SLOANE The truth hits like a blade between the ribs. Not slow. Not sharp. But *deep*—a cold, spreading ache that steals my breath, my strength, my *self*. *Alaric Vane.* Lazarus’s father. My *father*. The man who left me in the Hollow. Who let me believe I was hunting the monster who killed my mother—when all along, I was chasing my own *blood*. I press my back to the wall of the chamber, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. My breath comes in shallow, broken gasps. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You’re not alone in this.” I look up. Lazarus stands in the doorway. Again. But this time, he’s not smiling. Not smirking. Not *possessive*. He looks… *afraid*. “I got you out once,” he says. “I can’t do it again.” My breath catches. “Why?” “Because they’re watching.” He steps closer, his hand pressing against the wall beside my head. “Silas. Vael. The Council. If I try to free you again, they’ll know. They’ll execute us both.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. And worse—I *know* why. Because I *lied*. Not to protect the truth. Not to expose him. But to *protect myself*. From the bond. From the heat. From *him*. And now? Now I’m paying for it. With my freedom. With my mission. With my *soul*. He leans in, his voice low, rough. “You lied to the Council.” “I know.” “You said you poisoned the ritual to kill me.” “I know.” “But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You poisoned it to *expose* me. To make them see me for the monster they say I am.” My breath catches. “How do you—” “I *know* you.” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “I know the way you think. The way you fight. The way you *lie* to protect yourself.” I glare. “I didn’t lie to protect *me*. I lied to protect the *truth*.” “And what truth is that?” He leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “That I’m a monster? That I killed your mother? That I deserve to die?” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he presses his hand to the wall again. And the bond *flares*. A pulse of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns. My breath hitches. And then—his voice. “I’ll get you out.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* “How?” I ask. “I’ll make a deal.” His voice drops. “With Silas. With the Council. With the *devil* himself. But I’ll get you out.” “And what do you want in return?” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “You’ll owe me.” I freeze. “What kind of debt?” “The kind that binds.” His voice is low, rough. “The kind that *chooses*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. --- The chamber is silent. No fire. No torchlight. Just the pale gray of dawn filtering through the high windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the stone. The air is thick with the scent of pine and iron, of old blood and something deeper—*us*—but the bond is quiet now, a dull throb beneath my skin, like a wound that’s stopped bleeding but still aches. I don’t move. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. Not after what Elira told me. Not after the truth shattered the last fragile walls of my purpose. I came here to kill him. To make him *pay*. But now? Now I know. He’s not my enemy. He’s my *brother*. And the bond between us—this fire in my veins, this pulse in my blood, this ache in my core—isn’t just magic. It’s *incest*. My stomach twists. My breath hitches. My hands clench into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. And then—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Boots on stone. I don’t look up. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll see him. Shirtless. Powerful. *Real*. And I’ll remember last night. Not the fight. Not the kiss. Not even the way he held me while I sobbed. But the way I *wanted* him. The way my body *opened* for him. The way I *rode* him, hard and fast, my nails clawing at his back, my breath ragged in his ear. And worse— *I came*. Twice. And I *liked* it. And now? Now I want to *die*. “Sloane.” His voice is low. Rough. *Careful*. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. Good. I *should*. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You don’t have to.” I look up. Lazarus stands in the doorway. But this time, he doesn’t step inside. He just watches me. His coat is gone. His boots are silent. His eyes are dark—no gold, no wolf—just human, haunted, like he’s seen something he can’t unsee. Like he’s *felt* me. And liked it. “I know,” he says. I freeze. “You *know*?” He nods. “I’ve known since the first moment I saw you. Your scent. Your magic. The way you fight. You’re *his* daughter.” My breath catches. “And you didn’t *tell* me?” “I *couldn’t*.” He steps closer, crouching in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “The bond ritual—it’s sacred. If I’d told you the truth before the claiming, it would have broken the magic. You would have died.” “And now?” “Now the bond is complete.” His voice drops. “The truth can’t break it.” I glare. “But it *should*.” He doesn’t flinch. “Why?” “Because I *fucked* you!” The words tear from my throat, raw, broken. “I *rode* you like I wanted you. Like I *needed* you. And now you’re telling me you’re my *brother*?” His jaw tightens. “We’re not—” “We *are*!” I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. “Same father. Different mothers. That makes us *siblings*.” “No.” He grabs my wrists, his grip iron. “It makes us *blood*. Not family.” “I *hate* you.” “No.” His voice is rough, raw. “You hate that you *want* me.” I freeze. Because he’s right. I *do*. I hate the way my body betrays me. The way my breath hitches when he looks at me. The way my core aches when he’s near. The way I *dream* of him—his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat, his voice in my ear. *I want you, Sloane. Say it.* And I *do*. I want him. Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat. But because he’s *real*. Because he didn’t kill me when he could have. Because he sent a message to the Frostfang Wastes while I was lost to the moon. Because he stepped in front of a blade meant for *me*. Because he’s the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen *me*—not a weapon, not a witch, not a killer. But a *woman*. And I can’t hate that. I *won’t*. So I do the only thing I can. I *break*. Tears burn my eyes. My voice cracks. “I *hate* that I want you.” Silence. Then—his arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady. Strong. *Alive*. His breath is warm on my neck. His hands stroke my back, slow, soothing. And I sob. Not quietly. Not gracefully. *Hard*. Great, heaving sobs that rack my body, that leave me gasping, that make me clutch at him like he’s the only thing keeping me from drowning. And he *is*. Because the truth is worse than the lie. Because if I want him… Then I’m not just betraying my mission. I’m betraying *myself*. I came here to kill him. To make him *pay*. But now? Now I’d *die* for him. And that terrifies me more than any blade, any bond, any lie. He holds me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just *holds* me, like he knows I’m falling and he’s the only one who can catch me. And when the sobs slow, when my breath steadies, when my hands unclench from his shirt—he tilts my face up. His eyes are dark now. Human. *Real*. “You don’t have to fight it,” he murmurs. “I *have* to.” “Why?” His thumb drags over my lower lip. “Because of what they told you? Because of the lie about your mother?” I look away. “She’s *alive*, Lazarus. And I have to save her.” “And to do that?” His voice drops. “You need me.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. I *do*. I need him. Not just to survive the bond. Not just to fight the Council. But to *live*. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t feel alone. And I *never* want to feel that way again. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he kisses me. Not desperate. Not angry. *Soft*. Slow. Deep. His lips move against mine like he’s savoring me. His hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer, *tighter*. And I kiss him back. Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* want to. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. But then— I pull back. Because I *can’t*. Not yet. Not like this. Not with the truth still burning in my chest, with the memory of my mother’s face still fresh in my mind. So I do the only thing I can. I *fight*. My hand flies up, not to caress, not to hold. To *strike*. My palm cracks across his cheek—sharp, stinging, *final*. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just *looks* at me. His lip is split. Bleeding. And he’s *smiling*. Not angry. Not hurt. *Triumphant*. “Good,” he murmurs. “Fight me.” I glare. “You *deserve* it.” “I do.” He wipes the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving mine. “But you didn’t slap me because I kissed you.” “No?” “You slapped me,” he says, stepping closer, “because you *liked* it.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. I *did*. And worse— *I wanted more*. He sees it in my face. Leans in. And I kiss him. Not soft. Not slow. *Hard*. Desperate. *Angry*. My teeth scrape his lip. My nails dig into his shoulders. My hips grind against his hand. And he *groans*—low, dark, *triumphant*—and kisses me back with equal fury. Our tongues clash. Teeth bite. Breath mingles. The bond *screams*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—his hands. One fists in my hair, yanking my head back. The other slides down, under my tunic, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine. I gasp. My back arches. My core clenches. He growls—low, dark, *triumphant*—and deepens the kiss. Our tongues clash. Teeth scrape. Breath mingles. The bond *screams*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—his hand slips lower, cupping my ass, pulling me against him. His cock thickens, pressing into my stomach. My hips tilt forward, chasing the friction. I shove at his chest. “Let me go.” “No.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my face up. “You don’t get to run. Not this time.” “I’m not *running*—” “You’ve been running your whole life.” His breath is hot on my neck. “From your mother’s death. From your power. From *this*.” He nips my earlobe—sharp, stinging. “But you can’t run from me. Not anymore.” I twist, trying to break free, but he’s too strong. The bond flares, sending another wave of heat through me, deeper this time, *lower*. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And then—his hand slips between my thighs. Not through my clothes. *Under* them. His fingers brush my clit—just once—and *God*, it’s like lightning through my veins. My back arches. A moan tears from my throat. He smirks. “You’re *dripping*.” I slap him. Hard. The sound cracks through the chamber like a whip. His head snaps to the side. Silence. Then—slowly—he turns back. His lip is split. Bleeding. And he’s *smiling*. Not angry. Not hurt. *Triumphant*. “Good,” he murmurs. “Fight me.” I glare. “You *deserve* it.” “I do.” He wipes the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving mine. “But you didn’t slap me because I touched you.” “No?” “You slapped me,” he says, stepping closer, “because you *liked* it.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. I *did*. And worse— *I wanted more*. He sees it in my face. Leans in. And I kiss him. Not soft. Not slow. *Hard*. Desperate. *Angry*. My teeth scrape his lip. My nails dig into his shoulders. My hips grind against his hand. And he *groans*—low, dark, *triumphant*—and kisses me back with equal fury. Our tongues clash. Teeth bite. Breath mingles. The bond *screams*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—his fingers slide lower, parting my folds, circling my entrance. I gasp. My back arches. My core *clenches*. “Say it,” he growls against my mouth. “Never.” He pushes one finger inside. Just one. And *God*, it’s like fire through my veins. My hips buck. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My nails claw at his back. He smirks. “You’re *so* tight. So *wet*.” I bite his lip. Hard. Blood blooms on his mouth. He *laughs*—low, dark, *dangerous*—and curls his finger, pressing against that spot deep inside. I *scream*. My body convulses. My core *clenches* around him. And then— The runes in the water *flare*. White-hot. Blinding. A pulse of magic—pure, electric—shoots through us. We both gasp. The pain—*gone*. The poison—*cleansed*. The bond—*renewed*. And then—his hand. Slipping out. Not in triumph. Not in possession. But *reluctance*. I turn. