LAZARUS The full moon rises like a blade through the sky. Not soft. Not silver. But *red*—a swollen, pulsing eye watching from the heavens, casting long, jagged shadows across the Frostfang Wastes. The wind howls through the stone circles, carrying the scent of pine, blood, and something deeper—*her*. Sloane. Even now, miles away, locked in her chambers, she’s with me. In my blood. In my bones. In the raw, aching *need* that claws up my spine every time I breathe. The heat cycle has begun. And it’s *killing* me. I pace the inner sanctum, my boots loud on the stone, my muscles taut, my fangs pressing against my gums. The air is thick with the scent of old magic, the runes in the floor pulsing faintly with each beat of my heart. My wolf is close—too close—snarling beneath my skin, demanding release, demanding *her*. But I can’t. Not yet. Because she won’t come. She *refuses*. After Elira told her the truth—after she learned we share the same father—she shut down. Locked herself away. Wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t even *look* at me. And then—last night—she said it. *“Get out. I never want to see you again.”* I didn’t leave. Couldn’t. Because if I do, she dies. The bond between mates is sacred. It’s life. It’s blood. It’s *survival*. And when the heat cycle hits, it demands union. Not just touch. Not just proximity. *Completion*. Without it, the bond turns on us—twisting, burning, *breaking*. And if she dies… I die with her. So I wait. I *beg*. I *plead*. But she won’t come. And now, under this cursed moon, my body is betraying me. Every breath is a struggle. Every heartbeat a war. My skin burns. My cock is thick, aching, *desperate*. My hands tremble. My vision blurs. And still—she’s not here. “Alpha.” Kaelen’s voice cuts through the haze. I turn. He stands in the doorway, his face grim, his stance rigid. He’s seen this before—seen what happens when a bonded mate denies the heat. Seen the Alpha before me—*my father*—die screaming, his body torn apart by the bond’s rejection. He knows what’s coming. And he knows I’m losing. “She won’t come,” I growl. “She will.” His voice is steady. “She just needs to understand the cost.” “There *is* no cost.” I press my palm to the stone wall, grounding myself. “Only death. If she doesn’t come, we both die.” “And if she does?” Kaelen steps closer. “What then? You think she’ll just… *accept* this? After what she’s learned?” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right. She *won’t*. Not after learning we’re siblings. Not after hating me for so long. Not after *fucking* me—*needing* me—only to find out it was *blood* calling, not desire. And worse— I *don’t care*. Because I know the truth. It’s not blood. It’s *her*. The way she fights. The way she lies. The way she *breaks*. The way she *wanted* me—*took* me—before she knew. That wasn’t the bond. That was *Sloane*. And I’ll die before I let her believe otherwise. “She has to come,” I say. “And if she won’t?” I turn on him. “Then you *make* her.” Kaelen doesn’t flinch. “You’re asking me to force her.” “I’m asking you to *save* her.” My voice cracks. “If she dies, I die. And if I die, the packs fall. The war reignites. The Council takes over. Is that what you want?” He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because he knows it’s true. And because he’s seen it. The way I look at her when she’s not looking. The way I step in front of blades meant for her. The way I *held* her when she sobbed in my arms and said, *“I hate that I want you.”* And I *do*. I *do* want her. Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat. But because she’s *mine*. And I’m not letting go. Kaelen exhales. “I’ll bring her.” “Now.” He hesitates. “She’s not ready—” “*Now*.” I grip the wall, my fingers digging into the stone. “Or I’ll go to her. And if I do, I won’t be able to stop.” He sees it in my face. The fangs. The gold in my eyes. The way my hands tremble—not from weakness, but from *need*. And he *moves*. Fast. Silent. Gone. And I’m alone. Again. But not for long. Because she’s coming. And when she does— I’ll make her *see*. Not the blood. Not the bond. But *us*. --- The door slams open. I don’t turn. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *lose* it. But I hear her. Breathing. Fast. Shallow. *Afraid*. And beneath it—*arousal*. Even now, even after everything, her body *knows* me. Her scent floods the chamber—storm and smoke and something deeper, *primal*—and it’s like a blade to the gut. My cock thickens. My fangs press harder. My wolf snarls. And then—“Let me go.” Kaelen’s voice. “You have to be here.” “I *don’t*.” Her voice is sharp, broken. “I won’t—” “You *will*.” My voice is low. Rough. *Dangerous*. She freezes. I turn. And there she is. Sloane. Her hair is tangled. Her face is pale. Her eyes are wide, dark with fear and something else—*need*. