The silence after Ravel’s declaration was worse than any battle cry.
Not because of the word—*death*—though it hung in the Chamber of Echoes like a blade, cold and sharp. Not because of the Council’s scattered whispers, their eyes wide with fear and hunger. Not even because of the vial I now carried, the one Lira had given us, proof sealed in wax and blood that Ravel had conspired with a Seelie noble to frame Parker’s mother.
No.
The silence was worse because of *her.*
Parker.
She stood beside me, her storm-gray eyes blazing, her jaw set, her hand still locked in mine. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tremble. Didn’t look away from Ravel as he turned and walked out, his crimson robes swirling like blood in water. She just smiled—slow, dangerous, *alive*—and said, “Then let the trial begin.”
And I knew.
She wasn’t afraid.
She was ready.
But I wasn’t.
Because I’d spent thirty-four years mastering control. Thirty-four years burying the wolf, silencing the vampire, locking away the man. I’d ruled the Council with cold precision, with iron will, with the belief that power was the only truth.
And then she walked in.
A storm in human form. A queen in exile. A woman who had come to destroy me—and instead, had become the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
And now, as the Council emptied behind Ravel, as Dain stood guard in the archway, as Lira waited with her wrists still bound, I didn’t know whether to rage or weep.
She had chosen me.
Not to destroy.
But to fight *with.*
And that—
That was everything.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, my voice low, rough. “I can protect you. I can—”
“No.” She turned to me, her fingers tightening around mine. “You don’t get to decide what I do. Not anymore. I’m not your weapon. I’m not your pawn. I’m not even just your bondmate.” Her free hand lifted, brushing the mark beneath her collarbone. “I’m your *equal.* And if they want a trial, they’ll get one. But they’ll get it on *my* terms.”
My chest tightened.
She was right. And that terrified me.
Because I’d spent my life controlling everything—my power, my pain, my past. And now, the one thing I couldn’t control was the only thing that mattered.
“Then I fight for you,” I said, stepping closer, caging her against the dais. “The trial demands a champion. And I am yours.”
She didn’t pull away. Just tilted her head, her eyes searching mine. “You’d risk your life for me?”
“I already have.” My thumb brushed the edge of her jaw. “And I’ll do it again. A thousand times. A million. Until the end of time.”
Her breath caught.
“You came here to destroy me,” I said, voice a velvet threat. “But you’re not going to. Because you can’t. Not when every part of you *knows* the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That you’re not just my bondmate.” My lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You’re my *queen.* And no one—not Ravel, not the Council, not even death—will take you from me.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped back, breaking the contact, but not the bond. “Then let them come. Let the trial begin.”
And it did.
By nightfall, the Blood Court was prepared—a circular arena carved from black stone, ringed with torches that burned with blue flame. The air was thick with the scent of blood-wine and old magic, the ground slick with the remnants of past duels. The Council gathered in silence, their seats elevated around the ring, their eyes sharp, calculating.
Ravel sat at the center, draped in crimson robes, his red eyes gleaming with triumph. Beside him stood a vampire elder—tall, gaunt, his fangs elongated, his hands stained with centuries of blood. His name was Vossen. A Blood Champion. A killer.
“The accused,” Ravel announced, his voice echoing through the chamber, “Parker Voss, stands charged with treason against the Supernatural Council. She has consorted with the Fae, stolen Council secrets, and destabilized the sacred bond between the High Arbiter and his bondmate. For these crimes, she is sentenced to death—unless a champion steps forward to fight in her name.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping the chamber. “Who will defend her?”
Dead silence.
No one moved. No one spoke. Not the werewolf Alphas. Not the Fae envoy. Not even Dain, who stood at the edge of the ring, his wolf-gold eyes dark with tension.
And then—
—I stepped forward.
My boots echoed against the stone as I walked into the ring, my coat gone, my sleeves rolled to the elbows, my fangs retracted, my claws sheathed. I didn’t look at Ravel. Didn’t acknowledge Vossen. Just turned to Parker, who stood at the edge of the arena, her black tunic clinging to her frame, her sigil-stone at her belt, her storm-gray eyes locked on mine.
“I am her champion,” I said, voice low, deadly calm. “And I will fight for her life.”
A murmur rippled through the Council. Vossen sneered. Ravel smiled.
“So be it,” Ravel said. “The trial begins. Blood to blood. Life to life. The victor claims the truth.”
The torches flared. The wards hummed. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, not with fear, but with *fire.*
Vossen attacked first.
Fast. Brutal. A blur of motion—fists, claws, fangs—aimed to cripple, to maim, to kill. I didn’t block. Didn’t dodge. Just took the hits, letting the pain ground me, letting the wolf rise, letting the vampire hiss.
A fist to the ribs. A claw across the chest. A fang sinking into my shoulder.
Blood spilled. Thick. Hot. My own.
But I didn’t fall.
Because I wasn’t fighting for myself.
I was fighting for *her.*
For the way her body had arched into mine in the ruins. For the way she’d whispered, *“Don’t leave me,”* in her sleep. For the way she’d stood in the Chamber of Echoes, unbroken, unafraid, and said, *“Now I fight with you.”*
For the truth.
And then—
—I struck.
Not with magic. Not with the bond.
With *teeth.*
I lunged, my fangs tearing into his neck, my claws raking down his spine. He roared, twisting, trying to throw me off, but I held on, feeding—not on blood, but on pain, on rage, on the raw, unfiltered *need* to protect what was mine.
We crashed to the ground, rolling, snarling, biting. The stone cracked beneath us. The torches flickered. The Council gasped.
