The wind howled through the northern pass like a wounded beast, tearing at my cloak, biting through the leather of my boots. I’d run for hours—through the Veil’s edge, across the scorched plains where Blackthorne’s shadow first fell, past the bloodvine thickets that pulsed with ancient magic. My lungs burned. My legs trembled. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when every breath carried his name like a curse. Not when the truth Maeve had given me threatened to crack my skull open.
Malrik was my father.
Cassia had been pregnant.
Kaelen had known. He’d carried that secret like a blade against his ribs, let me hate him, let me call him a monster—because he’d promised to protect me.
And now he was burning.
I’d felt it in the bond—his fever, raw and ravenous, not from the magic, but from *me*. From my absence. From the choice I’d made to leave. And in that moment, when his voice had cracked through the silence—*“Athena. I’m coming back.”*—I’d known I couldn’t stay away. Not when he was falling. Not when Malrik was circling. Not when the war I’d come to start had already begun without me.
I crested the final ridge, and there it was—Blackthorne Keep, its towers clawing at the storm-choked sky, torches flickering like dying stars along the battlements. The gates were open. Guards stood at attention, but their eyes were on the courtyard, not the road. A crowd had gathered—vampires in black velvet, werewolves in fur and steel, a few Fae nobles with their hair like spun moonlight. All of them watching. Waiting.
Something was happening.
I moved faster, my boots pounding the gravel, my breath ragged. I didn’t care who saw me. Didn’t care if I looked like a wild thing, hair tangled, dress torn, eyes wide with fire. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the whispers, the stares, the way their scents hit me—blood, sweat, fear, power.
And then I saw him.
Kaelen.
He stood in the center of the courtyard, coat open, fangs bared, red eyes burning. His hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. He wasn’t looking at me. Wasn’t even aware I was here. His focus was on the figure before him—tall, silver-braided, golden-eyed.
Riven.
The werewolf Alpha stood with his arms crossed, a smirk on his lips, his wolf form rippling just beneath his skin. He wore no armor, just a leather vest and trousers, but the power radiating from him was enough to make the torches flicker. Around his neck hung a silver pendant—the mark of a Council challenger.
My stomach dropped.
No.
Not now.
“You think I’ll let you stand there,” Riven said, voice smooth, dangerous, “and pretend you’re still fit to rule? You’re weak, Kaelen. Broken. Your mate runs from you. Your blood fever consumes you. And now you let a *human* burn your men to ash?”
“She’s not just human,” Kaelen said, voice low, rough. “And she’s not running. She’s fighting.”
“Fighting what?” Riven sneered. “Her own husband? Her own fate? Or is she out there right now, whispering secrets to Malrik?”
“She’s out there,” I said, stepping forward, “because she’s smarter than you.”
The crowd stilled.
Riven turned, his golden eyes locking onto mine. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “Ah. The fire-witch returns. Did you come to watch him fall?”
“I came to stop you,” I said, moving to Kaelen’s side. My hand found his—cool, steady, trembling just slightly. The bond flared between us, hot and deep, a pulse of relief, of need, of something darker, something *awake*.
“You don’t belong here,” Riven said. “This is between Alphas. Between warriors. Not pets.”
“She’s not a pet,” Kaelen said, stepping slightly in front of me, shielding me. “She’s my mate. My equal. And if you challenge me, you challenge *her* too.”
Riven laughed—low, throaty. “Then let her fight. Let her prove she’s more than just a burning toy.”
“No,” I said, stepping around Kaelen. “I won’t fight you. Not here. Not now. But I will say this—”
I stepped closer, until I was just inches from him. His scent hit me—wolf, pine, bloodlust. His eyes narrowed, but I didn’t flinch.
“You think you’re strong,” I said, voice quiet, dangerous. “You think you’re a predator. But you’re not. You’re a scavenger. You wait for the wounded. You circle the broken. And now you see him hurting, and you think you can take his seat?”
His lip curled. “And if I do?”
“Then you’ll die,” I said. “Because I’ll burn you first.”
The crowd inhaled.
Riven’s smirk faltered.
And then—
He lunged.
Not at me.
At Kaelen.
One second, he was standing. The next, he was a blur of muscle and fang, slamming into Kaelen with enough force to crack stone. They went down in a tangle of limbs, snarling, fangs bared, claws raking. The crowd surged back, but no one intervened. This was werewolf law. Challenge by combat. Winner takes the seat.
