The Blood Moon rose like a wound in the sky.
It wasn’t natural. Not really. Just a full moon, swollen and crimson, hanging low over the cliffs of Blackthorn Keep, bleeding light across the storm-wrecked stone. But to my kind—to those of wolf-blood—it was more than a phase. It was a call. A command. A force as old as the earth, older than magic, older than hate.
It was Heat.
I felt it before I understood it—a slow, insistent throb between my legs, a slick warmth that bloomed without warning. I was in my room, pacing, trying to focus on the next move, on the sigil hidden in my sleeve, on the truth Mira had whispered through the wards the night before: *Your mother didn’t fail. She was betrayed.* But my body wasn’t listening. My wolf was rising, restless, hungry, pacing behind my ribs like a caged thing.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not the usual hum, not the quiet pulse beneath my skin. This was fire. This was need. A surge of heat so intense it stole my breath, sent my knees buckling. I caught myself on the edge of the bed, gasping, sweat breaking across my brow. My skin was on fire. My pulse roared in my ears. Between my thighs—God, *between my thighs*—there was a slow, relentless ache, a clenching, a *pulling*.
No.
Not now.
Not *here*.
I stumbled to the washbasin, splashed cold water on my face. It didn’t help. The scent of my own arousal—sharp, sweet, undeniable—filled the air. My breath came in shallow gasps. My hands trembled. I could feel my wolf pressing forward, wanting out, wanting *him*.
Because that was the truth of it.
Heat didn’t just drive a female wolf to mate.
It drove her to her *mate*.
And mine—fated, cursed, *hated*—was Kaelen Duskbane.
I pressed my back to the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet. Not until the next cycle. I’d been careful. I’d used herbs, sigils, witch’s brews to suppress it. But the storm, the bond, the blood-sharing—something had broken the seal. And now, it was here.
And I was alone.
No.
Not alone.
The bond pulsed, warm and insistent. He was near. I could feel him—his presence like a second heartbeat, his scent curling through the air even through the stone. Dark amber. Iron. Wild. *Him.*
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Don’t come,” I whispered. “Don’t you dare come.”
But he did.
The door opened without a knock. Without a sound. Just a shift in the air, a ripple in the bond, and then he was there—tall, dark, *inevitable*—filling the doorway in his midnight coat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fangs just visible in the low light.
His eyes flared crimson the moment he stepped inside.
“You’re in Heat,” he said, voice low, rough.
“Get out,” I choked, pressing myself harder against the wall.
He didn’t move. Just stood there, nostrils flaring, scenting the air. His chest rose and fell, just once, just enough. “Your scent…” He inhaled, slow. “It’s driving me mad.”
“Then leave.”
“I can’t.”
“You *have* to.”
He stepped forward. “You’re delirious. You’re trembling. You’re—” his eyes dropped to my lips—“*wet*.”
“Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He crouched, bringing us eye to eye. “Don’t see you? Don’t *want* you? Too late, River. I’ve wanted you since the moment you touched me.”
My breath hitched. My core clenched. I could feel the slickness between my thighs, could smell my own need sharp in the air. And him—his scent, dark and intoxicating—filled my lungs.
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“You want me.”
“No—”
“Don’t lie,” he warned. “The sigil will burn you raw.”
I stayed silent. Because he was right. And because if I spoke, I might scream. Or beg.
He reached out, slow, and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. His fingers grazed my skin—just once—and a jolt of sensation shot through me, sharp and sweet. My hips shifted forward, just slightly. Just enough.
He saw it. Felt it.
His fangs flashed. “You’re close,” he murmured. “So close to breaking.”
“I won’t.”
“You already are.”
He stood, pulling me up with him. One arm around my waist, holding me steady. I was shaking—whole-body tremors, my legs weak, my breath coming in gasps. He could feel it. Smell it. *Taste* it.
And he was *restraining* himself.
That was the worst part.
Because I could feel the hunger in him—the low, quiet growl in his throat, the tension in his arms, the way his fangs lengthened when I whimpered. He wanted me. Needed me. *Craved* me.
But he wasn’t taking.
“You’re not thinking straight,” he said, voice rough. “You’re in Heat. Your wolf is driving you. Your body is begging for release.”
“Then give it to me,” I said, the words tearing from my throat before I could stop them. “Take me. Bite me. *Claim* me.”
His breath caught.
His eyes blazed.