And then—
—I broke his neck.
Not killed him. Not yet.
Just dislocated it. Just enough to make him scream. Just enough to make him *beg.*
I stood over him, my chest heaving, blood dripping from my fangs, my claws extended, my gold-flecked eyes blazing. “Yield,” I growled. “Or I’ll tear out your throat.”
He didn’t answer. Just spat blood, his red eyes filled with hate.
So I did.
One clean rip. One final scream.
And then—
—silence.
Vossen’s body fell to the stone, lifeless. The torches dimmed. The wards stilled.
And the Council—
They didn’t cheer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.
They just *watched.*
Ravel stood, his crimson robes swirling, his face unreadable. “The champion has won. The accused is… *cleared.*” The word tasted like poison on his tongue.
But I didn’t care.
Because Parker was already moving—stepping into the ring, her boots soft against the blood-slick stone, her storm-gray eyes locked on mine. She didn’t say anything. Just reached for me, her fingers brushing the wound on my chest, the blood still flowing.
“You’re hurt,” she said, voice low.
“It’s nothing.”
“Liar.” She pulled a dagger from her belt, sliced her palm in one clean motion, and pressed it to my chest, right over the wound.
And the world *exploded.*
Her magic—crimson, wild, untamed—flooded into me, not like a river, but like a storm. It burned through my veins, searing away the pain, the blood loss, the fracture. I could feel it—her blood, her power, her *life*—pouring into me, harmonizing with my own. The bond flared white-hot, the sigils on our skin glowing like twin stars. The wolf stilled. The vampire quieted. And the man—
The man *survived.*
But it wasn’t just healing.
It was *connection.*
I could feel her—her fear, her anger, her resolve. Her memories. Her mother’s face. The flames. The vow. And beneath it all—
A longing so deep it ached.
For me.
“Parker,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed her hand harder, her blood mixing with mine, her magic binding us deeper than ever before.
And then—
—the door burst open.
Dain stood in the archway, his expression stunned. “Kael. We have a problem.”
“Not now,” I growled.
“It’s Lira,” he said. “She’s gone. And Ravel—he’s moving. He’s calling the packs. He’s saying the bond is a threat. That it needs to be severed—by force.”
My chest tightened.
But Parker didn’t pull away.
Just kept her hand on my chest, her blood in my veins, her magic in my soul.
“Let him come,” she said, voice low, dangerous. “Let him try. Because this time—” She looked up at me, her storm-gray eyes blazing. “—we fight *together.*”
I didn’t answer.
Just pulled her into a fierce embrace, my mouth on her neck, my fangs grazing her skin, not to claim, not to mark—but to *promise.*
And the bond—
It *pulsed.*
Not with warning.
With *power.*
The war wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t fighting it alone anymore.
And that was enough.
We didn’t sleep that night.
Not in my chambers. Not in hers. Not even in the war room, where Dain laid out the maps, where Lira revealed the location of Ravel’s hidden compound in the northern moors, where Parker pored over the journal, her fingers tracing her mother’s words like a prayer.
I watched her.
The curve of her cheek. The fall of her lashes. The way her lips parted slightly when she was thinking. The mark beneath her collarbone—still glowing faintly, gold light bleeding through the fabric.
She was beautiful.
Not in the way the courtiers praised beauty—polished, perfect, cold.
But in the way a storm was beautiful. Wild. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Alive.
And she was mine.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
But because she had chosen me.
Not to destroy.
But to fight *with.*
And that—
That was everything.
At dawn, we moved.
Not with an army. Not with fanfare. Just the four of us—Parker, Dain, Lira, and me—riding hard through the mist-laden moors, our cloaks pulled tight, our weapons close. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and old magic, the sky a bruised gray, the wind howling through the stones.
We didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
The bond pulsed between us, not with urgency, but with *certainty.*
We were close.
And then—
—we saw it.
Ravel’s compound—half-collapsed, overgrown with ivy, its shattered spires clawing at the sky. A ruin. A trap.
“He knows we’re coming,” Dain said, voice low.
“Of course he does,” Parker said, dismounting. “He wants us to come.”
“Then why come at all?” Lira asked, her red eyes wide.
“Because he’s counting on fear,” I said, stepping beside Parker. “On hesitation. On doubt.” I turned to her, my hand lifting, my thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “But we don’t have those.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Then let’s burn it down.”
We moved in silence.
Dain took the east. Lira the west. Parker and I the center.
The compound was quiet—too quiet. No guards. No sentries. Just silence.
And then—
—the trap.
A flash of movement. A net of silver wire. A spell etched in blood.
I saw it too late.
The wire snapped around me, binding my arms, searing my skin. The spell flared—dark magic, ancient, *cruel*—and I felt it—the bond, the wolf, the vampire—ripped apart, torn from my core.
I roared.
But it wasn’t enough.
They dragged me down. Bound me. Gagged me.
And then—
—I saw her.
Parker.
She fought like a storm given form—blades singing, magic flaring, her storm-gray eyes blazing. She cut through the shadows, through the rogues, through the spells. She was close. So close.
But they were too many.
And then—
—a blade.
Not aimed at her.
At *me.*
She screamed.
And everything went black.
When I woke, I was in a cell—stone walls, iron bars, the air thick with the scent of blood and decay. My coat was gone. My weapons. My power.
But the bond—
It was still there.
Faint. Flickering. But *alive.*
And then—
—I felt her.
Not here.
But *coming.*
She was coming for me.
And I knew—
The war wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t fighting it alone anymore.
And that was enough.