I didn’t move.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I *knew*.
Kaelen could win. He was stronger, faster, centuries of war honed into his bones. But he was weakened—by the fever, by the bond, by the truth I’d left him with. And Riven knew it. He was fighting dirty, using the chaos, the crowd, the distraction.
And then—
Kaelen roared.
Not in pain.
In *fury*.
He threw Riven off, rolling to his feet, coat torn, blood streaking his cheek. His fangs were fully extended now, his eyes blazing. He didn’t speak. Didn’t threaten. Just moved—fast, brutal, a storm of shadow and steel.
Riven met him.
They clashed again, fists and fangs and claws, the sound of impact echoing through the courtyard. Blood sprayed. Stone cracked. The torches flickered, then died, plunging us into near-darkness. Only the moonlight remained, silver and cold, painting their silhouettes in stark relief.
I watched.
Not as a wife. Not as a spy.
As a woman who’d just learned she was fighting for the man she loved.
And then—
Riven got in a hit.
A brutal slash across Kaelen’s ribs, deep enough to draw a line of black blood. Kaelen staggered, his breath ragged, his movements slowing. Riven pressed the advantage, driving him back, fangs bared, eyes wild.
“You’re done,” Riven snarled. “The Council seat is mine. The city is mine. And your mate?” He glanced at me, a cruel smirk on his lips. “I’ll take her too.”
Something snapped.
Not in him.
In *me*.
I stepped forward.
Not with fire.
Not with magic.
With *truth*.
“You want the seat?” I said, voice loud, clear, cutting through the silence. “You want the city? You want *me*?”
Riven turned, his eyes narrowing. “Stay out of this, witch.”
“No,” I said. “Because you don’t know what you’re fighting for. You think this is about power? About dominance? About *pride*?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “This is about *love*.”
He laughed. “Love? That’s what weakens him.”
“No,” I said. “It’s what makes him *strong*. Because he fights not to win. He fights to *protect*. To keep me alive. To keep me free. And if you take that from him—”
I raised my hand.
Fire erupted—not a spark. Not a flicker. A *wave*. A roaring, golden-white inferno that tore through the air, slamming into Riven like a battering ram. He screamed—high, guttural—as the flames consumed him, his skin blackening, his clothes burning, his body collapsing into ash before he even hit the ground.
The courtyard was silent.
No gasps. No screams. No chants.
Just stillness.
And then—
Kaelen turned to me.
His chest heaved. His fangs still ached. Blood streaked his face. But his eyes—his red eyes—burned with something I’d never seen before.
Not rage.
Not hunger.
*Awe*.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice rough.
“Yes, I did,” I said, stepping forward. “Because he was going to kill you. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Why?”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for his face, my fingers brushing the blood on his cheek. His breath caught. His eyes closed. The bond flared—hot, deep, a pulse between us, not of magic, but of *need*.
“Because I love you,” I whispered. “And I won’t lose you. Not to him. Not to Malrik. Not to *anyone*.”
His eyes snapped open.
And then—
He pulled me to him.
Not gently. Not carefully.
With *possession*.
His arm locked around my waist, yanking me against him, until there was no space between us. My breath caught. My hands fisted in his coat. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
“You don’t have to fight for me,” he said, voice low, rough. “I can protect you.”
“I know,” I said. “But I don’t want protection. I want *partnership*. I want to fight *with* you. Not behind you. Not beside you. *With* you.”
He stilled.
Then—
He smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a sneer.
A *smile*.
Slow. Real. Devouring.
“Then fight with me,” he said. “Burn with me. Rule with me. *Live* with me.”
“Yes,” I said. “But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“No more secrets,” I said. “No more lies. No more carrying the weight alone. You tell me everything. Even the things that hurt. Even the things that scare you. Even the things you think will make me hate you.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” he said. “But only if you do the same.”
“Always,” I said.
And then—
I kissed him.
Not fire. Not teeth. Not desperation.
But *truth*.
Slow. Deep. Devouring.
His lips sealed over mine, not claiming, not conquering, but *answering*. And I answered back. My hands fisted in his coat, pulling him closer, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
But this time—this time it wasn’t the fever. Not the bond. Not the magic.
It was *me*.
I broke the kiss, just enough to breathe, to look at him, to see the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes.
“No fangs,” I whispered.
He smiled—just slightly, just enough. “No blood. No magic. Just… this.”
And then he kissed me again.
Not slow this time. Not careful.
Fire.
