The emergency session was called for midday.
That gave me six hours.
Six hours to steady my breath. To quiet the storm in my blood. To pretend that the mark on my neck—Kael’s bite, his claim—wasn’t burning with a power I couldn’t name. That the memory of his hands on my bare back during the ritual wasn’t seared into my skin like a brand. That the way my magic had surged, wild and uncontrolled, when Lira revealed her scar—the false sigil she claimed he’d given her—wasn’t proof that I was unraveling.
I didn’t go to my room.
I couldn’t. Not with the scent of him still clinging to me—smoke, frost, storm—like a curse. Not with the echo of his voice in my skull: *“You’re my queen.”* Not with the way my body had arched into his touch, desperate, hungry, *needing.*
I went to the training yard.
The northern one, where the dummies stood like silent witnesses to every battle I’d fought since I’d returned. The air was sharp with frost, the ground slick with dew, the sky bruised with the coming storm. I didn’t light the torches. Didn’t need to. My magic flared in my palms, crimson light spiraling like a living thing, hungry for release.
I started with the dummies.
Left hook. Right kick. Elbow strike. Spin. Knee to the gut. I moved fast, hard, relentless, each blow landing with a sickening thud. The leather split under my knuckles. The ropes snapped. The dummy toppled, but I didn’t stop. I turned to the next. Then the next. My breath came in sharp bursts, my pulse a steady drum in my ears. I wasn’t training. I wasn’t drilling.
I was *punishing.*
Myself.
For believing him.
For wanting him.
For letting his touch undo me.
For the way my magic had answered to his during the ritual, not just in harmony, but in *surrender.*
And for the worst part—
The part I couldn’t admit, not even to myself.
That when he’d said, *“You’re my queen,”* something in me had *believed* him.
I drove my fist into the last dummy, splitting the leather clean through. It collapsed, stuffing spilling like entrails. I stood over it, chest heaving, knuckles split, blood dripping into the frost.
“You’re going to break something,” a voice said from the shadows.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just wiped the blood from my hands onto my trousers and reached for the swords.
Maeve stepped into the yard, her hood pulled low, her staff tapping against the stone. Her storm-gray eyes—so like mine—flicked to the ruined dummies, then to me.
“You’re angry,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” She leaned on her staff, her voice soft. “You saw her. The scar. The pendant. And it shook you.”
I didn’t answer. Just unsheathed the twin blades—one silver, one iron—and began the forms. Fast. Precise. Brutal. The metal sang through the air, slicing silence into pieces.
“You think she has his mark,” Maeve said. “You think he gave it to her before you came back. That he *wanted* her.”
“She had the sigil,” I snapped, mid-swing. “Right over her heart. Fresh. Pink. Still healing.”
“And you believed her?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I turned to face her, my breath coming fast. “She had proof. He didn’t deny it.”
“Because it wasn’t *his* mark.” Maeve stepped closer, her voice low. “It was a glamour. A trick. A scar shaped like the sigil, but not *of* it. Not bound by blood. Not tied to the bond.”
My breath caught.
“Kael never marked her,” Maeve said. “He never promised her anything. She’s a pawn, Parker. Ravel’s pawn. He used her to get close to Kael, to test his control. And now he’s using her to turn you against him.”
“Then why did he let her wear his shirt? Why did he let her say those things?”
“Because he knew you’d fight for him.” Maeve’s eyes locked onto mine. “He knew you’d *care.* And he needed you to. The bond—it’s not just magic. It’s emotion. It’s desire. It’s *truth.* And the more you fight it, the stronger it becomes.”
I clenched my jaw. “I don’t want it to be strong.”
“Too late.” She stepped closer. “It’s already awake. And it’s not just the bond. It’s *you.*”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother wasn’t just a witch,” Maeve said. “She was Fae. Unseelie. Stormborn. The last heir to the Unseelie Storm Throne. And you—” She reached out, her fingers brushing the mark beneath my collarbone. “—you’re her daughter. Her blood. Her *legacy.*”
My breath stopped.
“The bond didn’t just ignite when you saw Kael,” she said. “It *awakened* something in you. Something that’s been sleeping since you were a child. Something that’s about to *break free.*”
“I’m not Fae,” I whispered.
“You are.” She stepped back. “And when it comes—when the storm rises—you won’t be able to stop it.”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned and walked away, my boots echoing on the stone, the weight of her words pressing down like stone.
But I wasn’t alone.
And that changed everything.
The Spire was waking.
The corridors hummed with quiet tension, the scent of blood-wine and vampire politics thick in the air. I moved through the lower levels like a shadow, my steps silent, my senses sharp. The attack at the gala had shaken them. The mark on my neck had terrified them. And now—
Now the whispers were louder.
“She’s compromised.”
“The bond has clouded her judgment.”
“She’s no longer fit to serve.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, my jaw set, my claws itching.
And then—
—I saw *him.*
Kael stood at the end of the corridor, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his jaw set in that cold, unreadable line. His eyes—gold-flecked, wolf-bright—locked onto mine.