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, her body coiled like a spring. And she’s *beautiful*. Even now. Even hating me. Even *denying* us. I take a step forward. She stumbles back. Kaelen releases her, stepping aside. And she’s alone. With me. And the bond. It flares—a pulse so intense it makes her gasp. Her knees weaken. Her breath hitches. Her skin flushes. And I *smell* it. The wetness between her thighs. The heat in her core. The way her pulse jumps in her throat. She *wants* me. Even now. Even knowing. And I *don’t care*. Because it’s *true*. “Leave,” I growl to Kaelen. He hesitates. “She’s not—” “*Leave*.” He looks at her. She doesn’t look back. Just stands there, trembling, her hands clenched, her breath shallow. And then—“I’ll be outside.” The door closes. We’re alone. And the bond *screams*. A deep, feral pulse beneath my skin, a fire in my veins, a *need* so intense it makes my vision blur. I take another step. She stumbles back—until her back hits the wall. I close the distance in three strides. My hand presses beside her head. My other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her against me—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, heat to heat. My breath is hot on her neck. My cock is hard against her stomach. And she’s *wet*. Not from fear. Not from the bond. From *me*. From the way my body fits against hers. The way my scent fills her lungs. The way her hips tilt forward, just slightly, chasing the friction. “Stop it,” she whispers. “Why?” I nips her earlobe—sharp, stinging. “You liked it last night. When you believed me. When you whispered you believed me in the dark.” “That was *before*,” she gasps. “Before I knew the truth.” “And what truth is that?” My voice drops. “That we’re siblings? That we share the same father? That makes us *family*?” Her breath hitches. “Yes.” “No.” I shift, grinding against her, just once, and *God*, it’s like lightning through my veins. Her back arches. Her core clenches. Her breath comes in a gasp. “Blood doesn’t make us siblings. This bond does. And it *chose* us.” “It’s *cursed*,” she hisses. “It’s *wrong*.” “It’s *real*.” I press my forehead to hers. “And you *know* it.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want this.” “Yes, you do.” My thumb drags over her lower lip. “Your body doesn’t lie. It *wants* me. It *needs* me.” “I *hate* you.” “No.” My voice is rough, raw. “You hate that you *want* me.” I see it in her face. The truth. The *need*. And then—she *breaks*. Tears burn her eyes. Her voice cracks. “I *hate* that I want you.” Silence. Then—my arms wrap around her, pulling her against my chest. My heartbeat is steady. Strong. *Alive*. My breath is warm on her neck. My hands stroke her back, slow, soothing. And she sobs. Not quietly. Not gracefully. *Hard*. Great, heaving sobs that rack her body, that leave her gasping, that make her clutch at me like I’m the only thing keeping her from drowning. And I *am*. Because the truth is worse than the lie. Because if she wants me… Then she’s not just betraying her mission. She’s betraying *herself*. She came here to kill me. To make me *pay*. But now? Now she’d *die* for me. And that terrifies me more than any blade, any bond, any lie. I hold her. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Just *hold* her, like I know she’s falling and I’m the only one who can catch her. And when the sobs slow, when her breath steadies, when her hands unclench from my shirt—I tilt her face up. Her eyes are dark now. Human. *Real*. “You don’t have to fight it,” I murmur. “I *have* to.” “Why?” My thumb drags over her lower lip. “Because of what they told you? Because of the lie about your mother?” She looks away. “She’s *alive*, Lazarus. And I have to save her.” “And to do that?” My voice drops. “You need me.” She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because I’m right. She *does*. She needs me. Not just to survive the bond. Not just to fight the Council. But to *live*. Because for the first time in her life, she doesn’t feel alone. And she *never* wants to feel that way again. I see it in her face. Smile. Then I kiss her. Not desperate. Not angry. *Soft*. Slow. Deep. My lips move against hers like I’m savoring her. My hand cups her jaw, my thumb stroking her cheek. My other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer, *tighter*. And she kisses me back. Not because she has to. Not because the bond demands it. But because *she* wants to. Because when I say her name, it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a *vow*. And for the first time in her life— She wants to believe in one. But then— She pulls back. Because she *can’t*. Not yet. Not like this. Not with the truth still burning in her chest, with the memory of her mother’s face still fresh in her mind. So she does the only thing she can. She *fights*. Her hand flies up, not to caress, not to hold. To *strike*. Her palm cracks across my cheek—sharp, stinging, *final*. I don’t flinch. Don’t move. Just *look* at her. My lip is split. Bleeding. And I’m *smiling*. Not angry. Not hurt. *Triumphant*. “Good,” I murmur. “Fight me.” She glares. “You *deserve* it.” “I do.” I wipe the blood from my lip, my eyes never leaving hers. “But you didn’t slap me because I kissed you.” “No?” “You slapped me,” I say, stepping closer, “because you *liked* it.” She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because I’m right. She *did*. And worse— *She wanted more*. I see it in her face. Lean in. And she kisses