The morning of Torin’s memorial dawned with a hush so deep it felt like the world was holding its breath.
No wind. No waves. No distant cry of gulls over the cliffs. Just silence—thick, reverent, as if even the sea dared not break it. The Keep stood whole again, its spires rising like sentinels from the mist, the silver sigils etched into the stone glowing faintly in the pale light. The cracks were sealed. The blood was washed away. The war was over.
But the grief?
That remained.
I stood at the edge of the cliffside garden, barefoot, dressed in a tunic of dark gray, the fabric simple, unadorned, the hem brushed with dried violets—Mira’s doing, her quiet tribute. My hand rested low on my belly, feeling the quiet flutter beneath my palm. Our son. Our future. And yet, even in the warmth of his presence, even in the steady pulse of the bond beneath my skin, there was a hollow space in my chest.
For Torin.
For the man who had died protecting me.
For the man who had seen the truth before any of us—before Kaelen, before the Council, before even *me*.
“He used to stand right there,” a voice said behind me, low, rough, familiar.
I didn’t turn. “I know.”
Kaelen stepped beside me, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the dim light. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stood close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the low growl in his throat, the weight of his grief.
And it *was* grief.
Not guilt. Not regret.
Grief.
Because Torin hadn’t just been his Beta.
He’d been his brother in all but blood.
“He’d hate this,” Kaelen said, voice quiet. “All the silence. The flowers. The speeches.”
I finally looked at him. “He’d hate the crying more.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “He’d tell us to stop being weak. To stop mourning. To *fight*.”
“And we will,” I said, stepping closer, until our shoulders brushed. “But today? Today we remember.”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Then let me show you,” he murmured. “Let me show you what it means to be mine.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed, steady, strong.
Like a heartbeat not my own.
Like a promise.
Like a vow.
I didn’t answer. Just lifted my hand, slow, and brushed my fingers over his cheek—just once. A jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet. The bond flared. My core clenched.
And then—
I kissed him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it stole my breath. My hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core clenching, already slick, already ready.
He groaned, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip. “Gods, you taste like mine.”
And then—
The world shifted.
The wind stilled. The sea calmed. The bond—
It screamed.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tore through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me climax—right there, in his arms, on the cliffside, with the mist rising from the sea and the Keep watching behind us.
I cried out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He held me, groaning, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I did.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I wanted it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it was over, when the wind returned, when the sea roared, when the bond settled into a quiet, insistent hum—
I was still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still his.
He pulled back, just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. Blood streaked his cheek—my blood, his blood, ours. “Better?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“Neither are you.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched me, like I was something precious, not prey.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make us?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stood there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met his eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into him.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when he finally leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.
Later, the garden filled—slowly, quietly. Not with fanfare. Not with ceremony. Just with presence.
The Ashen Pack came first—Talen, Torin’s second, his scent sharp with grief and anger, his eyes shadowed. He didn’t speak. Just placed a blackthorn blossom on the stone marker at the cliff’s edge. Then the others followed—wolves, all of them, their heads bowed, their steps heavy. No howls. No growls. Just silence.
Then the witches—Niamh, her skin marked with ancient sigils, her voice rough with power. She didn’t speak either. Just lit a candle and placed it at the base of the marker. Then the others—Mira, her hands trembling, her eyes bright. She pressed a vial of moon venom into the earth, whispering a sigil that glowed silver before fading.
Then the humans—former slaves, brothel workers, blood bar attendants. They brought flowers. Candles. Small tokens—a knife, a locket, a child’s drawing of a wolf howling at the moon.
And then—
The Fae.
Not the Summer Court. Not the Winter. Not even the Twilight.
One woman.
Elara.
Her hair was the color of frost, her eyes like polished ice, her scent sharp with sorrow. She wore no glamour. No mask. Just a simple gown of white, her feet bare, her hands empty.
She didn’t speak.
Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until she stood before the marker. Then she knelt.
Not in submission.
In grief.
And then—
She lit a flame.
Not from a candle.
From her own hand.
White fire, pure and cold, rising from her palm, curling around the marker like a ribbon of light. It didn’t burn. Didn’t scorch. Just… honored.
And the bond—
It pulsed, low, insistent.
Because I knew—
This was Torin’s love.
His secret.
His sacrifice.
And now?
Now she was honoring him.
Publicly.
Proudly.
And as the flame burned, as the silence stretched, as the wind finally returned, carrying the scent of salt and violets—
I stepped forward.
Not to speak.
Not to preach.
But to remember.
I placed my hand on the marker—cold stone, etched with a single word: Torin. No title. No rank. No allegiance. Just a name.
And then—
I spoke.
Not loud. Not commanding.
But with truth.