For a heartbeat, I thought he would. Thought he’d throw me on the bed, tear off my clothes, and *take* what he’d been denying himself since the moment I’d walked into his life.
But he didn’t.
He stepped back.
“No,” he said, voice sharp. Final.
“Why?” I gasped, swaying on my feet. “You’ve wanted this. You’ve *tortured* me for it.”
“And I won’t have you like this.”
“Like *what*?”
“Like *them*.”
I blinked. “What?”
He turned away, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides. “You think I don’t know what they did to your mother? What they do to females in Heat? Chain them. Muzzle them. Force the claiming, the bite, the bond—like animals. Like *prey*.”
My breath caught.
“I won’t be that monster,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not for you. Not ever.”
I stared at him. This vampire king, this predator, this *killer*—who had tasted my blood, who had held me through the storm, who had let me sleep against his side—and now, when I was weakest, when I was *begging* him to take me—he was saying *no*.
And it shattered me.
“You don’t get to decide,” I whispered, tears burning in my eyes. “You don’t get to *protect* me.”
“I do,” he said, turning back to me. “Because I’m not just your enemy. I’m not just your captor. I’m your *mate*.”
“I don’t want you.”
“You do.”
“I hate you.”
“And I’ll still keep you safe.”
He stepped forward, one hand lifting to my face. His thumb brushed my cheek, catching a tear I hadn’t realized I’d shed. “I won’t claim you in Heat. I won’t bind you while you’re delirious. I won’t take you like *them*.”
“Then what?” I choked. “Leave me like this?”
“No.” He wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off my feet. “I’ll carry you. I’ll hold you. I’ll keep you safe—”
“From *what*?”
“From me.”
And then he was moving, carrying me through the halls of the Keep, his steps long and steady, his arms like iron around me. I should’ve fought. Should’ve kicked, twisted, screamed. But I was too far gone. Too weak. Too *needy*. My body arched into his, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my core clenching with every step.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Just carried me through the twisting corridors, up a narrow stair, down a hall I’d never seen before, until we reached a door—black stone, etched with silver runes.
He kicked it open.
Inside was a room—small, circular, lit by a single blue flame in the hearth. No bed. No chairs. Just a thick rug, a chest, and a window that looked out over the sea. The Blood Moon hung low, bathing the room in crimson light.
He carried me to the rug, laid me down gently, then knelt beside me.
“This is the quiet room,” he said. “No one comes here. No one knows about it. You’ll be safe.”
“Safe from *what*?” I whispered.
“From the guards. From the Council. From *me*.”
“You’re leaving?”
“No.” He sat beside me, back against the wall, one arm resting on his knee. “I’m staying. But I won’t touch you. Not like that. Not until you’re clear-headed. Until you *choose* me.”
“I’ll never choose you.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re mine.”
I turned my face away, tears spilling down my temples. My body was on fire. My wolf was howling. Every instinct screamed to crawl into his lap, to press my mouth to his neck, to *beg* for the bite, for the bond, for the release.
But he just sat there. Still. Silent. A wall of control.
Hours passed.
I don’t know how many. Time blurred. The Heat pulsed—waves of need crashing through me, receding, then returning stronger. I writhed. Moaned. Cried. At one point, I crawled to him, pressed my face to his thigh, *begged* him to touch me. He didn’t move. Just let me be. Let me break. Let me fall apart in his shadow.
And when the worst of it passed—when the moon began to wane, when the Heat finally ebbed, when my body stopped trembling—I collapsed against him, exhausted, spent, humiliated.
He didn’t speak. Just wrapped an arm around me, pulled me close, and let me sleep.
When I woke, the moon was gone. The room was dark. The fire had burned low.
And he was still there.
Still awake. Still watching.
“You stayed,” I whispered.
“I said I would.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, those crimson eyes seeing too much. “Because no one ever protected your mother,” he said. “And I won’t make the same mistake.”
My breath caught.
“You think I’m the monster,” he said. “But I’m not the one who let her die. I’m not the one who bound your bloodline. I’m not the one who used the Oath to enslave you.”
“You’re the king.”
“And I’ll change it.”
I stared at him. This vampire. This enemy. This *mate*—who had denied his nature, who had held me through the worst of it, who had refused to take what he could have.
And for the first time since I’d walked into Blackthorn Keep, I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a man.
And that terrified me more than any blade, any oath, any lie ever could.
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 lay there, his arm still around me, his breath warm against my hair, 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.