me. Not soft. Not slow. *Hard*. Desperate. *Angry*. Her teeth scrape my lip. Her nails dig into my shoulders. Her hips grind against my hand. And I *groan*—low, dark, *triumphant*—and kiss her back with equal fury. Our tongues clash. Teeth bite. Breath mingles. The bond *screams*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—my hands. One fists in her hair, yanking her head back. The other slides down, under her tunic, my fingers tracing the curve of her spine. She gasps. Her back arches. Her core clenches. I growl—low, dark, *triumphant*—and deepen the kiss. Our tongues clash. Teeth scrape. Breath mingles. The bond *screams*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—my hand slips lower, cupping her ass, pulling her against me. My cock thickens, pressing into her stomach. Her hips tilt forward, chasing the friction. She shoves at my chest. “Let me go.” “No.” My other hand fists in her hair, tilting her face up. “You don’t get to run. Not this time.” “I’m not *running*—” “You’ve been running your whole life.” My breath is hot on her neck. “From your mother’s death. From your power. From *this*.” I nips her earlobe—sharp, stinging. “But you can’t run from me. Not anymore.” She twists, trying to break free, but I’m too strong. The bond flares, sending another wave of heat through her, deeper this time, *lower*. Her knees weaken. My breath hitches. And then—my hand slips between her thighs. Not through her clothes. *Under* them. My fingers brush her clit—just once—and *God*, it’s like lightning through her veins. Her back arches. A moan tears from her throat. I smirk. “You’re *dripping*.” She slaps me. Hard. The sound cracks through the chamber like a whip. My head snaps to the side. Silence. Then—slowly—I turn back. My lip is split. Bleeding. And I’m *smiling*. Not angry. Not hurt. *Triumphant*. “Good,” I murmur. “Fight me.” She glares. “You *deserve* it.” “I do.” I wipe the blood from my lip, my eyes never leaving hers. “But you didn’t slap me because I touched you.” “No?” “You slapped me,” I say, stepping closer, “because you *liked* it.” She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because I’m right. She *did*. And worse— *She wanted more*. I see it in her face. Lean in. And she kisses me. Not soft. Not slow. *Hard*. Desperate. *Angry*. Her teeth scrape my lip. Her nails dig into my shoulders. Her hips grind against my hand. And I *groan*—low, dark, *triumphant*—and kiss her back with equal fury. Our tongues clash. Teeth bite. Breath mingles. The bond *screams*, a deep, feral pulse beneath my skin. And then—my fingers slide lower, parting her folds, circling her entrance. She gasps. Her back arches. Her core *clenches*. “Say it,” I growl against her mouth. “Never.” I push one finger inside. Just one. And *God*, it’s like fire through her veins. Her hips buck. Her breath comes in ragged gasps. Her nails claw at my back. I smirk. “You’re *so* tight. So *wet*.” She bites my lip. Hard. Blood blooms on my mouth. I *laugh*—low, dark, *dangerous*—and curl my finger, pressing against that spot deep inside. She *screams*. Her body convulses. Her core *clenches* around me. And then— The runes in the floor *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—my hand. Slipping out. Not in triumph. Not in possession. But *reluctance*. She turns. Her 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… She dies with me. And she *doesn’t* want that. Not anymore. --- I collapse. Not from weakness. Not from the bond. But from *her*. From the way she *looked* at me. From the way she *came* in my arms. From the way she *needed* me. And I *gave* it to her. Not because I had to. Not because the bond demanded it. But because she’s *mine*. And I’m not letting go. I hit the stone hard, my breath ragged, my body trembling, my cock still thick, aching, *desperate*. But I don’t reach for her. Don’t touch her. Because if I do, I’ll take her. And I *won’t*. Not like this. Not while she’s still fighting me. “Lazarus.” Her voice is soft. Rough. *Afraid*. I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *beg*. And I’m not that man. Not anymore. She kneels beside me, her hands pressing to the stone on either side of my hips. Her breath is warm. Her scent—storm and smoke and something deeper, *primal*—fills my lungs. And then—“I can’t.” I turn my head. Her eyes are dark. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I see it. Not just the pain. Not just the anger. But the *relief*. Because she’s not alone. She never was. “I know,” I rasp. “I *can’t*,” she whispers. “Not like this. Not knowing—” “I *know*.” I press my palm to her cheek, my thumb dragging over her lower lip. “And I don’t care.” She flinches. “You *should*.” “I *don’t*.” My voice drops. “Because it’s not blood that binds us. It’s *this*.” I grab her wrist, pressing it to my chest. “This heartbeat. This breath. This *need*.” She doesn’t pull away. Can’t. Because she *feels* it. The way my heart syncs with hers. The way my breath matches hers. The way my body *knows* hers. And then—soft, rough—her voice. “But you’re not alone in this.” I close my eyes. Because I know she’s right. And for the first time in my life— I believe it.

