SLOANE The silence after my whispered question is heavier than stone. *What have I done?* It hangs in the air like a curse, thick with shame, with want, with the ghost of my body arching beneath his touch—even if it wasn’t real, even if I didn’t remember, even if he says he didn’t take me. The truth is written in the ache between my thighs, in the way my skin still burns where he held me down, in the way my breath still hitches when I look at his mouth—his *lips*, split from where I bit him. And he’s kneeling in front of me. Lazarus Vane, Alpha of the Northern Packs, killer of kings, breaker of bonds—*kneeling*. His eyes are dark now. Not gold. Not wolf. *Human*. Haunted. Like he’s seen something he can’t unsee. Like he’s felt something he can’t forget. Like he’s *felt me*. And worse—like he *liked* it. “I didn’t take you,” he says again, voice rough, low, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I held you. I kept you from hurting yourself. From hurting *me*. But I didn’t *take* you.” My fingers tremble against my thighs. “You could have.” “I *wanted* to.” The admission is raw, unfiltered, a confession ripped from his chest. “Gods, Sloane, I *wanted* to. You were on top of me, wet, moaning my name, grinding against my thigh like you were *begging* for it. And I was hard—*so* hard—for you. But if I’d fucked you while you weren’t *you*…” He shakes his head. “That’s not how I want it.” I stare at him. “And how *do* you want it?” His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, his thumb brushing the pulse in my neck. My breath catches. My skin burns. “I want you awake. I want you *present*. I want you to *choose* me. Not the bond. Not the moon. Not the heat. *You*.” My chest tightens. No one has ever asked me to choose. Not my mother, who died before she could teach me how to live. Not the Hollow, who trained me to kill. Not the Council, who sees me as a threat. And certainly not *him*. But he is. And it terrifies me more than the bond ever could. Because if I *choose* him… Then I’m not just surviving. I’m *surrendering*. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that. I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor. My hands curl into fists. “I came here to kill you.” “I know.” “And now I don’t know if I can.” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t gloat. Just watches me, his gaze steady, like he’s waiting for me to finish falling. “Then don’t.” “I *have* to.” “Why?” He leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “Because of what they told you? Because of the lie they fed you about your mother?” My breath hitches. “You don’t know what they told me.” “I know it wasn’t true.” His voice drops. “I know the werewolves didn’t kill her. I know she wasn’t executed for blood treason. I know she was *taken*.” I freeze. “What?” He reaches into the pocket of his pants, pulls out a small, folded piece of parchment—aged, yellowed, sealed with a wax sigil I don’t recognize. “This came from a source in the Frostfang Wastes. A werewolf elder. He said your mother wasn’t a traitor. She was a *prisoner*.” My hands tremble as I take it. “Where did you get this?” “Last night,” he says. “While you were… lost to the heat. I sent a message. I needed to know the truth. For *us*.” I stare at him. “You did this… for *me*?” “I did it for *survival*.” His voice is flat, but his eyes betray him—dark with something deeper. “If we’re going to live, we need to know who’s really hunting us.” I unfold the parchment. The script is old, jagged, written in the dialect of the Northern Packs. > *Lyra Voss was not alone. She served a master. The Verdant Queen took the witch. She wanted the daughter. She wanted the bond. She wanted war. The mother is not dead. She is caged.* My breath stops. *The mother is not dead.* Not dead. *Not dead.* All this time—every night I’ve spent sharpening my dagger, every drop of blood I’ve spilled in training, every lie I’ve told—was built on a *lie*. My mother isn’t dead. She’s *alive*. And someone *took* her. Someone who wanted *me*. Someone who wanted *this*. The bond. *Us*. I look up, my vision blurred. “Who—” “Queen Mirelle of the Verdant Court,” he says. “Fae. Ancient. She feeds on chaos. On broken bonds. On war.” “And she *wanted* us?” “She *orchestrated* us.” He takes the parchment back, folds it, tucks it away. “The ritual wasn’t a truce. It was a *trap*. The poison wasn’t meant to kill me. It was meant to *bind* us. And you—you were never meant to survive the attempt. You were meant to *fail*. To be claimed. To become her weapon.” My stomach twists. Because it makes sense. Too much sense. The contact in the Hollow who gave me the poison. The way they knew I’d use it. The way they promised it would expose him. It was all a *setup*. And I walked right into it. Just like I walked into Lyra’s trap. Just like I walked into the bond. Just like I walked into *him*. I press my hands to my temples. “She’s been playing us.” “From the beginning.” He stands, offering me his hand. “And if we don’t figure out how to fight her, we’ll die.” I don’t take his hand. Can’t. Because the truth is worse than the lie. Because if my mother is alive… Then I don’t have to kill him. I have to *save* her. And to do that… I might have to *trust* him. I look up. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because if we’re going to survive,” he says, “we need to stop pretending we’re enemies.” “We *are* enemies.” “No.” He shakes his head. “We’re *bait*. And if we don’t figure out who’s holding the line… we’re both dead.” Silence. The bond pulses between us, a low, insistent thrum. I don’t trust him. I don’t *want* to trust him. But he’s right. If the bond fails, we die. And if we don’t find the truth… We’ll die anyway. I press my palms to the cold stone floor, pushing myself up. My legs are weak. My body still aches. But my mind is clear. For the first time. “Then we fight,” I say. He nods. “Together.” I look at the bed—the massive four-poster, the black furs, the space where I woke up half-naked, where he held me down, where I rode his thigh like I was born to. And I know. I can’t run from this. Not from the bond. Not from the truth. Not from *him*. So I take his hand. His grip is warm. Strong. *Right.