Teeth and tongue and desperation. He groaned, his arms locking around me, pulling me closer, until there was no space between us. The bond *screamed*—a live wire, a pulse of heat and need. I could feel his thoughts, not in words, but in sensation: closer, more, now.
His hands slid down my back, under the curve of my ass, lifting me slightly, pressing me against the hard length of him. I gasped, my hips grinding down, seeking friction. He growled, his mouth trailing down my jaw, to the pulse point at my throat. I arched, offering myself.
“Kaelen—”
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his fangs grazing my skin. “Or I won’t.”
I didn’t answer.
I arched my neck, offering myself.
And gods help me, he wanted to take her.
He wanted to bite. To mark. To claim her in front of every root, every vine, every secret this cursed forest held.
But then—
He 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 pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the contact. My hand still in her hair. My body still pressed to hers. My breath ragged.
“No,” I said, voice raw. “Not like this.”
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
“I won’t take you like this,” I said. “Not with the bond screaming in your blood. Not with your mind torn between vengeance and desire. Not when you don’t know if you want me—or if you just want to destroy me.”
Her eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” I said. “Because if I take you now, it won’t be you choosing me. It’ll be the magic. And I want you. Not a spell. Not a bond. You.”
She stared at me. Then—anger. Hot, fierce, beautiful.
“You’re a coward,” she spat. “You don’t get to touch me and then walk away like some noble martyr. You don’t get to—”
“I don’t want to walk away,” I said, cutting her off. “I want to stay. I want to fight for you. I want to earn you. But not like this. Not when the bond is forcing us.”
She shoved me—hard. I let her. Stepped back, giving her space. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned.
“You hate me,” she said.
“You don’t,” I said. “You hate that you want me.”
She didn’t answer. Just turned, snatching up the satchel, her movements sharp, furious.
And then—
She froze.
Her breath stopped.
Her eyes locked onto something at my neck.
I followed her gaze.
The locket.
I’d forgotten it. In the heat, the hunger, the need—I’d forgotten it was there. The silver chain, thin and old, the locket itself small, antique. Cassia’s face inside. Her dark hair, high cheekbones, haunting smile.
I’d worn it every night since she died. Hidden beneath my shirt. A secret. A penance. A promise.
And now it was exposed.
She reached out—slow, trembling—and snapped it open.
And there she was.
Cassia.
Smiling. Alive. Gone.
Athena’s breath came in short, desperate gasps. Her fingers tightened around the locket. Her eyes filled with tears—but not of grief.
Of rage.
“You kept this,” she whispered. “All this time. You kept her close.”
“Because she asked me to.”
“And you never showed it to me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see it.”
“You didn’t think you’d want to see my sister’s face?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see it around my neck.”
She stared at me. The bond flared—pain, heat, truth.
And then—
She slapped me.
Not hard. Not cruel. But sharp. A crack in the silence. My head snapped to the side. I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Did you love her?” she asked, voice breaking. “Did you love her?”
“No,” I said, turning back to her. “I protected her. I promised her I’d keep you safe. And I will. Even if you hate me. Even if you never believe me. Even if you never stop fighting me.”
She didn’t answer.
She just stared at the locket. At her sister’s face. At the promise I’d made.
And then—
She stood.
Not running. Not screaming. Just standing. Slow. Deliberate. Her eyes dark, unreadable.
“I need air,” she said.
And she walked out of the hollow.
I didn’t stop her.
I couldn’t.
Because for the first time in four hundred years—
I was afraid.
Afraid she might believe me.
Afraid she might not.
Afraid that if she did, I’d lose her anyway.
The forest was silent.
The fire between us?
It wasn’t just beginning.
It was consuming us.
And I didn’t know if we’d survive it.
But this time—
I wouldn’t let go.
Not of her.
Not of us.
Not of the truth.
And as the sun rose over Blackthorne Keep, painting the sky in gold and crimson, I made a silent vow.
I would fight for her.
Not just with fangs and blood and fire.
But with every broken piece of my soul.
Because Athena wasn’t just my fated mate.
She was my redemption.
And I would not lose her.
Even if it killed me.
Even if she never loved me back.
Even if she never stopped hating me.
I would fight for her.
Because she was worth it.
And as I stood there, the garden quiet, the roses glistening, the bond humming beneath my skin, I realized—
For the first time in four hundred years—
I wasn’t afraid of love.
I was afraid of losing it.
And that—
That was the difference.