SLOANE The world *explodes*. Not with fire. Not with sound. But with *magic*. Mirelle’s hand slices down, and the runes flare—violet, blinding, *searing*—a pulse of fae energy that rips through the air like a blade. It hits the bond between Lazarus and me like a sledgehammer, and we both *scream*. The pain isn’t physical. It’s *deeper*. Like she’s tearing into the core of us—our connection, our trust, our *choice*—and twisting it into something *hers*. I collapse. Lazarus stumbles, his arm tightening around my waist, dragging me back as the fae guards surge forward, their movements fluid, predatory, like shadows given form. Their eyes glow with violet light, their fingers tipped with claws that gleam like poisoned thorns. “Run,” Lazarus growls, his voice raw, his fangs bared. “*Now*.” I don’t argue. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not with the visions still burning behind my eyes. Not with the truth about my mother still fresh in my chest. Not with the memory of his hands on me—*inside* me—still pulsing between my thighs. I push off the ground, my legs weak, my breath ragged, but I *move*. We run. Not toward the path. Not toward safety. But *deeper* into the Verdant Court. Because I know—without a doubt—that Mirelle wants us to flee. Wants us to panic. Wants us to *break*. And I won’t. Not again. Lazarus is at my side, his coat flaring behind him, his muscles coiled, his wolf so close beneath the surface his eyes are gold, his scent wild with pine and iron and something darker—*danger*. He grabs my wrist, not to control, not to pull. To *anchor*. “I’ve got you,” he says. And I believe him. Not because of the bond. Not because of the heat. But because of the way he looked at me when I said I hated that I wanted him. The way he didn’t flinch. The way he *asked*. And now? Now I *choose* him. Even here. Even now. Even knowing we’re walking into a trap. The trees close in around us, their branches twisting like serpents, their leaves whispering in a language I don’t understand. The air is thick with perfume—honey and rot, roses and decay—so cloying it coats my tongue. My skin burns. My vision blurs. And then—*movement*. A shadow darts from the left. I spin, my dagger already in hand, and slash. The fae guard stumbles back, his face split from brow to chin, black blood oozing from the wound. He doesn’t scream. Just *smiles*. And then—*gone*. Dissolved into mist. I don’t flinch. Just turn. Because I know. They’re not real. Not fully. They’re *illusions*. Projections. Mirelle’s *toys*. But the magic? That’s real. And it *hurts*. Another pulse rips through the air—violet, electric—and I stumble, my knees buckling as the bond *screams* beneath my skin. Lazarus catches me, his arm around my waist, his breath hot on my neck. “Focus,” he growls. “On me.” I look up. His eyes are gold. Human. *Real*. And for the first time, I see it. Not just the Alpha. Not just the monster. But the *man*. The one who stepped in front of a blade meant for me. The one who let me hurt him. The one who *chose* me. And I *break*. Tears burn my eyes. My voice cracks. “I *hate* that I want you.” He doesn’t flinch. Just cups my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip. “Then don’t hate it.” “I *have* to.” “Why?” His voice drops. “Because of the blood? 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 thumb drags over my lip. “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 my 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 my 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. --- We burst into a clearing. A lake. Black water, still as glass, reflecting the sickly gold sky. No ripples. No life. Just silence. And then—*movement*. Shadows rise from the water. Fae. Dozens of them. Their eyes glow violet. Their hands drip with magic. They don’t speak. Just *attack*. Lazarus shoves me behind him, his body a wall of muscle and fury. His claws extend, his fangs bared, his growl low and dangerous. He moves like a storm—fast, brutal, *relentless*—tearing through the first wave with a ferocity that makes my breath catch. I don’t wait. I *fight*. My dagger flashes in the dim light, slicing through fae flesh, black blood spraying the air. One lunges at me from the side—I twist, driving the blade into his gut, twisting, pulling. He collapses, dissolving into mist. Another comes. Then another. And another. They’re endless. Like the forest itself is feeding them. Like Mirelle is *unlimited*. I glance at Lazarus. He’s bleeding. A gash across his ribs. Another on his shoulder. But he doesn’t slow. Just fights. For me. And then—*pain*. A claw rakes my arm. I stumble. A fae lunges. I raise my dagger. Too slow. And then—*movement*. Lazarus. He *throws* himself in front of me, taking the blow to the chest. The claw tears through his coat, through skin, drawing blood. He *roars*. And the bond *screams*. A pulse of magic—red, hot—erupts from us, slamming into the fae like a wave. They *shatter*, dissolving into mist, their screams echoing through the trees. I catch him as he stumbles. His blood is warm on my hands. His breath ragged. And then—soft, rough—his voice. “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. --- “We can’t stay,” I say. “I know.” “We need to get to the heart of the Court. To her throne.” He looks at me. “You want to *fight* her?” “No.” I press my palm to the bite mark on my inner thigh. It pulses. “I want to *end* her.” He doesn’t argue. Just nods. And then—“We go together.” I don’t answer. Just take his hand. And we run. The forest shifts around us, the trees twisting, the path changing, like the Court itself is alive, *feeding* on our fear. But I don’t stop. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll *feel* more. And I’m not ready for that. Not with the truth still burning in my chest. Not with the memory of his hands on me—*inside* me—still pulsing between my thighs. We reach the throne. It’s empty. The vines are still. The runes dark. And then—*laughter*. Mirelle steps from the shadows, her gown of living vines blooming and dying with each breath. Her eyes are black. Her smile wide. “You’re persistent,” she says. “I’ll give you that.” “You’re not taking her,” Lazarus growls. “Oh, but I already have.” Mirelle’s voice is soft, seductive. “And soon, you’ll be mine too.” I step forward. “You’re not a queen. You’re a *thief*.” Her smile widens. “And you’re a *liar*. You came here to kill him. But now? Now you *want* him.” I don’t deny it. Can’t. Because she’s right. And worse— *I don’t want to deny it anymore*. Lazarus grabs my wrist. “Now.” We attack. Together. He lunges first—fast, brutal, a whirlwind of claws and fangs. I follow—dagger in hand, magic humming beneath my skin. I carve a sigil into the air—blood from my thumb—and it flares, red and hot, slamming into Mirelle. She *screams*. But she’s fast. Too fast. She dodges, her form shifting, her body twisting like smoke. She strikes back—violet magic ripping through the air—and I dive, rolling, slashing. Lazarus takes the hit. It tears through his side. He *roars*. And the bond *screams*. A pulse of magic—red, hot—erupts from us, slamming into Mirelle. She *stumbles*. But doesn’t fall. And then—“You can’t win.” “We already have,” I say. 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 my 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. --- And then—*light*. Not violet. Not fae. But *gold*. It erupts from us—our bond, our blood, our *choice*—a pulse of magic so pure, so *real*, it *shatters* the Court. The vines wither. The runes die. The throne *crumbles*. And Mirelle? She *screams*. Not in rage. But in *fear*. Because she sees it. Not just our strength. But our *truth*. We’re not pawns. We’re not enemies. We’re *mates*. And we’re *free*. I grab Lazarus’s hand. We run. Not toward the path. Not toward safety. But *together*. And as we vanish into the mist, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat, I whisper the truth I can no longer deny. “I don’t want to fight you 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.