“He didn’t die for a king,” I said, voice steady. “He didn’t die for a cause. He didn’t die for power.” I looked at Talen. At Niamh. At Mira. At Elara. At Kaelen. “He died for *us*.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
But I didn’t flinch.
Just kept going. “He saw the truth before any of us. He saw that the Oath wasn’t just a chain for my bloodline. It was a chain for *all* of us. For the wolves. For the witches. For the humans. For the Fae who dared to love across courts.” I looked at Elara. “He saw that the real war wasn’t between species. It was between those who wanted to control—and those who wanted to be free.”
“And he chose freedom,” Mira said, voice breaking.
“He chose *us*,” Talen growled.
“And he paid the price,” Niamh added.
I nodded. “And now? Now we honor him not with silence. Not with sorrow. But with *action*.” I turned to the crowd. “We honor him by living. By fighting. By loving without fear. By ruling without chains. By being the future he died for.”
And then—
I raised my hand.
The sigil on my hip flared—white-hot, searing, not with pain, but with *power*. The flame from Elara’s hand surged, climbing the marker, wrapping around the name, burning brighter, hotter, until the entire cliffside was lit with cold fire.
And the bond—
It screamed.
Not with magic.
Not with rage.
With truth.
Because Torin hadn’t just died.
He’d ignited a revolution.
And we were its flame.
And then—
Elara stepped forward.
Not to speak.
But to act.
She placed her hand over mine on the marker. Her skin was cool, her grip strong, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “He loved you,” she said, voice low. “Not as a Beta loves his Alpha. Not as a soldier loves his king.” She looked at Kaelen. “But as a man loves a woman. Quietly. Fiercely. Without hope of return.”
Kaelen didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “I know.”
“And he loved *you*,” she said, turning to me. “Not as a protector. Not as a guard. But as a brother. As a friend. As the only person who ever saw him as *more* than a weapon.”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed, low, insistent.
Because she was right.
He had.
And I hadn’t seen it.
Not until it was too late.
“He didn’t want a monument,” Elara said, stepping back. “He didn’t want a name on a stone. He wanted *change*.” She looked at the flame. “And now? Now we give it to him.”
And then—
She turned.
And walked away.
Not into the shadows.
But into the light.
And the flame—
It burned on.
For hours.
For days.
For *forever*.
Later, Kaelen and I stood on the balcony again, the sea roaring below, the stars sharp in the sky. The Keep was quiet now—no alarms, no battles, no blood. Just peace. Just us. Just our child, growing strong beneath my skin.
“Mira sent a message,” he said, voice low. “The rebellion’s still spreading. The collars are gone. The brothels are closed. Virell is in chains.”
I didn’t smile. Didn’t cheer. Just nodded. “Good.”
“And?”
“And she said to tell you—” I turned to face him, slow, deliberate—“she’s not your ally. She’s not your subject. She’s not your problem.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me, those crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not command. Grief.
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” I said, stepping closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. My hand moved to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “Let her be free. Let her fight her own battles. Let her be seen.”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Then let me show you,” he murmured. “Let me show you what it means to be mine.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I kissed him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it steals my breath. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core clenching, already slick, already ready.
He groaned, low and deep, his fangs grazing my lip. “Gods, you taste like mine.”
And then—
The world shifts.
The wind stills. The sea calms. The bond—
It screams.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
A wave of energy so intense it tears through me, white-hot, electric, crashing through my veins, pooling between my legs, making me climax—right there, in his arms, on the balcony, with the sea roaring below and the stars above.
I cry out, my body arching, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He holds me, groaning, his breath hot against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let go. Let me have you.”
And I do.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, I want it.
Wanted him.
Needed him.
And when it’s over, when the wind returns, when the sea roars, when the bond settles into a quiet, insistent hum—
I’m still in his arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still his.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. “Better?” he asks, voice rough.
I don’t answer. Just stare at him, those dark eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I say.
“Neither are you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me, like I’m something precious, not prey.
And that?
That’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make us?
I don’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stand there, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I have to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I don’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lift my head, when I meet his eyes in the dim light, when I see the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I don’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wants to say yes.
Wants to arch into him.
Wants to beg.
But I don’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stay still.
Stay silent.
And when he finally leans in, when his lips hover over mine, when his breath ghosts over my skin—
I don’t say yes.
But my body arches into his.
And then—
I pull back.
Just enough.
And I look at him.
Really look.
Not at the king. Not at the predator. Not at the monster.
At the man.
The one who held me through the worst of it. Who denied his nature. Who let me break him. Who burned his brother to ash with his own blood.
And I know—
This isn’t about revenge.
Not anymore.
It’s about justice.
For my mother.
For Torin.
For all of us.
“He’d be proud,” I say, voice soft.
Kaelen nods, just once. “We’ll make sure he is.”
And as the stars burn above us, as the sea roars below, as the bond pulses steady and strong beneath my skin—
I believe him.