the dais, saliva dripping from its jaws, muscles coiled for attack. The crowd screamed, scattering. Guards drew weapons. But they were too slow.
It lunged at Athena.
Not to kill.
To *claim*.
Werewolf heat cycles were brutal—uncontrollable desire, primal hunger, the need to mate or destroy. And this one—this broken thing—had targeted her. The red silk. The fire in her eyes. The scent of power.
He saw her as a prize.
And I saw red.
I moved before thought—faster than shadow, stronger than steel. I intercepted the wolf mid-leap, slamming him into the stone floor with enough force to crack the tiles. He snarled, twisting, claws raking my coat, but I was already on him, my forearm across his throat, my fangs bared.
“Touch her,” I growled, voice guttural, inhuman, “and I’ll rip your heart out.”
He thrashed, snapping, but I pressed harder. His ribs cracked. His breath wheezed. And then—
Athena stepped forward.
Not to stop me.
To *watch*.
Her eyes were wide, not with fear. With *recognition*.
She saw me.
Not the warlord. Not the tyrant.
The monster.
And she didn’t flinch.
“Kaelen,” she said, voice calm. “Let him go.”
“No.”
“He’s not a threat anymore.”
“He looked at you.”
“And you looked back,” she said, stepping closer. “Now let him go. Or you’re no better than him.”
The bond flared—hot, sharp, a pulse of truth. She was right. I was losing control. Not because of the wolf. Because of *her*. Because of the way my fangs ached, the way my blood burned, the way every instinct screamed to *claim* her, to mark her, to make sure no one ever dared look at her again.
But she didn’t want a monster.
She wanted a man.
So I stepped back.
Let the wolf crawl away, broken, whimpering.
And then—
I turned to her.
My chest heaved. My fangs still ached. My hands trembled with the need to touch her, to pull her close, to taste her.
And then—
The crowd returned.
Not slowly. Not cautiously.
All at once.
Like a wave.
They surged forward, not in fear. In *fascination*. The fight had excited them. The power. The danger. And now they wanted more.
They wanted a *claiming*.
“Mark her!” someone shouted.
“Bite her!” another cried.
“Make it real!”
The chants grew, louder, wilder, a rhythm of their own. Drums pounded. Lanterns flared. The air thickened with scent—lust, blood, magic.
Athena looked at me, her eyes wide. “They want a show.”
“They’ll get one,” I said.
And then I pulled her to me.
Not gently. Not carefully.
With *possession*.
My arm locked around her waist, yanking her against me, until there was no space between us. Her breath caught. Her hands fisted in my coat. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel her thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“Yes, I do,” I said, my voice low, rough. “They need to know. They all need to know.”
“Know what?”
“That you’re *mine*.”
And then I kissed her.
Not slow. Not careful.
*Fire.*Teeth and tongue and desperation. She gasped, but I didn’t let go. My fangs grazed her lower lip—just enough to sting—and she answered with a moan, her body arching into mine. The crowd roared. The drums pounded. The lanterns flared crimson.
And then—
I moved.
My mouth trailed down her jaw, to the pulse point at her throat. Her breath hitched. Her fingers dug into my shoulders. The bond flared—hotter, deeper, a pulse between her thighs, sudden and deep.
“Kaelen—”
“Tell me to stop,” I said, my fangs grazing her skin. “Or I won’t.”
She didn’t answer.
She arched her neck, offering herself.
And gods help me, I wanted to take her.
I wanted to bite. To mark. To claim her in front of every vampire, every werewolf, every Fae who dared look at her.
But then—
I saw it.
In the reflection of a shattered lantern—her face. Not just desire. Not just need.
Trust.
Not of the bond.
Not of fate.
Of *me*.
And that—
That was the line.
I bit down.
Not hard. Not cruel.
Just enough.
My fangs pierced her skin, a sharp sting, then warmth, then fire. Her blood hit my tongue—bright, human, alive with magic. The bond *screamed*—a pulse of ecstasy that ripped through her, through me, through the crowd. She cried out, her body arching, her hands clutching me, her scent spiking—musk and salt and something sweet, like crushed juniper berries.
And then—
I sealed the wound with my tongue.
Pressed my lips to the mark.
And lifted my head.
The square was silent.
No chants. No drums. No whispers.
Just stillness.
And then—
“This is my mate,” I said, voice loud, raw, carrying over the silence. “My blood. My truth.”
No one moved.
No one breathed.
And then—
Riven stepped forward.
Not with a challenge.
With a bow.
Low. Respectful.
And behind her, the crowd followed.
Bows. Kneels. Heads lowered.
Not to me.
To *her*.
Athena looked at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Blood still glistened at her throat. The mark pulsed faintly, silver and red, a sigil of our bond.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.
“Yes, I did,” I said. “They needed to see. You needed to see.”
“See what?”
“That I’m not just your husband.”
“What are you, then?”
I cupped her face, my thumb brushing the pulse at her throat, over the mark. “I’m the man who would burn the world for you. And the man who will rebuild it *with* you.”
The bond flared—hot, deep, a wave of emotion that wasn’t mine. Love. Awe. *Need.*
And then—
She kissed me.
Not fire. Not teeth.
But *truth*.
Slow. Deep. Devouring.
And for the first time—
I didn’t fight it.
I let her in.
And the world burned.
But this time—
It wasn’t destruction.
It was rebirth.
And I would never let her go.