Fanged Vow

The first time Sloane sees Lazarus Vane, he’s standing over a bonfire of burning werewolf pelts — a human girl’s locket dangling from his fang-studded collar. She grips her dagger, heart pounding with vengeance. Her mother died screaming his name.

But before she can strike, the trap springs.

A ritual circle flares beneath her feet. Ancient runes ignite. She’s dragged forward, her wrist slashed, his fangs sinking into her pulse — not in feeding, but in forced claiming. The crowd roars as their blood merges, their scents binding in a forbidden Vow of Fang and Claw, a bond no hybrid — half-witch, half-human like her — should survive.

Now branded as the Alpha’s mate, Sloane is trapped in the heart of the enemy camp, her mission in ruins. Lazarus claims she was sent to assassinate him — a lie she doesn’t deny, because the truth is more dangerous: she was never meant to survive the attempt.

But the bond between them is real. And it’s killing them both.

His touch sends fire through her veins. Her scent unravels his control. When the full moon rises, their bodies crave each other with feral urgency — a heat neither can resist, though surrender means losing themselves to the very enemy they were born to destroy.

Yet beneath the hatred, secrets stir. Her mother’s death wasn’t what she was told. Lazarus carries scars deeper than pride. And someone else is pulling the strings of this war — a fae queen who thrives on chaos, and who wants them broken, not united.

By Chapter 3, Sloane is forced to share his bed to stabilize the bond. By Chapter 8, she saves his life during a ritual sabotage — and in the aftermath, he pins her against the altar, breath hot on her neck, and growls: “You don’t get to play martyr and saint. You want me. Say it.” She slaps him. Then kisses him. Then wakes up in his bed with his bite mark on her thigh and no memory of how it got there.

The game has changed. And the war is just beginning.