And then they dropped to the mark on my neck.
“You shouldn’t have gone to her,” he said, voice low.
“I needed answers,” I said, lifting my chin.
“And she gave you lies.”
“She had the sigil.”
“A glamour,” he said. “A scar shaped like the bond, but not of it. Not real.”
“Then why did you let her wear your shirt? Why did you let her say those things?”
“Because I needed you to fight for me.” He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “I needed you to *care.* The bond—it’s not just magic. It’s emotion. It’s desire. It’s *truth.* And the more you fight it, the stronger it becomes.”
My breath caught.
“You came here to destroy me,” he said, voice low. “But you’re not going to. Because you can’t. Not when every part of you *knows* the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
He didn’t answer with words.
He answered with touch.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and he pulled me toward him—slow, deliberate, giving me time to pull away.
But I didn’t.
Our lips met—just a brush at first. A test. A spark.
And then—
—the bond *roared.*
Heat. Light. Memory.
Flashes—my mother’s face, whispering, *“Protect her.”* The Chamber of Veins, her body arching into mine. The archives, her magic dancing beneath her skin as she held the truth in her hands.
And then—
Feeling.
His lips, soft and warm, parting beneath mine. His hands, no longer pushing, but *pulling,* gripping my coat, dragging me closer. His breath, hot and shallow, mingling with mine. The way his body pressed into mine, desperate, hungry, *needing.*
I deepened the kiss, my fangs grazing his lower lip, just enough to draw a bead of blood. His magic flared—crimson light spiraling around us, binding us, *claiming* us.
And then—
—a voice.
“Kael.”
Dain stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable. The battle was over. The rogues were dead. The hall was quiet, save for the crackle of dying flames and the distant echo of footsteps.
I broke the kiss, but didn’t let him go. My hand stayed at the back of his neck, my thumb brushing his pulse.
Kael didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at me, his lips swollen, his eyes wide, his chest heaving.
“The Council wants you,” Dain said. “They’re calling an emergency session. Now.”
I nodded, slowly releasing him. “Tell them I’ll be there.”
Dain hesitated. Then turned and left.
Silence.
Kael finally pulled back, his hands trembling as he wiped the blood from his lip. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“No,” I agreed. “It should’ve happened ten years ago.”
She stood, unsteady, but refusing my help. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to *touch* me and then pretend this means something.”
“I’m not pretending.” I rose to my feet, towering over her. “You felt it. The bond. The magic. The way our power *harmonizes* when we fight. When we kiss. When we *breathe.*”
“It’s not real.”
“It’s more real than anything you’ve ever known.” I stepped closer, caging her against the pillar. “You came here to burn me, Parker. But fire doesn’t destroy the storm. It becomes part of it.”
She looked up at me, her eyes blazing. “Then let me burn.”
“I already have.” My voice dropped to a growl. “And I’ll keep burning until you stop fighting it.”
She shoved me—hard—but I didn’t budge.
“You don’t own me,” she hissed.
“No.” I leaned in, my lips brushing her ear. “But I *want* you. And I’m not letting go.”
She didn’t answer.
Just turned and walked away, her boots echoing against the stone.
I watched her go.
The emergency session was coming.
The truth would be exposed.
And Ravel would fall.
But as I turned to follow, one thought echoed in my mind—
She kissed me back.
And that changed everything.
Fury’s Claim
Ten years ago, a young witch girl watched her mother burn at the stake—her crime: conspiring with the Fae to overthrow the Supernatural Council. The girl, Parker, vanished into the human world, raised by ghosts and grudges. Now she returns—older, sharper, armed with forbidden blood magic and a single vow: justice or annihilation.
She infiltrates the Council’s summit under the guise of a neutral envoy, ready to expose the forged evidence that condemned her mother. But the moment her gaze locks with Kael Virell—the half-vampire, half-werewolf High Arbiter and de facto ruler of the Council—a searing pain tears through her chest. A mark, long hidden beneath her collarbone, flares to life: a twin sigil, mirroring his own. A soul bond. Fated. Impossible. Forbidden.
Their first touch is violence—his hand around her wrist, her magic lashing out—but the spark between them is undeniable, a current of heat and memory that neither can deny. He suspects her. She despises him. Yet the bond forces proximity, forces sensation: his scent on her skin, her pulse under his thumb, the way their magic harmonizes when they fight side by side during a surprise attack.
By Chapter 8, a rival’s cruel revelation—that Kael once shared blood with a seductive vampire noble—ignites Parker’s jealousy in a storm of magic and fury. In the aftermath, cornered in a ruined temple, he pins her against a crumbling altar, breath hot on her neck, fingers tangled in her hair. “You feel it,” he growls. “You want me as much as I want you.” She slaps him. Then she kisses him—a desperate, furious collision of lips and teeth—before pulling back, trembling. The bond isn’t just real. It’s rewriting her mission. And she doesn’t know if she’s falling for him… or being used.