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I see it. Not just the hunger. Not just the need. But the *want*. The *care*. The *fear*. Because if I die… He dies with me. And he *doesn’t* want that. Not anymore. --- Back in the chambers, the fire crackles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. I stand by the hearth, my arms crossed, every muscle coiled like a spring. Lazarus paces, his boots loud on the stone, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. “You held back,” I say. “I didn’t—” “You did.” I turn on him. “You could have taken me. You *wanted* to. But you didn’t.” He stops, turning on me. “I *won’t* take you like that. Not while the bond is still healing. Not while you’re still fighting me.” “And if I *stopped* fighting?” My voice is low. Dangerous. “What then?” He steps closer. “Then I’d *ask*.” I glare. “You don’t *ask*. You *take*.” “No.” His voice drops. “I take what’s mine. But I *ask* for what I *want*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. --- I press my palm to the bite mark on my inner thigh. It pulses. Warm. Alive. Like a second heartbeat. And I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “Who really killed you, Mother?” And I know. Not Lazarus. Not the werewolves. But the one who’s been feeding the war for centuries. Queen Mirelle. And now? Now I have to choose. Revenge? Or truth? And worse— *What if the truth sets me free?* But not alone. With him. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “You’re not alone in this.” I look up. Lazarus stands in the doorway. Again. But this time, he’s not smiling. Not smirking. Not *possessive*. He looks… *afraid*. “I got you out once,” he says. “I can’t do it again.” My breath catches. “Why?” “Because they’re watching.” He steps closer, his hand pressing against the wall beside my head. “Silas. Vael. The Council. If I try to free you again, they’ll know. They’ll execute us both.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. And worse—I *know* why. Because I *lied*. Not to protect the truth. Not to expose him. But to *protect myself*. From the bond. From the heat. From *him*. And now? Now I’m paying for it. With my freedom. With my mission. With my *soul*. He leans in, his voice low, rough. “You lied to the Council.” “I know.” “You said you poisoned the ritual to kill me.” “I know.” “But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You poisoned it to *expose* me. To make them see me for the monster they say I am.” My breath catches. “How do you—” “I *know* you.” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “I know the way you think. The way you fight. The way you *lie* to protect yourself.” I glare. “I didn’t lie to protect *me*. I lied to protect the *truth*.” “And what truth is that?” He leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “That I’m a monster? That I killed your mother? That I deserve to die?” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. He sees it in my face. Smiles. Then he presses his hand to the wall again. And the bond *flares*. A pulse of heat so intense it makes my vision blur. My skin burns. My breath hitches. And then—his voice. “I’ll get you out.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* “How?” I ask. “I’ll make a deal.” His voice drops. “With Silas. With the Council. With the *devil* himself. But I’ll get you out.” “And what do you want in return?” His thumb drags over the stone, slow, deliberate. “You’ll owe me.” I freeze. “What kind of debt?” “The kind that binds.” His voice is low, rough. “The kind that *chooses*.” Silence. The bond hums between us, a low, aching thrum. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one. --- The silence after it all is worse than the fight. It’s not the quiet of peace. Not the hush of truce. It’s the stillness of something broken—something sharp and fragile, shattered between us, lying in pieces neither of us knows how to pick up. I don’t look at him as I stand. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll see him. Shirtless. Powerful. *Real*. And I’ll remember last night. Not the slap. Not the anger. Not even the way I rode him like I was trying to punish us both. But the way he *held* me afterward. The way his hands stroked my back, slow and steady, like I was something *precious*. The way his breath warmed my neck. The way he whispered, *“You’re mine,”* not as a threat, but as a *promise*. And I *belonged*. Not to the bond. Not to the heat. But to *him*. And that terrifies me more than any dungeon, any lie, any truth. Because if I belong to him… Then I’ve already lost. I turn. Walk to the door. And open it. Because if I can’t stay— Then I’ll *leave*. Not with force. Not with blood. But with *truth*. Because for the first time in my life— I’m not just the Alpha. I’m *hers*. And I’m not letting go. “Get out,” I whisper. He doesn’t move. Can’t. Because if he does, he’ll *say* it. He’ll say, *I love you, Sloane. Stay.* And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. So I do the only thing I can. I *break*. My voice cracks. “*Get out.*” He looks at me. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I see it. Not just the hunger. Not just the need. But the *want*. The *care*. The *fear*. Because if I die… He dies with me. And he *doesn’t* want that. Not anymore. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I look up. His eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I wonder— *Am I the only one who’s trapped?* I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands tremble. My skin burns. And in the dark, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you anymore.” A pause. Then—footsteps. He crouches in front of me, his knees brushing mine. “Then don’t.” I look up. “But if I stop—” “You *choose*.” His thumb brushes the mark on my wrist—the sigil from the bond. It glows faintly under his touch. “And that’s the only thing that matters.” I close my eyes. Because I know he’s right. The bond isn’t just a curse. It’s a *choice*. And I’m starting to wonder— *What if I choose him?* Not because I have to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *I* do. Because when he says my name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in my life— I want to believe in one.