* He pulls me to my feet, but doesn’t let go. His other hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up. “You don’t have to trust me,” he murmurs. “But you *do* have to survive.” “And if I don’t want to?” “Then you’ll die.” His thumb drags over my lip again. “And I’ll be the one to bury you.” A shiver runs through me. Not fear. *Want.* He sees it. Smiles. Then he turns, releasing me. “Get dressed. We’re going to the archives.” I don’t move. “Why?” “To find out how to break a fae queen’s curse.” He grabs his coat, slinging it over his shoulders. “And how to find your mother.” --- The archives are beneath the temple—a labyrinth of stone corridors lit by flickering torches, the air thick with dust and old magic. Shelves rise to the ceiling, crammed with scrolls, grimoires, blood contracts sealed in glass. The scent of decay and ink clings to the walls. We walk in silence. His hand is on the small of my back—light, possessive, *claiming*. Every step sends a pulse of heat through me. My skin burns where he touches me. My breath comes shallow. I don’t pull away. Can’t. Because the bond hums, a low, steady thrum, like a second heartbeat pulsing beneath my skin. And for the first time, I don’t hate it. I *need* it. We stop at a heavy oak door, carved with runes that glow faintly under Lazarus’s touch. He presses his palm to the center. The door groans open. Inside—a chamber of mirrors. Dozens of them, floor to ceiling, each one reflecting a different scene: a woman with my mother’s eyes, bound in thorns; a fae queen laughing as blood drips from her lips; a child—*me*—screaming as fire consumes a village. My breath catches. “This is the Memory Vault,” Lazarus says. “It shows truth. Not illusion.” I step forward, my reflection warping in the glass. “How do we find her?” “By asking the right question.” He moves to the center of the room, where a single mirror stands, larger than the rest, its surface black as night. “The vault answers with visions. But it demands a price.” “What kind of price?” “Blood.” He pulls a dagger from his belt, slices his palm, and presses it to the mirror. “And memory.” The glass ripples. Images flash—too fast to see. Then slow. A forest. Eternal spring. Flowers that bloom from bones. A throne of thorns. And her. My mother. Alive. Bound in vines, her mouth gagged, her eyes wide with terror. Behind her—Queen Mirelle. Pale. Beautiful. Cruel. She leans down, whispers something in my mother’s ear. And then—she *bites* her. Not on the neck. On the *wrist*. Where a sigil flares to life—*the same sigil* that marks me. The mirror goes black. Lazarus staggers back, clutching his head. “*Fuck*.” I catch him before he falls. “What did you see?” “More than I wanted.” He breathes hard, sweat on his brow. “She’s alive. Caged in the Verdant Court. And she’s been marked. Just like you.” My stomach drops. “Why?” “Because the bond isn’t just between us.” He looks at me, his eyes dark with dread. “It’s *hereditary*. Your mother was meant to be bound to a werewolf. But she refused. So Mirelle took her. And now she wants *you*—to complete the bond, to start the war, to feed on our pain.” I press my hands to the mirror. “Then we go. Now.” “It’s a death trap.” “I don’t care.” I turn on him. “She’s *alive*, Lazarus. And I’m not losing her again.” He grabs my arms, his grip iron. “If you go in blind, you *will* die. And I’ll be buried beside you.” I glare. “You don’t get to decide what I risk.” “I do.” His voice drops. “Because you’re *mine*. And I’m not losing you.” Silence. The bond pulses between us, a deep, aching thrum. And then—shattering glass. We whirl. The mirrors are cracking. Splintering. From the shards—*shadows*. Humanoid. Twisted. *Fae*. They step forward, their eyes glowing violet, their fingers ending in claws. Lazarus shoves me behind him. “Stay back.” But I don’t. Magic surges through me—a pulse of blood and breath, a sigil flaring to life on my palm. I hurl a blast of force at the nearest shadow. It *screams*—a sound like breaking glass—and dissolves. But more come. Too many. They swarm, fast, silent, their claws slashing. Lazarus fights like a storm—fists, fangs, fury—but they’re too fast. One lunges at me. I dodge, but another grabs my arm. Pain flares. I scream. And then—*he’s there*. Lazarus throws himself in front of me. A dagger meant for my heart—*plunges into his chest*. He grunts. Staggers. Falls to his knees. “No!” I scream, dropping beside him. The shadow raises the blade again. But I’m faster. I grab the dagger from Lazarus’s belt, slash upward. The shadow *screams*—dissolves. I turn to him. Blood soaks his shirt. His breath is shallow. His eyes—dark, fading. “Lazarus—*no*—” He grabs my wrist. “*Run*.” “I’m not leaving you!” “*Go*—” “No.” I press my palm to the wound. “I’m not letting you die.” Our blood mingles. The bond *explodes*. A pulse of magic—white-hot, electric—shoots through us. He gasps. His eyes fly open. *Gold*. Not fading. *Alive*. The wound seals. Not completely. But enough. He stares at me. “You… saved me.” I don’t answer. Can’t. Because the bond hums between us, a deep, sacred thrum. And for the first time, I don’t feel hate. I don’t feel fear. I feel *him*. And I know. I came here to kill him. But now? Now I’d *die* for him. I press my forehead to his. “You don’t get to die on me, Lazarus Vane.” He laughs—weak, rough. “Then I guess I’m stuck with you.” I smile. Then I kiss him. Not out of heat. Not out of bond. But because *I* want to. And when he kisses me back—slow, deep, *real*— I know. The game has changed. And the war is just beginning.